Warren Murphy: Sole Survivor

When they neared the rental car, Remo darted ahead and slipped behind the wheel. He grabbed it in both hands and clung for dear life.

"You are not driving," said the Master of Sinanjn testily. "I am. I purchased the use of this conveyance with my wondrous card and I insist upon driving."

"It's a credit card and everyone has one," cried Remo.

"Not like mine. Mine is gold, and merchants do not burden me with requests for money when I use it."

Remo, who had tried repeatedly to explain how credit cards really worked, and failed, sighed and said, "I'm driving. Just tell me where I'm going."

The Master of Sinanju stamped a sandaled foot. "If you do not step out this instant I will have you arrested." He made a show of looking around for a policeman.

"Tell you what, Little Father," Remo said lightly. "Let me drive down so you get to know the roads and I'll let you drive us back. Fair enough?"

"I wish to drive both ways," Chiun said stubbornly. "Sometimes the roads are not the same in both directions."

"Look, if I drive, you can concentrate on navigation. Anna told me you were a wonderful driver, but needed more navigation practice."

"She said that?" asked Chiun.

"Absolutely," lied Remo.

"I take back every bad thing I said about her," said Chiun, stepping around to the passenger side. "Where to?" asked Remo when Chiun settled into the passenger side.

"I will not tell you. I wish it to be a surprise."

"Then how am I going to get there?"

"Give me a map and I will inform you of each step."

"Oh, for crying out loud," Remo sighed, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a folded road map. "Here."

The Master of Sinanju delicately unfolded the map and studied it for some moments, tracing several routes with a long-nailed finger. Remo tried to peer over the edge of the map, and Chiun shifted in his seat so that his back was to Remo.

Remo folded his arms and looked bored. Finally Chiun said, "Leave this parking area."

Remo sent the car out of the lot and asked, Now what?"

"Left."

"This will go a lot smoother if I'm not working from connect-the-dots directions," Remo complained. "Could you possibly see fit to give a town to aim for? Please."

"Very well," said Chiun petulantly. "We are going first to Inglewood."

Remo fought the traffic along Manchester Boulevard until they hit Inglewood, and asked, "Now?"

"Follow this same road south."

Remo drove until the road took him to Firestone Boulevard and finally linked up with the Santa Ana Freeway. It was only ten in the morning and traffic was just a step away from being gridlocked.

"I do not know why you did not wish me to drive," said Chiun, his eyes peeled for cars decorated with fuzzy dice. "We are spending most of our time standing still."

Because he was in no mood for an argument, Remo asked about something that had been bothering him. "When Smith gave that credit card to you, what exactly did he say?"

"He said I was responsible for it."

"Responsible. That was the word he used?"

"Exactly. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing," said Remo. "By the way, have you been getting a lot of strange mail lately?"

"Some. All junk. I throw it out unread."

"I see," said Remo.

"Why did you ask that question?" Chiun wanted to know.

"Oh, no reason. Just to kill time."

The traffic got worse the further south they traveled. When they entered the town limits of Anaheim, it was almost at a standstill.

"This next exit," said Chiun at the last possible minute. Remo sent the car sliding off the ramp with a screech of tires.

"A little more warning next time, huh?" he said.

"We are almost there."

"Where?" But Remo knew where almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He braked the car. "Oh, no," he said, looking at the huge sign gracing the entrance to a sprawling parking area: DISNEYLAND.

"Oh, yes," said the Master of Sinanju proudly. Grimly Remo drove into the lot and parked the car. With Chiun trailing behind him, he strode to the row of ticket booths. A digital sign for keeping track of admissions stood off to one side. The current number was 257,998,677.

Remo groaned.

"Do you not agree with me that this is where Gordons has come?" Chiun said.

"Yeah, Little Father, I do," Remo said hoarsely. He was thinking of the numbers of people who passed through the gates of Disneyland every day. He could remember reading that more than three million people had visited Disneyland since opening day. That meant thousands each year. And every one of them potential victims of Mr. Gordons' microwave sterilization plan.

Remo walked up to one of the booths. The ticket girl practically hugged him.

"Oh goody, a customer!" she squealed delightedly.

"Why the surprise?" asked Remo. "Don't you get hundreds of people here every day?"

"Look around. Do you see any hundreds of people?" Remo looked around. There were only the other ticket takers, looking at Remo with longing expressions. He looked back at the parking area. Except for Remo's car, it, too, was empty. In the background the famous Disneyland monorail scooted along its raised track, every car vacant.

"Where are all the people?" Remo asked.

"We haven't had any ever since that other place opened up," the ticket girl confided.

"What other place?" asked Remo.

"Don't tell him," the other ticket takers hissed.

"Too late," said Remo. "Tell me."

"Larryland. It's down in Santa Ana. It sprang up practically overnight, and ever since it did, people have been going there instead of here."

"So what? They'll come back when the novelty wears off. "

"Not this novelty. Larryland gives free admission."

"Did you say free?" asked Chiun, who had been looking in vain for Mickey Mouse.

"Yeah. And it's twice the size of this place. That will be thirteen dollars for two adult admissions, please," she added.

Remo ignored her and turned to Chiun. "Little Father, I think you were wrong."

"But not far wrong," Chiun insisted. "I think we should venture to this upstart Larryland. After we have visited Frontierland, that is. I have always wanted to see Frontierland."

"Frontierland was dismantled years ago, Little Father," Remo said gently.

Chiun sucked in his cheeks with disappointment. "No!" he gasped.

"I'm afraid so."

Chiun brushed past Remo and accosted the ticket girl.

"Frontierland. It is no more?"

"Long gone," said the girl.

"Do you have any more of the fur caps with the long tails?"

"Davy Crockett hats are collector's items now. You can't get them anymore."

Chiun turned on Remo. "You should have brought me here sooner," he said, and stormed off to the car.

"This was your idea, remember?" Remo shouted. Then he ran after the Master of Sinanju in case Chiun decided that his only solace after this grievous disappointment would be to get behind the wheel of an automobile.

"Does this mean you're not coming in after all?" the ticket girl called after them.

Colonel Rshat Kirlov had always dreamed of one day visiting the United States of America. He never imagined he would cross the border walking on his hands and knees, leading soldiers who crawled like dogs.

At thirty-seven years of age, Colonel Kirlov was a squat bull of a man whose swarthy skin betrayed a hint of Tatar blood. His black hair was as coarse as horsehair. He would never pass for an American, but he could pass for a Mexican peasant, which was why he had been selected for this mission.

Mexicans would not mistake him for one of their own, however. That was why Colonel Rshat Kirlov kept his distance from the occasional real migrant worker as he led ten handpicked soldiers, mostly enlistees from the Asiatic republics of Uzbekistan and Tashkent, across the desert on their hands and knees. They were dressed in the Mexican peasant clothes which had been provided to them at the embassy in Mexico City, where they had been flown directly from Moscow. They had donned the garments when they got to the dusty border town of Sonoita, to which they had been driven in a rickety bus.