"Just give me directions," said Remo.
"The Groundstar system will get you to your destination without fail or the rental is free," the clerk chirped.
"I like directions. They save me time and trouble and keep me from breaking things," said Remo, snapping in half with his thumb the pen he'd just used to sign the rental agreement. A squirt of ink speckled the clerk's white shirtfront.
Taking the hint, the clerk opened his mouth to offer clear directions when the Master of Sinanju piped up.
"I will be the navigator."
"You can't handle a navigational computer," Remo said quickly.
"A child could do it," the clerk insisted.
"You stay out of this," Remo snapped.
"I will navigate," Chiun repeated. "I have watched Smith work his oracle machine. It is very simple."
Remo rolled his eyes and hoped for the best.
they were on the banks of the Maumee River, south of Lake Erie, and Remo was saying, "We're lost."
"We are not lost," said Chiun, tapping the computer screen with his jade nail protector. "See? This is the strange lake."
"Lake Erie is not green," said Remo. "And the state of Ohio is not blue."
"The color does not matter. This is Lake Erie, and this red spot is us. For it moves when we do."
"So where are we?" asked Remo with more patience than he felt.
"In a place called Havana."
"Havana, Cuba?"
"It only says 'Havana.'"
Remo looked at the screen. "That green 'lake' is the island of Cuba, Little Father. We are not anywhere near it."
"These machines do not lie."
"We'll ask at the next gas station," growled Remo.
"You would take the word of a smelly purveyor of chemicals to that of the Master of Sinanju?" Chiun asked indignantly.
"I'd like to wrap this up. According to the radio, militia crazies are trying to lynch letter carriers in Montana and Arizona. People are locking their doors when they see a mailman. They're grounding commercial flights everywhere because the mail goes by plane and nobody wants to lose a 747 to a letter bomb. Not to mention the fact that the mail has ground to a dead halt because postal employees everywhere are all singing 'The Serotonin Song.'"
"It is good when lowly messengers enjoy their toil."
On the Ohio Turnpike, a bus came barreling up on them at a high rate of speed, and Remo looked into his rearview mirror.
He did a double take. "Chiun. Look behind us."
Chiun turned in his seat. "I see an angry bus."
"Look at the guy inside," Remo suggested.
"I see a red-haired Egyptian."
"I mean the other guy. Tell me that isn't Joe Camel."
"That is not Joe Camel. But it is. Who could mistake that nose?"
"What the hell is he doing driving a bus out here?" asked Remo.
"He is trying to ran us off the road, of course."
In a moment he nearly did.
The bus bore down like a silver juggernaut, horn blaring. Remo eased back on the gas, hoping to slow the bus down.
"He is not slowing. He is speeding up," warned Chiun.
Then the bus surged ahead, intent upon knocking them out of its path.
Remo cut to the shoulder of the road, bounced and came to a jolting stop. The rear tires spun in soft soil. Remo got out, cursing as the exhaust of the speeding bus filled the air.
Reaching under the rear bumper, Remo suddenly straightened. The car's rear end came out of the ditch, and Remo walked it over to hard asphalt, making it look easy. It was not a feat of strength so much as one of absolute physical harmony. Sinanju enabled one to harness one's mind and body so fully that any superhuman capability was within Remo's reach, no matter how extreme.
Getting behind the wheel, he heard the Master of Sinanju give the good news.
"We are back in Ohio. The computer has assured me of this. If we follow the yellow line, we will reach our destination."
"Count on us reaching our destination by following the big silver bus," growled Remo, throwing the car into gear.
tactical commander, was confident he had the al-Bahlawan Mosque secured against invasion or egress. His black-clad forces had mustered a ring of Light Armored Vehicles around the gleaming mosque, whose opalescent dome changed hue as the sun climbed the Ohio sky.
No one in their right mind would try to get into the mosque now. Not with it surrounded by heavily armed FBI agents.
To get in was to be trapped.
And those trapped inside were not coming out. Not that Brophy was calling for that. He wasn't calling for anything. He was standing pat, as instructed. The last place he wanted to land was before an angry Congress. Or in a locked room with the attorney general of the United States, who, it was said, could break a man's back with a hard, steely glare, not to mention bust his career all to pieces.
Prepared for any contingency from within, the last thing Brophy expected was a hurtling bus from without.
The bus came roaring up the Ohio Turnpike and then down onto Route 75. Then it screamed onto the mosque access road.
Brophy took one look, and his heart stopped beating.
"Incoming bus!" someone yelled.
"Anybody see any markings? Postal service. .. anything?" Brophy demanded.
No one did.
"How about explosives?"
"No," a countersniper called after consulting his scope.
"Could it be a bus bomb?" someone asked.
The thought alone was enough to freeze the blood.
And there was no time to think it through.
So, when the bus roared straight at them, Matt Brophy ordered the blocking FBI armored vehicles to pull apart which they did in the nick of time.
The bus roared through the impenetrable FBI cordon and lumbered up to a big portal. It went through the door, breaking it down like so much old cake frosting. One slim minaret listed alarmingly. The other only quivered.
The bus did not explode.
That was the good news.
The bad was that the cordon had been broken, and no one knew by whom or, more importantly, why.
There was nothing to do but wait for the next development and hope this was not the last day of their FBI careers.
It was Yusef Gamal's turn at the wheel of the practice missile. So Jihad Jones took the call.
"Yes, yes?" he said. "Yes, yes. Yes, yes!"
Then Jihad Jones hung up the cell phone.
"Yes?" Yusef said.
"It is Sargon. The criminal FBI has surrounded the mosque."
"Imbeciles! Have they learned nothing from Waco or Ruby Ridge? What are our instructions?"
"The Fist of Allah is to be launched immediately."
"But where is it?"
"We are told to return to the mosque with all speed and at all costs."
"Then it is the ordained hour for you and I, my brother."
"Do not call me your brother. I am not your brother."
"We are cousins, then."
"You are driving this practice missile now. Therefore, I will pilot the true Fist of Allah."
"That will be for Sargon to say," spat Yusef as he bore down on the gas and the big silver bus roared down the Ohio Turnpike.
It was a simple matter to reach the ring of FBI armor. The infidel made it easy for them. Then, because there was no time, Yusef threw the bus into the great portal as instructed.
The portal caved inward, despoiling the mosque. But this was the only way.
Inside they piled out, only to be met by the Afghan Taliban guards, who were pledged to protect the Deaf Mullah.
"Sargon awaits in the launch-preparation room," one thundered.