"The sacred map said to follow 80."
"The Six is also good."
"We will take Eighty."
"And I will take the wheel again soon, for it is almost my turn," said Yusef.
"Until then, keep your camel's nose out of the sacred map."
the red dot take Route east, and automatically the tracking program displayed a new bar graph of optimum targets. Washington, D.C. was still possible. New York City, however, looked more likely.
Smith input additional data and asked the system to narrow down the working list.
The system responded with the same list. Mostly post offices along the route and significant military targets.
Smith frowned. The limitations of the computer were the same as in his Univac days. To discover the truth, human reasoning would have to be brought to bear.
Remo watched the Fist of Allah roll along Route and felt helpless. Pennsylvania State Police cars were following the giant machine at a discreet distance, roof lights pulsating.
"There's gotta be a way to stop that overgrown Tonka toy."
"I agree," said Chiun.
"But I can't think what that might be."
"In the days of the Mongol Khanates, a Master of Sinanju encountered such a conundrum."
"They had something like this back then?"
"No, but there were war elephants in those days."
"Yeah?"
"In the best way possible."
"I'm listening," Remo said.
And leaning over beneath the rattling main rotor, the Master of Sinanju whispered in Remo's ear.
"You're kidding!" Remo exploded.
tell the Chief Executive there was a ninety-five percent that the Fist of Allah was targeted at New York City.
"Are you sure?"
"I said ninety-five," said Smith, wondering at the presidential educational level.
"What in New York City? Can they blow up the whole island?"
"Theoretically, yes. Practically speaking, I doubt it. There must be a specific target. One of practical or symbolic importance."
"In New York City, there have to be dozens. Wall Street. The UN. The Statue of Liberty. The Liberty Bell. No, that's Philadelphia, isn't it?"
Smith froze. His bone marrow suddenly turned to ice water.
"Mr. President, this is only an educated guess, but I believe I can postulate the likeliest ground-zero target."
"What is it?"
"The same target the Deaf Mullah originally attempted to demolish. A target through which airline traffic-control phone lines, television broadcast signals and other critical communications systems pass. By coincidence, the place where the Deaf Muilah's most hated enemy now resides."
The President started to ask the question when Harold Smith answered it for him.
"I am standing on ground zero."
in Greenburg, Ohio, FBI Tactical Commander Matt Brophy picked through the wreckage as his men cleared various chambers.
The mosque was a total disaster, and since that was probably going to be the ultimate state of everyone's careers, there was no point in standing on ceremony.
In the cavernous room from which the gigantic juggernaut had rumbled, they found a bearded man with his lower body pressed flat by the enormous treads that had cruelly rolled over him.
All around the room stood great empty drums with radiation warning signs and symbols plastered on them.
Matt Brophy decided that securing the room and getting the hell out was the safest option possible. Having a career train wreck was one thing, but going radioactive was another kind of career setback entirely.
the word within ten minutes.
"Mr. President, we've found something at the mosque site."
"Go ahead."
"There are tons of steel barrels for storing nuclear waste—all empty."
Harold Smith got the word minutes later.
"You are certain of this intelligence, Mr. President?" Smith asked tightly.
"That's what I'm told by FBI."
"There is only one conclusion I can draw from this. The Messengers of Muhammad have loaded the Fist of Allah with radioactive waste, effectively turning it into a radiological bomb."
"Oh, God!" the President moaned. "How bad is that?"
"Not as bad as a true nuclear device. They have no doubt packed the machine with a mixture of radioactive waste and conventional explosives. detonated, the result will be not a true atomic explosion, but an ecological disaster in a contained radius."
"That doesn't exactly sound good, Smith."
' 'This changes the complexion of the threat but not the threat itself. I will get back to you."
Smith called up a close-up of the route for six miles ahead of the rolling juggernaut that was the Fist of Allah. The system showed him a bridge over the Allegheny River in its path and he picked up the satellite handset.
After listening, the President said, "Consider that bridge history."
I," said Yusef as the miles rolled by.
"I do not care about your regrets," said Jihad Jones.
"I regret that I never completed the pilgrimage to Mecca. But I was too busy spreading terror."
"I made my when I was young because I knew I would die young," Jihad boasted.
"I was too busy killing and driving a taxi," Yusef lamented.
"You would have been turned away or hung as an infidel anyway, Gamal Mahour."
Yusef swallowed the biting retort on his tongue. Being called a camel-nosed infidel was better than being called a Jew. He wound his more tightly around his jutting nose.
They were coming up on a great bridge. They could see it through the bug spatters on their giant windscreen, which unfortunately lacked wipers. It looked substantial enough to accommodate their vehicle. This was a relief. The last bridge had been a tight squeeze.
Then out of the sky screamed three F-16 jets, releasing smoking rockets that made the bridge jump apart and collapse before their astounded eyes.
"The spiteful anti-Islamists have destroyed the bridge to Paradise!" Yusef complained.
''I can see that, fool!"
"What do we do?"
"We will go around it," growled Jihad Jones, throwing all his weight into the wheel.
The Fist of Allah began to grind and shimmy under the sudden strain of its new trajectory.
was dropping to the green field as Remo shouted into a cell phone, "The bridge is down. Time for Chiun and me to do our thing."
"Do not fail," Smith called back over the rotor roar.
"I can't guarantee this will work, but Chiun swears it will."
Then they were running across the tall grass to intercept the Fist of Allah, which was trying to slide off the highway and into soft earth. It was like a land battleship—easy to propel forward, difficult to steer and impossible to reverse.
"Here goes," said Remo, worry on his face.
They got in front of the behemoth, set themselves at either side and waited poised to get out of the way as fast as they could.
The Fist of Allah came on. Its big front tires were turning slowly, painfully. Behind the windscreen, the two drivers were throwing their upper bodies in the direction of the turn, as if their puny weights would help.
," Jihad Jones howled.