He slammed on the brakes, at the same time wrenching the wheel left. The truck squealed a shriek of protest as the pickup's brakes caused tires to tear road. A thin film of desperate dirt rose from beneath the empty bed as the truck whipped around in a 180-degree turn.
Remo didn't wait for the pickup to complete the turn around before slamming on the gas.
The truck lurched forward, spinning out against the shoulder of the road before roaring back in the direction from which they'd come.
And as they fled, the cloud appeared over the darkening horizon. An unaccustomed tug of fear took hold of Remo the instant he saw it in the rearview mirror.
It rose above the spinout cloud the truck had made. Expanding across the pale desert sky, the fat blob of thick thrown-up dirt was balanced atop a heavy stalk of pulverized earth. Until he saw the mushroom cloud, Remo had hoped he and Chiun were wrong. But they were right.
Someone had detonated the neutrino bomb.
No escape. Too close. Screaming forward, the shock wave would reach them any second.
In the side-view mirror, the Master of Sinanju was watching the cloud rise higher in the sky. His weathered face betrayed awe and worry.
"Faster!" Chiun commanded over the growing wind.
"I've got it flat out!" Remo yelled in reply.
A sudden gust of wind burst forth across the desert. A violent artificial sandstorm. The cloud rushed forward, swallowing up the truck. The road before them vanished.
Remo felt the truck pulling away from him. The wind had taken control of the vehicle. In an instant, they were being propelled ahead of the gale at speeds in excess of the indicator. The needle jumped impossibly to the farthest point on the speedometer and locked there. Remo felt like Dorothy caught in the twister. He fought to keep the truck under control.
The wind seemed to cut away all at once. For the briefest of moments, it appeared the storm had stopped.
All at once, they were struck from the front with the force of a solid moving wall of air.
"Hold on!" Remo yelled, just as the windshield shattered across them.
The wind had turned around, rushing in to fill the vacuum created by the exploding bomb.
Even a Master of Sinanju was no match for so awesome a man-made force.
The truck was lifted off its tires. Sand blew in through the vacant windshield.
The truck hit something-a hill, the road. It was impossible to know.
Hit, roll. Hit, roll.
Horrible metallic crunching noises rose over the monstrous wind. Fenders buckled as if beneath a mighty fist. The hood ripped away and was flung into the depths of the roiling dust cloud. Through half-squinting eyes, Remo caught sight of the Master of Sinanju.
The old Korean was being thrown around the cab. From what little Remo could see, he appeared to be weathering the storm. Until the section of seat he was holding unexpectedly gave way.
Chiun's parchment face registered a brief instant of surprise. That was the last thing Remo saw before the violent wind grabbed hold of him. The Master of Sinanju disappeared out the window and was swallowed up by the sandstorm.
Just like that. He was gone.
"Chiun!" Remo yelled, the words inaudible in the terrifying gale. Remo felt his mouth fill with gritty sand.
The twinge of fear he'd felt before exploded fully. Chiun was gone.
And in that moment of panic for his father in spirit, Remo allowed his concentration to lapse. He did not feel the steering wheel coming loose. It popped free without a sound. When he realized what had happened, it was already too late to do anything about it.
The howling wind plucked him from the cab, lifting, flinging him roughly through the air. There was no time to think of Chiun or of his own safety. Remo flew face first through the open windshield.
And in a screaming whisper that issued from the very mouth of Hell itself, the swirling, ferocious sandstorm consumed him utterly.
Chapter 28
Baghdad's elite Republican Guard, pride of the Republic of Iraq, was on maneuvers in the Tigris-Euphrates Valley in the land once known as Mesopotamia.
It was a special day for the highly trained soldiers. President, Prime Minister and Chairman of the Revolutionary Command Council, Saddam Hussein himself was on hand for the latest military exercises.
Hussein sat in an open Jeep above the field of battle. A frozen smile gripped his face beneath his bushy mustache as he reviewed his mighty troops through his field glasses.
Hundreds of massive tank treads kicked up huge plumes of dust as the armored vehicles rumbled across the arid plain.
Beyond them, a network of cunningly deceptive trenches had been dug by foot soldiers for this battlefield mock-up. From his vantage point, Hussein could see the men lined within the trenches awaiting the attack.
The Gulf War had done much to deflate the confidence of the Republican Guard. Convinced that they were invincible, the soldiers had been stunned by the rapidity, as well as the severity of the United States-led operation. It had been necessary in the years since for Hussein to rebuild the morale of his once feared army.
Between the soldiers in their trenches and the approaching line of tanks, another group of men stood out in open desert. Tiny in comparison to the mechanized beasts, these soldiers bravely awaited the approaching vehicles.
Hussein ran his binoculars along the ragtag collection of men, pitifully small in the vastness of the Iraqi desert.
His smile broadened.
Kurdish rebels. Hundreds of them.
The men hailed from the mountainous north of the Mideast nation. Hussein had slaughtered most of them several years before, but he had kept some alive for special occasions. Like this one.
The Kurds had not been given guns. They were armed only with knives. This was a sensible precaution, for only a fool would arm a Kurd. Even for a battle simulation. After all, someone could get hurt.
Ragged in their surplus Republican Guard uniforms, the Kurdish soldiers stood, bravely awaiting slaughter.
The president of Iraq was dressed identically to all of the men below him, with one great, unseen exception.
In the war with America, any strip of white cloth available to the Iraqi troops had been employed as a flag of surrender. This included one uniform item in particular. That problem had been addressed by Saddam Hussein himself. In the newest incarnation of the elite Republican Guard-no underwear.
Right now, Hussein's Fruit of the Looms were riding up on him as he shifted his ample rump on his hot leather seat.
Tugging at his backside, he kept his binoculars as steady as possible. He didn't wish to miss one moment of the action.
The tanks were rumbling close. Only a few yards from the helpless men.
The Kurds stood their ground. There was no point in running. They would be shot from behind if they tried.
The great thundering rattle from the massive metal machines could be felt throughout the valley. Watching through his field glasses, Hussein chewed his mustache in gleeful anticipation. But as he watched, something odd seemed to happen.
All at once, the air in the valley shimmered. It was as if the world for a moment turned slightly out of focus. As quickly as it had come, the disturbance passed.
The desert wind picked up, blowing from the field of battle the plumes of smoke that had been rising from the treads of the approaching tanks. Hussein's olive skin was pelted with a fine spray of sand.
A normal desert wind. That was all.
No. Not all. Something below him had changed. His precious tanks had stopped moving. All two hundred of them were now frozen in place. Nothing seemed to happen for a long time. After a pregnant silence, a tank lid sprang open. It was followed by another, then another. Soldiers began to scurry out into the sunlight.