One tank was down the street. The second was the runt of the litter, chugging to keep up with the rest.
When the last tank was nearly upon him, Frank tossed his empty flask away. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he drew his Colt Python from his old police holster. Steadying himself so that the ground didn't wobble too much beneath him, Frank lurched out in front of the tank.
Staggering, he made it out to the middle of the street.
The big tank bore slowly down on him, mighty treads grinding remorselessly against the hot asphalt. It was huge. As big as a bull elephant. And unlike the elephants Frank had seen on many a sleepless night, the tank was ugly brown not pastel pink.
Feeling like that anonymous Chinese student in Tiananmen Square, Frank positioned himself defiantly before the tank.
He brought his revolver up, aiming carefully at the angled metal nose of the mechanical beast. He didn't know what kind of damage he'd cause to the tank. But it was time someone took a stand. And that someone would be Frank Hanlon, dammit.
With vain-glorious images dancing in his wheeling head, Frank fired. The gun was loud in his ears. He had only ever fired it on the police range. But he'd always worn protective headphones back then. The noise rang against his eardrums.
The tank kept coming.
Frank looked at the gun. In his boozy haze he had expected more to happen the first time he used it. Frowning a lopsided frown, he lowered the gun again.
This time he pulled the trigger several times in a row. He saw the sparks from the ricochets as the bullets caromed off the front of the tank.
The massive vehicle was closer still.
The gun was empty. Peering down into the barrel, Frank clicked the chamber a few times to make sure.
Nope, empty.
Belching confusion, Frank began patting the pockets of his hunting vest. He seemed to vaguely remember leaving his spare ammo in the car.
The tank was here.
The crew inside had no intention of even slowing. They were going to run the lone American down. Outside the tank Frank wasn't sure what to do. Should he run to get more ammunition, or should he stand his ground like a real hero would?
"Now, where did I park?" he asked aloud, scratching his belly with his gun barrel.
The tank was only a few yards away. Maybe it was just the booze, but it seemed to be coming a lot faster than he thought it should.
The rumbling was deafening. The loud, persistent squeak of a loose tread cried off the rattling walls of the surrounding buildings.
Frank Hanlon stood like a besotted deer charmed by headlights. If it had been up to him and his whiskey-fueled indecision, he would most certainly have been killed. Fortunately for Frank it was not left up to him.
In that fraction of space between life and oblivion, something else came flying into view:
Frank became aware in his hazy vision of a young man in a black T-shirt running in from the direction of the nearest hotel. An old Asian flew up behind him.
He couldn't believe their nerve.
"Hey, I'm the hero today," Frank yelled drunkenly over the roar of the tank.
With these interlopers stealing his thunder there was only one thing left to do. Frank decided to take a nap. "You two better be gone when I wake up," he slurred as his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.
Remo flew in front of the massive treads of the tank just as Frank collapsed.
"I'll take care of Jim Bean," Remo shouted over his shoulder. "You get the other one."
Chiun soared past Remo and Frank. Pipe-stem arms and legs pumping in furious concert, he raced down the street toward the other tank, which even now was in the process of leveling its cannon back toward them.
Remo grabbed the unconscious man beneath one limp arm. Flinging Frank over his shoulder, he bounded from the tank's path at the precise moment it should have crushed their bones to jelly. He tossed the snoring ex-cop safely to the sidewalk.
Behind them the tank suddenly stopped dead. It purred menacingly.
Someone inside had obviously been hoping that the gray-haired old lunatic would stand his ground. They were upset to lose their prey at the last moment.
The hatch popped open. A white kaffiyeh stuck angrily up through the opening, a sweating Arab face beneath it. It took the Eblan soldier only a moment to spot Remo. It was fairly easy, considering the fact that Remo was waving at him from a spot directly in front of the tank.
"Random safety inspection," Remo called up to the man. "I think these tires are low on air." Walking around the side of the tank, Remo kicked a toe out at the tread. With a series of loud snaps a row of thick metal hasps shattered agreeably. The tread popped from around the wheels, unraveling onto the road with a slap.
"Pretty shoddy workmanship," Remo commented with a sympathetic nod. "Foreign car, huh. You better believe it matters to me. Say, where's your inspection sticker? The emissions on this sucker must be off the chart."
The Arab ducked back down inside the tank. "Mujajat!" his muffled voice shouted.
By his tone Remo could tell that whatever the soldier had said, it wasn't complimentary. His suspicions were confirmed a second later when the man popped back into view, an AK-47 clenched in his rage-white hands.
"Hey, don't blame me if you can't keep this thing up to state and federal standards," Remo said, waggling an admonishing finger. "You got passengerside air bags in there?"
The Arab was no longer listening. Aiming at Remo's chest, the gunman opened fire. The rifle screamed to life.
Remo danced away from the hail of bullets, ducking in beside the tank. Crouching low, he ran along the side of the huge vehicle, punching his balled-up fist into the wheels of the tank as he went.
The giant metal disks shattered obediently beneath his hand. One by one they snapped and folded in on themselves.
Feeling the powerful blows reverberating up through the shell of the tank, the Arab stopped shooting. He began screaming to his confederates.
Still out of sight of the hatch, Remo hadn't gotten halfway through the series of seven wheels when the rear of the tank began lifting slowly into the air. It rocked forward with agonizing slowness, finally falling the last few feet to the street. When it was all over, the tank resembled a coffee table with one missing leg.
Remo slipped beneath the lifted belly of the tank. Kicking upward, he removed the next tread as he had the first. Again using his fist, he removed the first three wheels on the opposite side of the tank.
The vehicle fell forward onto its snub nose, evening itself out once more. It sat useless, engine running, three of its remaining four wheels high up in the air.
Inside the angled-forward vehicle someone finally cut the engine. The crippled tank grew silent. When Remo poked his head back up around the side of the armored vehicle, he found the original Eblan had been joined by two associates.
All three Arabs were armed with automatic weapons. They brandished the guns before them, crouching in alert postures as they scanned the area immediately around the tank for any sign of Remo. On the sidewalk Frank Hanlon groaned.
The trio of Arabs wheeled in his direction. Their guns hung out over the edge of the tank. Too inviting a target to pass up.
They didn't have a chance to fire on the sound before Remo sprang back into view before them. Remo's fingers wrapped around handfuls of gun barrels.
"Yoink!" Remo called out as he tugged on the ends of the three guns.
At once all three men were yanked airborne. There was a crazed sensation of flying as their feet whipped up above their heads. The whole world spun crazily around them for an instant before they struck pavement.
Three loud oofs sounded in unison as the wind was knocked from the soldiers' lungs.
They were dizzy from the abruptness of their flight and the harshness of landing. When they got their bearings, they found that they were lying on their backs on the road. The hot blacktop burned through their thin robes.
Something big loomed abov
e them. Whatever it was blotted out the sun. As one they realized they were looking at the underside of their own tank.
Above each of their bellies hovered an intact wheel. Metal exposed by the lack of a tread gleamed brightly down at them. They looked quite heavy.
The American who had disabled their mighty Eblan war vehicle stood above them, his hand resting casually on the side of the rearing tank.
"Sorry, but you failed inspection. Say, any of you boys ever hear of the Baghdad Crunch?" Remo asked down to them. His expression was hard.
And as the three men lay helpless, the American lowered his hand. The tons of metal that formed the massive tank creaked once and then moved along with it.
Impossible. No man had such strength. Impossible still was the speed at which the three wheels raced toward them. They didn't have much time to ponder this miracle. In the end the Baghdad Crunch was more of a wet squish.
Remo released the tank. It fell back to where it had been. As it rose, bloodied entrails from the ruptured bodies of the three dead Arabs trailed its gleaming wheels.
His thoughts turned to Chiun and the second tank. Leaving the dead tank crew, Remo headed down the street.
EVEN BEFORE REMO HAD GONE to work on the first tank, he had been spotted. Gharib Zambur recognized him as soon as he raced from the door of the hotel in the company of an aged Asian. The giant Arab knew at once that he was the same American who had assaulted him in the lobby of the Taurus Studios office complex. The godless infidel who had embarrassed him in front of his fellow Eblans by strangling him to unconsciousness with his own head wear.
A broad smile split the face of the Arab soldier as he peered through the slitlike opening at the rear of the second Eblan desert tank. Through Allah's intervention he would have his revenge.
"Take this!" he snarled. Pulling his gun from his belt, Zambur slapped the weapon into the hand of one of the other men inside the old tank. The act he was about to commit required something special.
As his companions babbled nonsense about the Asian coming their way, Zambur retrieved his special weapon from its resting place near the turret ladder. It was a heavy, sharp scimitar. The long, fat sword had belonged to his father and his father before him.
Seven-foot blade clasped in one huge hand, Zambur climbed up into the turret and flung open the hatch. He pulled himself up onto the hot metal surface of the tank.
He found he was not alone.
The others had been right. The old Asian had broken away from the young white and was racing over to the more distant of the two tanks.
When he spied the big Eblan climbing from the turret, sword in hand, Chiun stopped dead in his tracks. Long nails clicking into twin ivory arrows, he tucked his hands inside his kimono sleeves. He waited calmly.
Zambur jumped down from the tank, landing loudly on size-seventeen feet. He strode over to the patiently waiting Asian, the sword of his ancestors clutched and upright in his massive hand.
The Arab could see that he towered over the tiny man by more than a foot and a half. The old man was standing in such a way as to block Zambur's path to the other tank and the detested American.
"Out of my way, decrepit one," Zambur boomed loudly, stopping before the small Asian.
Chiun's papery lips parted. "Sinanju does not yield for Eblan maha," he replied simply. Shocked by the insult, Zambur raised his sword high. He was a huge figure of looming menace. "Impertinent one," the Arab boomed, "I could split your ancient hide with but the dull edge of my sword."
Chiun slowly pulled his hands from his billowing sleeves. His face was somber, yet a whisper of mirth kissed his hazel eyes.
"I invite you to try," was all he said.
Zambur didn't need to be asked a second time. The big Arab brought his sword back with both hands. He would slice the old man right down the middle.
With a mighty bellow from his powerful lungs, he dropped the scimitar in a sweeping line directly toward the fragile crown of the old man's eggshell head.
Chiun stood his ground, calmly bemused.
A hair before the sword split taut vellum skin, there was a flash of movement in the flowing material of Chiun's purple kimono. When the Master of Sinanju's bony wrist connected with the forearm of Zambur, it was like striking solid granite.
The Arab howled in pain. A dull ache immediately washed up from the point of impact at his wrist.
Zambur heard the jangle of metal-like distant bells. He quickly realized that it was the sound of his own sword vibrating to a stop. Somehow the old man had blocked the downward blow with one upraised arm.
"What trickery is this?" the Arab bellowed, eyes wide.
Zambur brought the sword back once more. He would not allow the old man to get the better of him again.
He swung again, this time from side to side. The sword whipped toward Chiun's frail neck.
At the instant when it should have lopped the old Korean's head off, Chiun leaned back at the waist, spine bending to an impossible angle. As he bent backward parallel to the ground, the sword flashed over him. Once it had passed harmlessly by, he raised himself erect.
"Forgive me, you are not a maha, " Chiun intoned apologetically. "You are merely shaybah."
He had gone from calling Zambur "cow" to "old man." The latter was doubly insulting coming from someone of Chiun's advanced years.
"I will use your brittle bones for kindling!" the Arab raged, winding back a third time with his mighty sword.
With all the fury within him, he struck out again.
This time he didn't even see Chiun move. He only knew he'd missed when his sword clanked, unbloodied, against the side of the tank.
For the first time Zambur began to regret not bringing his gun. Sweating from his exertions, he raised his sword again. Before he could swing yet another time, Zambur felt a pair of bony hands clasp fast to his own.
The sword was frozen in midair far back behind his head. He couldn't see who held him in place, but he suddenly realized the old man was no longer before him. He was instantly reminded of the younger man who had slipped behind him to strangle him back at Taurus. A voice that was familiar by now hissed warmly in Zambur's ear.
"Allow me, shaybah," Chiun offered in a whisper. "I will guide your aged hand."
All at once the scimitar in his clutched hands seemed to take on a life of its own. It rocketed forward and around with amazing speed. Zambur was twisted in place as it moved.
The downstroke came incredibly fast. The flesh felt as if it would tear from his hands, so great was the speed.
Zambur caught a glimpse of the main cannon of his tank. As he watched, the sword flew down toward the long barrel.
He was certain that the sword would shatter. His hands would, as well, for they could not hope to withstand the force of so great a blow. But to his amazement, there was only a tiny tug as the sharp-ened steel end of the blade met the armored plates of the tank.
And as Zambur watched, awed, the scimitar sliced straight through the impossibly thick barrel of the tank's turret cannon. It slid out the other end in a single, glorious piece, as if it had passed through nothing more substantial than a loaf of fresh-baked bread.
The sheared section of cannon dropped leadenly onto the front end of the tank, rolling forward before plunging to the ground. It struck with a heavy, hollow clank.
As quickly as they had taken hold, the pressure of Chiun's guiding hands left Zambur's own. The Arab stood alone, holding his scimitar before the Eblan tank. The blunt end of the cannon aimed out over the street. The huge amputated section lay unmoving on the blacktop.
He turned, his long face wrapped in a mask of amazement. Chiun stood before him once more. His hands no longer resided in his sleeves.
"You like blades, old one," Chiun said. Any trace of humor had left his eyes. "I have seen your fearsome Eblan weapons. Let me introduce you to those of Sinanju."
And Chiun's razor-sharp fingernails lashed out toward the lumbering Arab. Zambur had no time to react.<
br />
The Arab felt a tug at his throat. The sensation was sickly familiar. The vibrations through his giant's body were the same ones he'd felt when his father's sword struck the now severed section of cannon.
Zambur instinctively grabbed at the wound he knew the old Asian's nails had inflicted on his throat.
When his big hands bumped his stubbled chin, he was surprised to see the world turn weirdly upside down. A brief sensation of falling was followed by a sudden, jarring stop.
Zambur saw feet. They were very, very large. And in the flitting ghost that was his final, lucid thought, he wondered if his feet looked so big to others. Then he died.
WHEN REMO CAME TROTTING up to Chiun a moment later, his eyes strayed to Zambur's decapitated head resting between the giant Eblan's ankles. The body itself was still upright where it had fallen against the front of the tank. A fountain of red bubbled from the open neck.
"I hope that wasn't the Taurus script reader," Remo commented dryly.
"For your sake it had better not be," Chiun warned.
As they spoke, the hatch clacked shut atop the tank. Remo glanced up. He heard the lid being sealed from inside.
"Oh, great," he groused. "These things are harder to open than prescription bottles. Wanna give me a hand?"
"No," Chiun said impatiently. "But since you have already dragged me out here in defiance of Smith's orders..."
Hiking up his kimono skirts, he and Remo moved toward the last tank. They were distracted by a sudden gunshot from the street behind them.
Remo spun in the direction from which he'd come.
Frank Hanlon had roused himself from his alcoholic slumber. More than that, the former LAPD cop had found some bullets in the pocket of his hunting vest.
"Oh, cripes," Remo muttered when he saw that Hanlon was using his newly loaded gun against the band of eight Eblan soldiers that had just ridden around the corner on camelback.
Luckily for Frank Hanlon, the great jostling the Arabs were enduring on the backs of the desert creatures made it impossible to aim and ride simultaneously. Their return fire was wildly erratic.
And as they struggled to draw a bead, Hanlon landed a million-to-one shot. He picked one of the men off.
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