"Damn-tit, Chiun, that was yours," he griped.
He made a move to intercept the still-hovering Hind but the Master of Sinanju took him by the wrist, holding fast.
"Ye of little faith," the old man said calmly.
The instant he spoke, Remo's hypersensitive ears heard a gentle ping within the roar of the gunship's engine. Sharp eyes followed the sound. Only then did Remo see the faint marks where Chiun's hardened fingernails had scored the tail-rotor bolt.
As he watched, the metal pulled apart like taffy. It grew brittle all at once, snapping in two.
The three-bladed tail rotor shrieked as it skipped off the swept fin, striking the ground in a spray of sparks. Chewing up frozen asphalt, it bounced across the runway, burying itself deep in the side of a stationary helicopter.
Without its stabilizing rotor, the tail of the Hind began to spin. It completed a half circle before the tip struck pavement, drawing the spinning rotors of the listing helicopter inexorably toward. the ground.
As the guiding edges of the blades were kissing the pavement, Remo and Chiun were ducking around the side of the hangar to avoid the chunks of flying shrapnel.
They found the soldiers they'd locked inside the hangar trying to sneak out a side door. When Remo took off another head, the remaining men hightailed it back inside.
"Don't make me come in there," he warned, slapping the door shut. As he banged it closed, an explosion sounded out on the runway.
When Remo and Chiun emerged into the open, the flames from the crashed Hind fed a thick black cloud that rose into the frosty white sky. And through the smoke flew three more Hinds.
Remo immediately spied Anna in the trailing helicopter. For a moment he thought she was going to fire on the other two. But as he watched, the nose of her Hind spun away. With a scream of engines, the helicopter tore off in the opposite direction. Away from the other two Hinds, away from Fairbanks. Away from Remo.
His face darkened as he watched her make good her escape. "So much for the old team effort," he grunted.
Before them, one of the gunships had swirled to face the hangar. The four-barrel guns in the remotecontrol turret under the nose screamed to life, chewing the ground at Remo and Chiun's feet. Frightened shouts issued from within the hangar as bullets pierced the flimsy walls.
With an angry scowl Remo stooped, snapping up a chunk of smoking rotor blade. His body automatically compensated for the heat of the metal by producing a protective sheen of sweat on his palm. Hefting the metal fragment over one shoulder, Remo dropped his arm. With an audible snap the metal left his fingers.
Whistling all the way, the blade segment zoomed through the air, impacting with the nose of the firing Hind. The metal tore up through the cockpit at an angle, striking the gunner square in the face. Continuing up in a deadly spiral, it made it as far as the main cockpit before coming to a final, fatal stop in the chin of the pilot.
With a lurch the helicopter plopped back to the runway.
By this time the second airborne Hind had gotten its bearings. Nose tilted, its weapons were aimed squarely at Remo and Chiun.
Remo grabbed another chunk of broken rotor blade. The Master of Sinanju quickly tugged it from his hands.
"You already had your turn," the old man clucked. Remo eyed the helicopter warily. It had not yet fired its guns, yet the gunner could still be seen through the frontal dome fussing around his instruments.
"No fooling, Chiun," Remo warned. "I think he's going for the rockets this time."
The Master of Sinanju held his ground. "Wait," he commanded.
Narrowed eyes grew tighter until they became slits of wrinkled parchment as the old man studied the movements of the gunner. When the Russian finally lunged for the panel, Chiun made his move.
The broken rotor section was up and around in a slivered heartbeat. Kimono sleeves snapping, the metal left his bony hand like a jet-propelled spear.
Across the runway two Swatters were detaching from rails on opposite sides of the Hind. One left on a plume of fire, soaring from the wing toward Remo and Chiun. The second was stopped in midlaunch by Chiun's metal fragment.
The blade impacted with the nose of the rocket before it cleared the pylon. The ensuing explosion ripped the pylon, flinging it up into the swirling rotors even as the flames from the blast were engulfing the Hind. The gunship burst apart like shattered glass.
Remo and Chiun weren't there to witness the blast. As the second loosed missile screamed across the runway, the two Masters of Sinanju were running fullout away from its path. By the time it struck the hangar where they'd been standing, they were half a mile away and still going.
Only when the flames and the heat had subsided did the two of them double back.
They found the hangar in ruins. Fire licked the two walls that were still upright. Charred bodies of the Russian soldiers they'd herded inside were scattered all around.
"This has gotta be against the Geneva Convention," Remo said as he eyed the bodies.
Chiun surveyed the damage, his expression bland. "They tried to get Master Hwa to sign that silly white agreement. He chained their emissaries to the Horns of Welcome and let the seagulls feast on their carcasses."
Turning on his heel, he marched off through the smoke.
Remo's eye strayed from the old man's retreating back. With a thoughtful frown he watched the sallow sky in the direction Anna had flown.
He finally turned away. Face grim, he trailed the Master of Sinanju across the battle-scarred runway.
Chapter 30
Word of what was happening in Alaska had seeped into the outside world. In Russia many greeted the news of the takeover of Fairbanks with nationalistic optimism. For the first time in years, some saw hope for a nation in despair to recapture the pride of days long past. Men and women who ten years before had demonstrated in the hope of what free elections would bring, only to be held captive by poverty and corruption at the highest levels of government, had begun to take to the streets. It was beginning to look like-19I7 all over again. And with a new threat from Vladimir Zhirinsky to address the nation on a pirate radio frequency, civilian and military authorities had been placed on high alert.
Director Pavel Zatsyrko of the SVR had been summoned to the Kremlin before events had become known to the greater Russian populace. For the past two days of the escalating crisis, he had been directing the operations of his agency from the Grand Palace itself. He was reviewing the latest data on leaders of the hard-line movement currently residing in Moscow when the door of his temporary office burst open.
A deputy raced in without knocking, his youthful face pale. "He is on the phone!" the young man blurted.
When he saw that the agent wasn't carrying a gun, the SVR leader hid his great relief. With the gangs now marauding through Moscow's streets, he had feared that the rebels had pierced the defenses of the Kremlin itself.
"You are to knock before you enter this room," Zatsyrko said with forced bluster.
"But he is on the phone now," the young man cried, breathless. "He called the switchboard. He wishes to speak with the president."
"Who is on the phone?" Pavel Zatsyrko asked unhappily.
When he learned who it was that had made his young deputy risk his career by abandoning agency protocol, all color drained from the face of the SVR director.
Barking an order to wait five minutes before putting the caller through on the special line, Zatsyrko raced from the room. He flew through the corridors of the Kremlin. Veering from the main polished floors, he ran into an unused wing off one of the less ostentatious buildings. In a dusty corridor well off the beaten path, he exploded into a small room.
The president of Russia sat at a tiny table in a cramped kitchen. Four men sat on a bench across the room. When Zatsyrko flew into the room, they looked up in unison.
The furnishings in the room were almost a century old. The only sop to the times were a banker's lamp that sat in the middle of the table and a clumsy yellow telephone that rested at the president's elbow.
The phone had just begun to ring as Zatsyrko burst into the room. "It is him!" he panted. Wheezing to catch his breath, he stabbed a finger at the phone. "Zhirinsky."
The president had been reaching for the ringing phone. When he learned who was on the other end of the line, he hesitated. His small hand hovered an inch above the phone for a moment before he gained the courage to lift the receiver to his ear.
"Zhirinsky, what is this madness?" the president of Russia demanded without preamble.