"Confirm," said Remo, making up his lingo. "We have an on-board emergency here."
"Flight 600, state the nature of your emergency."
"The pilot and copilot are dead. It's up to me to land this thing."
"Is this a hijacking?"
"No."
"Are you qualified to pilot a passenger aircraft?"
"No."
A silence cracked in the earphones. Then in a drained voice, the tower said, "Stay calm, sir. And we will attempt to talk you down."
"Better put a lot of foam on the runway for this one," Remo warned.
"Acknowledge."
The tower ran Remo through the essentials of piloting a big bird. They told him where the throttle was. How to trim flap and deploy the thrust reversers. It sounded easy at first. Then they began piling on the details.
"Look, we need to keep this simple," Remo complained.
"This is the simplest version, sir."
"I need a simpler version. There's a lot of distractions up here."
Just then, another one reared its bulging head.
"Remo, the not-bee has returned," squeaked Chiun.
"Swat it. I'm busy," Remo called back.
The Master of Sinanju stepped around and blocked the door, saying, "Bumblebee-who-is-not, do not dare intrude, for here stands the Master of Sinanju to deal with you."
The bee, if it understood, only grew more determined. It swooped at Chiun's bald head, encountered a sweeping backhand and went corkscrewing away. Striking a bulkhead, it ricocheted, rebounded and came again.
This time, it tried to zip between Chiun's outstretched legs.
Chiun gathered up the hem of his kimono skirt, ripping out a swatch of silk lining. Snapping it between tense hands, he waved it before the bee like an Oriental matador with a too-small cape. The bee bobbed and weaved, but refused to retreat.
"Come, bee. Come to your doom ...." Chiun invited.
The bee zigged, then zagged, trying to get past the snapping silk. It made a dive for the space between Chiun's black sandals.
Twisting the swatch into a knot, the Master of Sinanju bent his deceptively frail-looking body, enveloping the bee expertly in a ball of fabric.
The bee hummed and buzzed in frustration.
"I have the culprit," Chiun announced to Remo.
"Good," returned Remo.
The tower was assuring Remo that he would land safely. They were telling him to lay his nose on the main radio beacon. Remo understood none of it in the technical sense. But when the nose was pointing toward the foaming runway, he began to feel a slow surge of confidence.
"Okay, I'm riding the beam," he said, copying the tower's terminology.
"Drop gear."
Remo pulled on the heavy lever that deployed the landing wheels. They rumbled out of their wells.
Remo lined up on the main runway.
"Now ease back. Not too hard on the throttle," the tower instructed.
Remo obliged. There was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. It came from concentration, not fear. He kept trying to fly by the seat of his pants, the way he drove a car-by feeling every component of the vehicle, and becoming an extension of it. But this was a big, lumbering jet that operated by hydraulics and electrical controls. It was worse than power steering. It was power everything. Remo preferred to be the power in the cars he drove. Here, he was disconnected from total control of the aircraft. It made everything feel wrong.
As the jet dropped lower and lower on its Pacific approach, Remo heard a rare Korean curse emerge from the Master of Sinanju's papery lips.
"What now?" he demanded of Chiun.
"The bee ate through my kimono lining. It is ruined."
"What?"
Then the bee was dive-bombing Remo's head. And the tarmac came rushing up to meet the nose.
"Not now," Remo groaned. "I've almost got this thing on the ground."
The bee dancing before his eyes, Remo slapped at it in sheer frustration. It bounced off the side of his hand, unharmed, and regained its aerial equilibrium.
"What does it take to kill one of these things?" he complained. "Chiun, get in here!"
The Master of Sinanju was in the cabin now. There was hardly any room for him. Chiun made a lunge for the dancing bee.
"I have him."
"Get him out of my freaking hair."
Chiun's fists knocked the bee around the cabin. He was on Remo's right. Then his left. Finally, Remo called out, "You're worse than the freaking bee! Leave it alone!"
"It is trying to kill you."
"I gotta save the plane," said Remo as the rear tires unexpectedly made contact with the blacktop. They barked like stung dogs. The plane bounced, settled, and the barking came again.
Steadily, Remo lowered the nose. It touched down. Then the plane was rolling into the patch of waiting foam.