Crack! Crack! The welds broke free. Remo touched the separated rails. The vibration was absent. The rails were no longer linked to the system.
Remo looked up. The train was bearing down. He expected a train whistle but there was none. The Twenty-seventh Army wasn't about to signal its encroachment into Outer Mongolia-or think twice about running over a lone man on the rails.
"Want to lend a hand?" Remo suggested calmly.
Kula jumped off his pony with alacrity. He got a grip on one rail while Remo pulled up each spike with his hands. Kula shouldered it off to one side while Remo attacked the other set of spikes. The other rail clanged as it found a new place in the snow.
Remo looked at the empty section of track and then to the train.
"Not enough," he decided. He moved ahead. Two more weld seams released under his chopping blows. Two more rails were shoved to one side.
Then, recovering their horses' reins, Remo and Kula walked as far away from the maimed section of track as they could.
Dong Gungwu clutched the throttle of the JS 2-8-2 Mikado steam engine tightly. He reluctantly put his head out the open window at times. It was harsh, this Mongolian wind. Also, he feared the legendary Mongol bowmen, the scourges of this barbarous land.
Dong Gungwu happened to poke his head out in time to see two Mongols on the railbed ahead. He left the whistle alone. He was under orders. He did not like the thought of driving troops-especially the despised Twenty-seventh Army-into foreign territory, but his job was good and he preferred this to the Beijing Lockup or a public beheading as a counterrevolutionary.
As he withdrew his wind-frozen face, he hoped the Mongols would have sense enough to get out of the way.
To his relief, he saw a few moments later that they did.
He also saw the bare section of rail.
Dong Gungwu grabbed for the airbrake. He threw it. The brake shoes clutched, driving wheels squealing in protest. But the rails were slick with fresh snow. The iron wheels locked, but could not obtain the necessary traction for a clean stop.
The black Mikado engine slid on toward that terrible gap. Dong Gungwu considered jumping from the cab. The snow looked uninviting. So instead he huddled under the furnace, arms shielding his head.
The train slid off the rails at nearly full speed. It kept going. Its iron cowcatcher abruptly snagged a cross tie.
The train folded like a tin pipe. The back of the engine went up and the coal car tried to climb it. The trailing cars slammed the lifting coal car. Coal flew like shrapnel. So did tiny figures in PLA green.
The first six cars piled up like a Los Angeles freeway accident. The bulk of the train had no place to go, so the cars simply tipped over, ripping up a good section of rail. T-55 tanks snapped their restraining cables, dragging the anchoring flatbeds over the side.
The sounds of splintering timbers, squealing rails, and screaming men blended into a cacophony of ear-punishing sound.
All in all, Remo thought as he watched the commotion from a safe distance, it was a lovely train wreck.
The trouble was, there were a lot of survivors. And they had AK-47's and the temperament to use them.
Worried of face, Kula looked back over his shoulder.
Still no Mongols.
PLA soldiers pulled one another out of the shattered wooden passenger cars. They shouted and screamed. A few shots were fired, evidently at others whose injuries were so bad a bullet was the only remedy.
Then the bullets stormed toward Remo and Kula.
In response, they wheeled their ponies, just to be safe. They were out of rifle range. And automatic weapons were not rifles.
"This is not good," Kula rumbled. "Many of them live."
"I can fix that," Remo said. Handing Kula his reins, he said, "Take care of him, will you?"
And Remo started down, on foot, toward the smoking train wreck.
Kula the Mongol watched him go, his wide face a mask of incredulity.
"What manner of warriors are these Americans?" he muttered.
And because he was a Mongol, and would not be shown up by any foreigner, white tiger or not, he too dismounted. He slapped the ponies with a short whip. They galloped away to safety.
Grinning like a wolf, Kula unsheathed his ancestral dagger and ran after the brave American.
It was a good day to die, especially with the sky so blue. Kula loved a blue sky.
Remo felt the shockwave as the first bullet zipped by his head. He dodged it easily, even bundled in his padded Mongolian jacket. He smiled tightly, feeling more at home fighting human enemies and not the elements before him.
"Time to play pong," he called joyously.
Remo met the first advancing line of Chinese infantry with a handful of quickly made snowballs.
One by one, they smashed into the Chinese faces with unerring accuracy. It was enough to throw the trio offbalance while Remo moved in for the kill.
A chin came within range. Remo lashed out with a fist. He got an ear-splitting crack of sound as his fist struck the point of the man's chin with such violence that his jaw caved in, its hinges bursting out of either side of his face.
"That's for Tiananmen Square," Remo said. A high sideways kick staved in another's rib cage. A bayonet slashed for his face. Playfully Remo batted it away with his bare hands.
Finally he broke off the blade and yanked the rifle out of its owner's hands. The PLA soldier looked at his suddenly empty hands. Then he was trying to pull an AK-47 out of his mouth even after his spinal cord was severed.
Kula picked up a fallen rifle and emptied its clip in every direction. He got three. He also got a burst of return fire directed at him.
Remo turned at the sound. He frowned.
"I thought I told you to stay with the horses?" he complained as he distracted Kula's attackers with a flying PLA body. The hapless Chinese soldier landed atop two upraised bayonets lifted to ward off what was thought to be an overhead attack. The blades eviscerated him and the body knocked the others into oblivion.
"And miss out on all the fun?" Kula cried. "Too bad we are outnumbered, no, white tiger?"
"You're outnumbered," Remo growled. "To me, this is a fair fight. So stay out of it."
"Well-spoken, white tiger."
"And stop calling me that," Remo snapped, jamming desert gravel into a fallen Kalashnikov so that the blowback would kill or maim anyone who fired it.
Remo took off into a knot of soldiers just starting to organize themselves. They were breaking open metal cases of ammunition.
Remo said, "Excuse me," as he broke in on them. He scattered the near ones and took the case.