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 above 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.