Bryce Babcock sniffled. "You can't make an omelet without scrambling a few eggs," he offered timidly.
Remo's dark expression never wavered. "Prepare to be scrambled," he said icily.
Hands flashed forward. Remo clamped firmly to either side of Babcock's head.
Babcock's bladder sensed before any other part of him that something was desperately wrong. It was splattering its final contents onto his boots even as the first hint of pure alarm appeared in his sagging eyes.
Remo's hands vibrated. And as the movement worsened, the head between them shook with increasing fury.
It was as if the secretary of the interior had been hooked to a paint mixer. When Remo was through, Babcock's skull was filled with frothy gray sludge the consistency of a fast-food shake. Foamy brain overflow drizzled out nose and ears.
Dropping the lifeless body with its mushy pureed brain to the ground, Remo hurried from the oasis. The dogfight above the desert had grown more frantic.
Rocket pods were firing all around the area. Bullets sang in every direction-in the sky and from the land. Bodies of PIO soldiers littered the field of combat.
More Iranian jets roared in over the Jordanian desert. The Palestinians on the ground assumed correctly that they were under attack from another hostile force. Before they had even been fired upon, they began shooting at the incoming Iranian planes. The Iranian F-5s responded to the hostile gunfire from the ground by launching wing-mounted missiles into the horde of Arab soldiers.
A few burning fighter planes had joined the Russian Antonov in the sand.
Pockets of fire erupted in the desert. Explosions ripped away at the oasis, at the remnants of Nossur Aruch's men and at the downed planes.
Running, Remo met Chiun and the former President a mile away from the worst of the combat. Both men were already atop their horses. Remo swung up into his saddle.
More Libyan jets had roared into view behind them. They immediately engaged the fresh Iranian aircraft. In their spare moments, they joined in the attack on the ground. Their purpose for being there was forgotten. Killing the ex-President had become secondary to blowing up one another.
Spurring their horses on, Remo, Chiun and the former President of the United States rode for several miles, eventually climbing an isolated dune far away. Turning in their saddles, they watched the combat rage, the field of battle awash now in the blood-red morning sun.
"Well, I suppose some things never change," the President said softly as they watched the dogfight. Echoing gunfire rose from the distant sand. He looked back to the Masters of Sinanju. "Speaking of which, I had a talk with your boss. You fellas were supposed to do that amnesia thing on me again. I was hoping you could work it this time so I'd be okay. You know, just forget what I'm supposed to, and so forth?"
There was a hopeful look on the old man's face. It was the one question Remo hadn't thought to ask. "Chiun?" he said.
The Master of Sinanju shook his head sadly. "Lamentably, no," he intoned. "It is rare, but for those who are affected as you by the Emptying Basin, there is no alternative."
The President took a deep breath. Turning from them, he stared off into the distance.
The battle raging far away was not even a distraction. He was staring beyond it, at the sky, at the land. At something unseen, far distant.
It was as if in that one moment he wanted to lock on to a small part of the world. Of himself. To try to hold on to something. When he finally looked back at them, his lopsided, youthful smile had returned. There was a hint of wetness in his tired eyes.
"I suppose now's as good a time as any," he said.
Remo returned the smile, a hint of sadness on his face. "It can wait till we get back," he offered gently.
The President nodded. "I suppose it can," he agreed. "As long as the two of you keep an eye on me until then."
"Sinanju will forever be by your side, noble one," the Master of Sinanju nodded.
The President's smile broadened as he appraised them both. "Well, what are you two lollygaggers waiting for?"
With a boyish energy that belied his years, the old man gave a wrench at his reins. For a minute, Remo thought he was going to fall backward off the animal.
The horse rose majestically onto its hind legs. Whinnying once, it dropped its front hoofs back to the sand, launching itself forward as it did so. The animal raced off across the desert. The President bounced expertly in the saddle, shoulders hunched, elbows raised like a Pony Express rider. A cloud of dust followed him.
"I reckon some people just have a knack for flamboyance, eh, Mr. Chin?" Remo commented, turning to the Master of Sinanju.
A smile toyed at the corner of Chiun's papery lips.
With a tug, his own horse repeated the maneuver of the President's, lifting its front legs high in the air. Chiun held the animal there for a moment, finally launching it forward before its front hooves had even reached the sand.
He raced off after the President.
"I hope I have half that energy when I'm a hundred," Remo muttered to his pony.
"You should live that long," Chiun called back. Laughing out loud, Remo dug his heels into the sides of his horse. The three men rode off toward Israel, away from the rising sun.