"This is not a Wild West movie," Chiun sniffed. "I will not allow the noble but oppressed red man to be dragged into the white man's folly."
"I suppose warthogs are out of the question?"
"Did you hear that, Father?" exclaimed Prince Imperator Bazzaz. "The infidels have brought pigs onto Moslem sand."
"They're just called warthogs," Hornworks said hastily. "They're actually tank-killer planes. The A-10 Thunderbolt is the official designation. What is it about you guys and pigs, anyway?"
"Moslems are taught that the mere touch of swine is an abomination that will make us unclean and unprepared to enter Paradise," explained Bazzaz solemnly.
"How can it be called Paradise if you can't chow down on ham and eggs?" Praetor Hornworks wondered aloud.
The prince imperator and the sheik turned pale and looked away.
The Master of Sinanju interrupted. "No noisy machines that fly will be allowed in the legions I envision."
"How about a blimp or two?" Praetor Hornworks asked sarcastically. "Nice fat harmless blimps. Unarmed."
Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed.
"Yes," he said slowly. "There might be a place for blimps in my great plan. Yes. You have my permission to do this."
"Good. Maybe we can laugh the Scud crews into helplessness."
"Possibly," Chiun said vaguely. "Have you fulfilled my instructions?"
"Your what? Oh, yeah. The silent Scud killer. How could I forget those? I got a couple in my back pocket here, courtesy of the good of CIA."
Praetor Hornworks dug into his back pocket, extracting a pair of thick silver tubes, sealed at one end with black caps.
Prince Praetor Bazzaz accepted one of these from his American counterpart. He looked it over, as Chiun took the other, curiosity wrinkling his tiny visage.
The sheik watched as his adopted son removed the black cap, sniffed the exposed tip, and recoiled from the pungent smell.
"If you can get special operations personnel to those Scud launchers armed with one of these little doodads," said Hornworks confidently, "our problems could be solved in jig time."
"It is a Magic Marker, this doodad?" asked Bazzaz, for once encountering an odor stronger than his own.
"It may be a marker, but magic it isn't," said Praetor Hornworks flatly. "Officially, they're called LME's."
"Ah," said Prince Imperator Bazzaz. "I understand now. Poisoned food. We trick the enemy into eating these, and they are dead."
"You're thinking of MRE's-meals ready to eat. Obviously you tasted some."
Bazzaz made a face, saying, "I barely survived."
"Anybody who mistakes an LME for a Popsicle gets a bite of death," Hornworks said confidently. "How many will do you? I can get you as many of these as you want. "
"As many as there are launchers for these Scum missiles," Chiun told him.
"Cruds. I mean Scuds." Hornworks threw up his hands. "I don't know what I mean. I think I'm having a nightmare."
"Nightmares come from eating pork chops," said Prince Imperator Bazzaz sanctimoniously.
Praetor Hornworks, who happened to enjoy pork chops, especially smothered in applesauce, was searching his mind for an unoffending comeback when an orderly ran into the room waving and shouting.
"The Iraitis are on the move!"
"What?"
"Sir, they're pouring over the Maddas Line like a million ants," said the orderly.
"They're advancing? These are dug-in defensive troops! Why the hell are they advancing? They should be making us come to them!"
"Because they are led by an imbecile," said Sheik Fareem wisely. "Have you not come to understand this?"
"I'm still trying to get used to the SOB still being on the planet." He turned to the orderly. "Don't just stand there, decurion! Let's get some tactical computers in here!"
"Begging your pardon, Gen . . . I mean Praetor, but all the computers are off-line. We're blind as bats, tactically speaking."
Hornworks slapped his broad forehead in disgust. "My God! That's right! What the blazes are we going to do?"
"The answer is to be found in this very room," said the Master of Sinanju gravely.
Hornworks whirled. His eyes went to his imperator's long pointing finger. He followed an invisible line starting at the tip of the nail to a nearby tabie. There sat the tortoiseshell.
Eyes widening, Praetor Hornworks made a wild dash for it.
"The goldang shell!" he shouted. "it ain't much, but it's all the battle plan we got!"
Carefully he brought it back to where the others were seated. He set the shell in the center of the rug, orienting it so that it was aligned with true north.
There was an olive-drab tactical field phone at his elbow. He picked it up and began issuing orders, his eyes riveted to the cracked and dappled old shell that reminded him of a petrified leopard.
"Get me the Ninth Hispana Legion," he said firmly. "Indiana."
And where he sat, Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju, allowed himself a wan smile. The man was actually performing his task correctly. Who said whites were uneducable?
Chapter 24
General Shagdoof Aboona was utterly confident of victory.
His uniform was British, purchased in bulk from the United Kingdom after a thoughtless vice chancellor decided to clear out one of her majesty's Royal Army warehouses, thus leaving the British forces with only woodland camos. His assault rifle was Soviet. Air cover would be provided by Soviet MiGs, as well as French Mirages. He possessed American Stinger ground-to-air missiles liberated from Kurani stockpiles. His war-gas stockpiles were German. Chinese silkworms guarded Irait's tiny coast.
It was remarkable, he thought.
The UN had had to form a thirty-nation anti-bait coalition to assemble such impressive firepower. And still they lacked Russian equipment.
From his control bunker behind the line of earthworks, mine fields, tank trenches, and concertina wire spirals, General Aboona exuded confidence. Only weeks before, he had been a simple cobbler from Duurtbagh. When the criminal coalition forces had massed themselves on the new southern border of Irait, every able-bodied Iraiti had been conscripted into the Popular People's Popular Auxiliary. Since it was a brand-new element, it naturally needed generals. Because he was taller than most Iraitis,
Shagdoof Aboona went right to the top, acquiring three stars of silvered paper on his British epaulets.
"I am very proud," said General Aboona on the day his Precious Leader personally placed the stars on his epaulets. After licking the backs. "This could happen only in Irait."
When he had learned that he was to go to the front, General Aboona had experienced a twinge of misgiving. But the sight of the massive Maddas Line had been as fortifying to his spirits as it had been to the new border.
No power could breach it. And since the Popular People's Popular Auxiliary was strictly a defensive force, he felt safer here than in Irait, where one could be shot for odd reasons.
His feeling of complacency lasted less than two months. Then came the call from President Maddas Hinsein.
"I have orders for you, brave one," had said Maddas Hinsein.
"Allah be praised," said Aboona, saluting the telephone.
"You are destined to lead your nation into greatness."
"I am ready," said Aboona, holding his salute, lest the call was a test of his loyalty.
"At dawn you will lead the entire PPPA from your berms and bunkers and pour over the Hamidi border like the conquerors you are."
Aboona blinked. "But, Precious Leader, we have spent weeks building these fortifications. Is is not better to wait out the cruel sanctions?"
"It is better to be victorious," Maddas countered. "I have the exact deployment of the UN forces. They will not expect you. And the unexpected is our chief weapon in the great sheik of struggles to come."
General Shagdoof Aboona looked toward his Soviet Kalashnikov, thinking that he had been mistaken all along.
"I fear I am not worthy of this honor," he stammered.<
br />
"Do not fret, brother," came the unreassuring voice of Maddas Hinsein, "the Renaissance Guard is at all times at your back."
"Yes, of course they are," said Aboona, thinking that they were there, not to back him up, but to shoot him in the back if he did not advance. "It will be done as you command."
"Was there any doubt?" asked Maddas Hinsein, terminating the connection.
General Shagdoof Aboona replaced the receiver with the realization that he was cannon fodder, and had been all along. He went to the full-length mirror in his command bunker, noticing powdery sand on his fine British war-surplus uniform. He brushed himself off. All but one of the paper stars of silver fell to the floor. He could not understand why this kept happening, but he no longer cared.
He wished now for the first time that he was back in Duurtbagh, a simple cobbler again.
Then, tears in his eyes, he picked up his Soviet assault rifle and went to give the orders that would probably cause his own troops to contemplate fixing their sights on the small of his back.
No matter what he did, he wore an invisible target on his spine. This was how Maddas Hinsein ruled his people.
Chapter 25
The Battle of the Maddas Line went down in history as one of the most violent land engagements since Verdun.
It was also the briefest.
The Popular People's Popular Auxiliary poured over the line, shouting "Allah Akbar!" in loud voices and firing wildly into the air, in the hope that the UN forces would retreat from their fierce din. It was their only chance, they knew. If they fired toward the enemy, the enemy would probably shoot back. There were rumors that this was sometimes done in wars.
Such was the vastness of the desert that their cries went immediately undetected.
What alerted the waiting forces was the sounds of the PPPA attackers setting off their own antipersonnel mines. The mines had been laid by the Renaissance Guard under cover of darkness so the PPPA could not safely defect. Many were ashamed of the occupation of peaceful Kuran.
Explosions lit up the sky. Distant reverberations carried south. Body parts flew in all directions. And the dreaded defensive mine fields of the Maddas Line were totally cleared-by unfortunate Iraitis.
Since there were more PPPA forces than there were antipersonnel mines, most of the Iraiti troops got through.
They lacked tanks, APC's and field artillery. And so they yelled.
General Aboona called instructions to his field commanders from the safety of his behind-the-line bunker. When his soldiers had proved too demoralized to backshoot him, he decided not to press his luck.
"The First Armored Division is located to the south!" he exhorted. "Attack at will, brave ones. Captain Amzi, take your unit to Point Afar, where only a squad of marines lie dug in. You will overwhelm them manfully."
It was a good plan.
Except that where the division should have been was a force of less than brigade strength. And the squad of marines was a squad no longer. He did not know what it was. There were no forces of four hundred soldiers in either the American or Iraiti table of organization.
Discovering itself facing a mere brigade, the PPPA, emboldened, charged with bayonets fixed. The enemy pulled back. PPPA lungs shouting victory, they closed in for the kill.
And fell victim to the classic pincer maneuver first used by Hannibal during the Battle of Cannae to defeat the Roman Army. Two wings of the divisions rolled out of the night to encircle the PPPA in a ring of steel. The carnage was brief. The handful of survivors surrendered, which was an excellent decision inasmuch as they had few bullets and their bayonets kept falling off.
Meanwhile, in the face of the unexpectedly overmanned marine squad, Captain Amzi's PPPA unit was pounded into so much camel fodder by howitzer fire and mortar rockets. He died wondering what kind of unit it was he was fighting.
It was an ala, not that that would have meant anything to him.
After an hour of hearing the rattle of small-arms fire and the boom of 105-millimeter tank cannon coming through his walkie-talkie, General Shagdoof Aboona gave up issuing orders and began requesting battle damage assessments.
He could hear his brave fellow Iraitis clearly. Their shrill, uncomprehending cries could mean only one thing.
It was a slaughter.
General Shagdoof Aboona heard the ringing of the direct line from the Palace of Sorrows as if through deep water.
Sunken-eyed, he picked up his Kalashnikov, plunked himself down on the side of his bunk, and, with the insistent ringing faint in his ears, put the cold bitter muzzle into his mouth and fumbled for the trigger with a nerveless thumb.
The hollow-point lifted the top of his head like the lid off a crockery cookie jar.
He was the final casualty of the Battle of the Maddas Line-elapsed time: eighty-six minutes and twelve seconds.
Chapter 26
Praetor Winfield Scott Hornworks burst into the war room of the UN central command base.
"It worked! The Ninth Hispana Legion ground them into sand stew. And the Vermont Victrix ambushed the rest. Changing the order of battle was the smartest thing we could've done!"
The Master of Sinanju looked up from the tortoiseshell that lay at his feet. Sheik Fareem and Prince Imperator Bazzaz had repaired to the safety of a bunker.
"Show me," Chiun directed, no joy on his face.
"Sure thing." Hornworks strode over to the rug and sat himself down happily. Using his finger, he indicated several points on the spotted shell. They were exactly where the opposing cracks crossed.
"We stopped them here, here, and there. Just like on this road-kill thing here." He looked on, cocking an eye at the old Korean, who had earned his respect as had no other military officer since his father, George Armstrong "Buster" Hornworks, had paddled his behind for smoking cornsilk. "How'd you work these tactics out in advance? Astrology?"
"No," said Chiun absently. "I simply heated the shell in a brazier until it cracked."
Hornworks batted his eyes. "You mean that's all?"
"Of course not," spat the Master of Sinanju. "I first prayed to the gods for guidance. This form of divination has been the way of my people since before the sun source was revealed to Wang the Great."
"Well, however it works, it beats computers any day of the durn week." The praetor grinned expansively. "So what's next? Tea leaves? Palm reading? You say it and we'll do it."
Chiun shook his aged head, saying, "The enemy has been discouraged. But he is not beaten. I have been charting the stars and they tell me that a new personality is about to enter the lists."
"Yeah? Who? And if it's Gorbachev, we're in deep dogfood."
"I do not know this one's name. But her moon is in Aquarius."
"Is that bad?"
"For us, no. For our foes, possibly. For Taurus and Aquarius are in conflict, signifying delay and frustration."
"So we wait for his next move, is that it?" Hornworks grunted.
"No. We must move swiftly to stage the grand plan I have devised to win the day."
"This may not be the best time to bring this up, but there's an old general's saying: No battle plan ever survived contact with the enemy."
"And there is a saying in my village: No enemy ever survived contact with the House of Sinanju," Chiun retorted.
"Since your notion got us through the night, my faith's in you," Praetor Hornworks said quickly.
"Have the LEM's arrived?" Chiun asked.
"LME's. On their way. I scrounged up as many of 'em as I could. Just give the word, and I'll assign special teams to take 'em into the field. I suggest good old Army Rangers. Marines would probably lose every blamed one before they even got to the target sites."
The Master of Sinanju gathered his kimono skirts about his pipestem legs. "No. You will give them to me."
"All of them?"
"Exactly. Then you will arrange to convey me into beleaguered Kuran. I will pass out these devices to the forces I have selected."
"Wh
at forces? Beyond the neutral zone, there's nothing but unfriendlies."
"Yes. But the question is, who is unfriendly to whom?"
Praetor Hornworks took off his service cap and scratched his bristled skull.
"Listen, I can't let you go into Kuran. You're the best blasted field officer in this man's legion."
"I must. For my son is in that cruel land."
"Didn't you hear? All the hostages are out."
"Not all," Chiun said firmly. "And I am going. You are a soldier. Obey your imperator."
Praetor Hornworks struggled to his feet. He was getting too old for all this squatting and kneeling, but if it brought results, it was better than being up on the line.
"I'm on it," he said. He started for the phone, then turned, his eyebrows lifting quizzically.
"You say this new person is a gal?" he asked Chiun.
"So the stars foretell."
"What kind of gal could help out of Maddas?"
"The wrong kind."
"Good point. You know, even if this highfalutin plan of yours comes off, this fracas ain't gonna be over until someone up and nails that son of a camel."
Chiun's eyes glinted with a sudden cold light.
"Someone will," he said.
"We generals got another saying: In times of crisis, a leader's assassin is already at his side, but neither man knows it."
"The one who will dispatch the Mad Arab is not yet at his side," the Master of Sinanju intoned. "But soon, soon . . . ."
Chapter 27
When the last Air Irait jet returned from the outside world, the pilot and copilot emerged from the cockpit to face a pair of scarlet-bereted Renaissance Guard troopers.
"You have been sentenced to death in absentia," announced the first guard. "The stated crime is releasing Western hostages without permission."
"Allah! But we were acting upon direct instructions of al-Ze'em," the pilot protested.
"Al-Ze'em is no more;" the other trooper explained. "Our Precious Leader has resumed supremacy over proud Irait. "
The two pilots turned green as they were marched out onto the deserted concourse, stood up before a ticket counter, and shot down in cold blood. There they turned white as the blood flowed from their bodies, replenishing the drying patch of rusty fluid left by their late colleagues.
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