"Are we in agreement'?" asked the sheik in an age-cracked voice.
"Absolutely," said General Winfield Scott Hornworks, who knew exactly on which side his bread was buttered. Especially after his commander in chief had reminded him in a testy voice.
"Summon your lackeys," said the one called Chiun.
Hornworks assumed a blank expression. "My which?"
"Your lackeys," repeated the sheik, who wondered if the infidel general was hard of hearing.
Hornworks gulped. "Sir?"
"Your officers," the prince general put in, recognizing that the infidel general was somehow under the impression he was not a mere paid mercenary.
"Oh. Officers. Why didn't you say so?"
No one offered an answer. They could see the American was suffering delusions of equality-a very common Western mental affliction for which there was no known cure.
They convened around the war room deep in the basement of the UN Central Command Building. The sheik sat silently, toying with his worry beads.
As they settled on the rug, forming a semicircle around the Master of Sinanju, the prince general went among them, handing out crisp white sheets of paper to each.
"What's this?" General Hornworks growled, turning the sheet this way and that.
"We will come to that later," said the Master of Sinanju. "First, I must know several things. Your forces. They have been placed according to the tortoise's prediction?"
General Hornworks' eyes went wide. "Prediction! That was you?"
The Master of Sinanju nodded.
"We did it. Yeah. It was crazy, but the deployment was brilliant. What I don't quite get is why you scratched it on the back of a dead turtle."
"I did not," snapped Chiun. "Your forces will remain in place. There will be no advance unless attacked, no retreat under any circumstances."
"Nobody's going anywhere," General Hornworks vowed.
Chiun nodded. "Tell me of the dangers you face."
"Well," said General Hornworks, counting off on his fingers, "there's about, oh, fifty thousand dug-in Iraitis camped out in Kuran. Most of them's cannon fodder, you understand. They got their best units-"
"Legions. You will use correct military terms."
"We say 'units.' "
"You will say 'legions' as long as I am general," said Chiun stiffly.
Interest flickered in General Hornworks' blocky face. "Who died and made you general? I don't see any stars on your dang shoulders."
The old Korean narrowed his eyes. "You wish stars?"
"I'd like to see a few, yeah."
The Master of Sinanju obliged with a quick strike at the general's exposed forehead that sent Hornworks rocking back on his broad posterior.
Sure enough, he saw stars. He thought he heard birds too. Just like in a cartoon. They sounded like canaries.
"Are those stars sufficient to satisfy you?" asked the Master of Sinanju.
"Plenty," Hornworks croaked, holding his head. In fact, he was obviously outranked three to one. He hadn't even seen the old guy move.
"Continue your accounting of forces," Chiun commanded.
"Irait's got about five tank divisions in Kuran. And I'd say half that in Irait itself. But that ain't the biggest problem we got."
"What is?"
"Them damn Scud missiles of his. He's got maybe three hundred of them. Each one of them with enough range to hit us, Israel, or any other damn place in this sandbox of a region. No offense, Prince General."
"The opinions of pork-eaters cannot offend me," Prince General Bazzaz said with studied equanimity.
"Spoken like a true ally of America," Hornworks remarked.
"These Crud missiles," continued Chiun. "How best to render them harmless?"
Hornworks considered. "We could take 'em out by air strikes. But they're mobile. No way we can hit them all in one sortie raid. Some of them are bound to launch. And that would be one hellacious rain."
The Master of Sinanju stroked his wispy beard in thought, saying, "No, this must be done quietly."
"There's nothing quiet about war," General Hornworks pointed out, "once it gets cooking."
"That is the problem with you Westerners. You think sound and fury are the measurements of success. The greatest victories are silent ones. The Trojans knew this. Others did too."
"If you're looking for wooden horses," Hornworks said dryly, "we'd have to requisition a few."
"It has been done," said Chiun dismissively. "Are there other ways to destroy these missiles before they can be fired at us?"
"Sure. Hell, you can take out a Scud missile and launcher with a twenty-two rifle. Just shoot at the liquid-propellant stage. She'll blow right up and take the launcher with her. If there was a way to hit every missile at once, that little problem would be solved."
The hazel eyes of the Master of Sinanju narrowed.
"Where do the Kurds stand in this matter?" he asked thoughtfully.
"The Kurds-they're just a bunch of ragtag-"
Chiun held up a silencing hand. "Answer my question."
"Last I heard, they were forming irregular units-I mean legions. But my guess is that if conflict breaks out, the Kurds'll turn on the Iraitis durn quick."
Chiun nodded. "Then all that remains is to become acquainted with the mind of your enemy."
"We don't even know who's in charge up there, now that of Mad Ass is out of the picture."
"That villain is not dead. He lives. And it is his personality you must understand if you are to be triumphant over him. Now, you will study the papers I have provided you."
"What is this thing anyway?" General Hornworks wanted to know.
"It is your enemy's horoscope." said Chiun gravely. "I have cast it in Korean."
"That explains why I can't make it out," General Hornworks said dryly.
"I will teach you."
"Astrology?" General Hornworks asked in surprise.
"No. Korean."
General Winfield Scott Hornworks searched the wrinkled features of the old Oriental for signs of humor. Finding none, he drew in a deep breath and thought: Well, there goes the war.
Chapter 14
President Razzik Azziz, AKA al-Ze'em, was growing desperate.
In power less than a day, he could feel his hold in his Revolting Command Council slipping with each passing hour. He wore a fresh uniform, and his upper lip was raw from its first encounter with a shaving blade in many years.
"What news?" he demanded, barging into the council room, where his subordinates sat around the table touching the unfamiliar nakedness under their noses.
"There is no answer from the Americans," reported the information minister. "Even the ambassador has abandoned the embassy."
He turned to the defense minister, his eyes pleading for good news.
"The American demons have taken their battle to the western outskirts of the city," the man reported.
"They are going away?" he asked, hope brightening his voice.
"It is impossible to say. But they have destroyed the entire western antimissile missile battery. Abominadad is now defenseless against an air attack."
"There is still our air force," the chief air-force general put in.
"Which will be decimated within two hours of a U.S. first strike," said the Iraiti secretary of the navy, which was only slightly larger than the Irish navy.
No one disputed that. They all watched CNN, which had predicted this was inevitable, so they knew it was true.
Through the windows came an extended tortured crackling sound, like a thousand logs going through a car-crushing machine.
"What is that?" the president gasped, clutching the table edge.
The information minister went to a window.
"It is the royal Kurani roller coaster," he said. "It is being torn apart. They have climbed atop it and are battling furiously."
Taking up a pair of field glasses, the president went to the window.