"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.
"Do not fret, brother," came the unreassuring voice of Maddas Hinsein, "the Renaissance Guard is at all times at your back."