It did not sound like one of the oppressor's craft, so Saluda held his fire after he had crawled up to a place of advantage.
It was a small craft, flying low, looking like a great dark shark of the sky. The markings were not Iraiti.
It settled in the sand, throwing up sandy billows, not far from a village on the banks of the Shin River.
Saluda clambered down from the mountain. Too late. The dark shark had already lifted off.
But it had left behind a man and many boxes.
Approaching cautiously, Saluda the Kurd saw that the passenger was an old man with strange narrow eyes. He stood resolute, chin up, his venerable white hair waving in the hot wind. He wore white, a color of bad omen.
"I see by the pattern of your turban that you are a Kurd of the Barzani tribe," the little man said calmly, oblivious of the deadly maw of the Brno.
"Spoken truly," said Saluda, whose red-and-white-checkered turban marked him as a warrior who never ran from battle. "And who might you be, strange man with strange eyes who speaks the tongue of my people?"
"I am Chiun. My ancestors knew yours when they waxed mighty and were called the Medes."
"Those days are all but forgotten, mamusta," Saluda said, respect softening his voice.
The stranger cocked his head curiously. "Is the House of Sinanju, too, forgotten?"
"Not forgotten, but the memory dims."
"Then let it shine anew from this day forward," said the Master of Sinanju, gesturing broadly to the wooden crates that lay in the dust. "For in these simple boxes I have brought liberation for your people and doom for the tyrant Maddas. Enough weapons for several surleks. "
"Alas," said Saluda, lowering his weapon, "I command but a pal these evil days."
"You have friends? Other commanders?"
"Many. Even ones in the hated Iraiti Army."
"This is better than I hoped, for these weapons are of use only against the dreaded Crud missiles of the scum oppressor."
With a curved knife, Suluda broke open one crate. He squinted at rows of the silver-and-black tubes within.
"What will these do?" he wondered aloud, taking one in hand.
"They will break the back of the evil one," promised Chiun. "And even a child may wield them to good use." insulted, Saluda spat, "Then seek you children for your tricks. The men of Kurdistan are warriors."
"No offense was intended, O Kurd. Your warriors need only use these to write their names in the pages of history."
Saluda removed the cap. The smell offended his nose. He went over to a rock and inscribed his name. The tip left a moist colorless trail that quickly faded to nothingness.
"This must be a mighty instrument for writing if it leaves no mark on stone, but inscribes one's name on the pages of history," Saluda muttered.
"If you are not man enough to wield it," Chiun retorted, "I will find another."
"Man enough?" Saluda flared. "I will scour the caves and foothills and find you surleks of men who are not afraid of making history!"
The Master of Sinanju drew himself up with quiet dignity. "Spoken like a true son of the Medes," he intoned. "I have found the Kurd who will cause the Wheel of Destiny to complete a full revolution."
Chapter 32
Naseem wore his Iraiti uniform like a hair shirt.
Hauled away from his village by the Iraiti conscriptors, he was given an ill-fitting uniform in exchange for his fine fringed turban and baggy woolen costume, and an old Enfield rifle with no bullets.
With this insult of a weapon, he was set to guarding a sand-painted bunker where a great rolling Scud missile launcher was held in readiness.
But in his back pocket he had a silver tube given to him by a fellow Kurd named Mustafa. His instructions were as simple as they were inexplicable.
When night fell, Naseem steeled himself to enter the bunker. He was not afraid, for since he was a boy he had heard the Kurdish proverb "The male is born to be slaughtered." If he was killed, this was to be.
The bunker door was not locked, for easy egress of the launcher on short notice. Naseem simply entered.
Setting his useless rifle by the door, he slipped up to the launcher and climbed atop the great buff-colored missile which lay flat on its movable rail.
Lying on his stomach, he uncapped the silver tube and began writing out his name. He wrote large, according to his instructions. He had been told that he would be writing his name in history, and because the world had long ago forgotten the Kurds, rightly called "the orphans of the universe," he wrote very, very big.
For he knew that all over Irait and Kuran, his Kurdish brothers were doing the very same thing to other Scuds and Iraiti strike aircraft.
Chapter 33
President Maddas Hinsein slammed down the field telephone receiver after the 1,785th unanswered ring.
"That traitor Aboona refuses to answer!" he roared.
All around the council room, his high command jumped in their seats. This included Vice-President Juniper Jackman and Information Minister Don Cooder, who were experiencing what Maddas had referred to as "orientation."
Maddas turned to his new information minister, who wore a Maddas Hinsein mustache that had been applied with black shoe polish.
"Explain this!" he demanded in Arabic.
"What's he saying?" Cooder asked Jackman nervously.
"No clue. I'd just start talking, was I you," Jackman said.
"Well, you see, your grace," Don Cooder began, "as I see it-and we must be careful with our facts here, because events are unfolding too rapidly to assimilate them in coherent sequence . . .
The foreign minister translated on the fly.
Maddas received the rambling account with a grim face. Since it did not contradict him, he took no exception. He was used to his ministers talking much but saying little. That is why he always had the council-room TV tuned to CNN-it was his only source of reliable intelligence.
He pulled the remote from a belt holster, causing most of the room to duck instinctively. The CNN logo came on. The council clambered back into their seats, features dripping cold perspiration.
They all watched in silence as the foreign minister essayed a running translation while patting his face with a handkerchief.
"We are thwarted," said Maddas Hinsein, after hearing of the failure to take Hamidi Arabia.
"A temporary setback," the foreign minister said quickly.
"Which you will surely overcome, Precious Leader," added the defense minister.
Maddas nodded.
"We must devise a new strategy to confound the infidel," he went on unhappily.
"Your brilliance will prove superior to their base perfidy," said the agriculture minister. "As always."
Vice-President Jackman leaned over to Don Cooder. "I can't tell what these mutton-munchers are saying, can you?"
"Shhh!" Cooder hissed. "You want to get us shot?"
"They won't shoot me. I'm vice-president now. I'm indispensable."
"Tell it to Dan Quayle."
That thought gave Iraiti Vice-President Jackman pause.
"I'm also a personal friend of Louis Farakhan," he pointed out. "That's as good as a free pass in this neck of the desert."
The voice of Maddas Hinsein intruded on their whispering.
"We must make a glorious gesture," he announced. "The eyes of the Arab world are on us now. How can we smash the aggressor? Come, come, I must have suggestions."
"We could send the Renaissance Guard south," the health minister offered, carefully. "If you think we should."
"Good. And then what?"
"They must take up the defense of the Maddas Line and our new thirteenth province before the hated aggressor overruns our position."
"A waste of good soldiers. Have more PPPA conscripts sent to the front. They are like the dinars in my pocket. Of use only when they are being spent. Our best must remain in readiness for the great sheik of struggles to come."