And the aide allowed himself a faint military smile.
"Goon."
"The British also claim to have developed what they call 'a frightful new weapon that will revolutionize modern warfare.' Their name for this device is the Wissex Vole."
"Wissex Vole?"
"Wissex is a town or county. Vole is some sort of burrowing animal, like a mole."
"The British possess a secret weapon that burrows! Could that be a ground missile? Something with a drill for a warhead."
"Seems unlikely. It might be just a name," the aide replied.
"What else?"
"The Turks call theirs the Whirling Dervish. The Germans, Donar. The Danes, Votan. Macedonia has Sveti Perun. These appellations all seem to be mythology-based code names."
"Is that all?" the general prompted.
"No. There are 121 others, much like the previous NOIWON."
"Do we have anything concrete, anything we've heard about before?" asked the JCS chair.
"Well, there is the Holy Spirit."
The general raised his frosty eyebrows.
"The Vatican has issued a statement that in these danger-fraught times they will rely on the protection of Spiritus Sanctus—which is Latin for 'the Holy Spirit.' It's a Catholic thing."
"I know, I know," said the general, who was Catholic.
"Is there a Polish secret weapon?" he asked, because he was also of Polish extraction.
The aide skimmed the summary. "No. No Polish secret weapon."
"There never is," he said dryly. Finishing his coffee, he stared off into space for a long moment. "I would like to be alone," he said quietly.
"Yes, sir."
As soon as he was alone, the JCS chair picked up the telephone and initiated a conference call with the rest of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. When he had everyone from the secretary of the Navy to the commandant of the Marine Corps on the line, he explained the recent NOIWON alerts.
"Do you gentlemen understand what this means?" he asked in conclusion.
"Damn."
"We are in a new arms race and, not only is the USA out of the running, we are probably the chief target."
"Do we know if these weapons are biological, chemical or nuclear?" asked the chief of the Army.
"We do not. But I believe we can assume one thing—these other nations have acquired a common technology. It is obviously something relatively inexpensive, easily produced and requires no exotic material or resources. For there is no question that whatever this Russian Zarnitsa is, it is identical to the Hungarian Turul, and no doubt the same as this El Diablo the Mexicans are threatening us with."
"If we don't know what it is, General, how can we defend against it?"
"That is the key," said the JCS chair. "Our first priority is to identify these terroristic weapons. Get on it. Get your intelligence people on it. I will coordinate everything from this office."
"What about the President?"
The JCS chair groaned audibly. "There is no time for another seven-hour briefing of the President. We will bring him in when we have facts and a counter-option. Get to work, gentlemen. A new doomsday clock is ticking for the United States."
Chapter Thirty-one
Remo Williams didn't like the looks of Skopje from the air. It looked old, begrimed and a hodgepodge of architectural styles. There were mosques and minarets amid the overly ornate church spires.
"Since when is Macedonia Islamic?" he asked.
Chiun wrinkled his nose at the skyline as the 727 began its descent. "Turks once ruled this land but were driven out."
"Looks like they left their culture behind."
"Turks have no culture. Perhaps the Macedonians have allowed their temples to remain as repositories for surplus grain."
"I see churches, too."
"Carpenter worship has insinuated itself into every land—even Korea. Do not take it seriously."
Remo had a magazine on his lap. "According to this, political rivals assassinated Kim Jong II again. That's the third time he's been reported dead this year. Guess we can take him off the old Christmas list?"
Chiun sniffed and said, "Sinanju does not celebrate Jesus Time, nor will you know that you have truly become my heir in blood, as well as spirit."
But as the plane descended, his hazel eyes narrowed.
"What's the matter?" Remo asked.
"The Vardar does not wind like that."
"Maybe it changed."
"Rivers do not change course. Cities rise and fall, are sacked and rebuilt. A Master of Sinanju recognizes a city not by its buildings, which endure less than common rock, but by its river. For all important cities are built upon the banks of rivers."
A flight attendant happened by, and Chiun asked, "Where are we about to land?"
"Macedonia."
Chiun sniffed doubtfully and said nothing more.
When the plane landed, all the passengers were told to remain in their seats as an honor guard came to fetch the Master of Sinanju.
"Welcome to Macedonia," said one, beaming.
"That remains to be seen," said Chiun, rising and floating up the aisle.
Following, Remo hissed, "What's the matter?"
"That man is a Tartar."
"That's his problem. He should brush his teeth more."
They stepped out into the top of the air stairs and a forty-six-gun salute, with incidental cannon fire, erupted.
"Hit the deck!" yelled Remo, suiting action to Words.
"Do not be ridiculous, Remo. These people only welcome us."
The second volley came, and there was what seemed to be a resounding echo as a stray tank shell struck a French Mystère Falcon 20. Simultaneously a red carpet unforked like a satanic tongue to end at the bottom of the air stairs as if perfectly dovetailed. It revealed a two-headed black bird that Remo thought looked familiar. Where had he seen it before?
Beaming, Chiun began his triumphal descent onto Macedonian soil.
A man in a green uniform that made Remo think of an opéra bouffe spear carrier strode up to greet them.
In heavily accented English he said, "Welcome to Sofia!"
Chiun started, and the wispy hairs on his chin and over his ears quivered once. "This is not Macedonia," he squeaked.
"Ah, but it is. For Macedonia truly comprises the western lands of Bulgaria, which is pleased to greet you."
"I'm not working for the Bulgarians," Remo said.
"Nor am I," snapped Chiun. "We fly to Skopje."
"Phui! Skopje is not Macedonia, but the capital of liars and irredentists. There is nothing for you there. This is the true seat of Aleksandar Makedonski."
"The House never worked for Alexander, and we demand that you convey us to our proper destination in Macedonia."
"But this is Pirin Macedonia—the true Macedonia."
"And that was your final breath," said the Master of Sinanju, whose sleeves came apart, birthed a hand like a striking adder and, at the exact moment when the Bulgarian's heart was poised to take the next beat, Chiun's fist struck the correct spot over the heart like an old ivory mallet.
The Bulgarian general noticed that his heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer wildly. His breath came in gasps, then did not come at all. Finally he pitched forward on his face and went into full cardiac arrest, his life and his nationalism leaking out of him in a long, slow, cool breath.
Turning on his heel, the Master of Sinanju returned to the plane.
Remo said to the stunned surviving dignitaries, "Do what he says or it'll be a lot worse."
The honor guard hesitated. Then the escape chutes of the jet popped out, began inflating and the frightened passengers started evacuating, along with the flight crew, some of whom broke windows in their urgent need to exit the plane.
"Don't be too long with the replacement crew, okay?" said Remo, and boarded the plane himself.
The jet lifted off less than ten minutes later. It was a short flight, and since there was no need to pressurize the
cabin, no one felt the compulsion to close the emergency exit doors before the aircraft took to the skies.
"This is turning out to be harder than I thought," said Remo.
"That was not the Vardar," Chiun sniffed."It was the Iskur. You should have known this."
"I should have insisted we go to Canada first. I could work for Canada."
Chapter Thirty-two
It was an image-interpretation clerk at the Air Force's National Reconnaissance Office who provided the first key to the problem of the secret North Korean terror weapon.
Walter Clark was an expert on North Korea. During the tense period in the Korean-American relationship, when the DPRK refused to open their nuclear processing plants to international inspection, it was Clark's daily task to analyze oversize satellite images of the various nuclear facilities at Yongbyon and elsewhere.
Relations with North Korea were still in an unsettled state, but everyone agreed they were better off than a year ago, when the two Koreas stood on the precipice of war. Few knew this at the time, but it kept Clark awake at nights.
These days he slept reasonably well for a man whose job it was to spy on the last Stalinist state on the face of the earth.
The call from his superior was tense.
"It's called Sinanju Chongal. It's Pyongyang's secret weapon."
"Is it chemical, nuclear or biological?" Clark asked.
"That's the question of the hour."
"So what do I look for?"
"No one knows. So just look very, very hard, Walter."
As he hung up the phone, in the room where giant photographs and transparencies sat on light tables or hung before backlit wall screens like colorful X rays in a surgical facility, Walter Clark began talking to himself.
"Sinanju. Sinanju. That name sounds familiar…"
He went to his computerized concordance and input the name.
On the green-and-brown 3-D topological map of the Korean peninsula, two red lights winked northwest of the North Korean capital of Pyongyang. There were on the West Korea Bay.
One said Sinanju Eub. The other, simply Sinanju.
And Clark remembered. During the nuke scare—to this day no one knew for sure whether Pyongyang had the bomb or not—he had stumbled upon the bizarre fact that there were two places named Sinanju, virtually next to each other.
Calling up his index, he simultaneously dialed his superior.
"I found it."
"In three minutes?"
"Two-point-five actually," Walter said with restrained pride. "There are two Sinanjus in West Korea. Sinanju Eub is an industrial town. 'Eub' means 'town.' The other is just Sinanju."
"Is it a city?"
"No. That would be Sinanju Si. 'Si' means 'city.'"
"It's an installation, then."
"Just a minute. I'm expanding the picture now." Keys clicked under his tapping fingers, and a red rectangle zoomed in on the twin red dots, expanding the urea within until it filled the screen.
"During the bomb hunt, the dual names were noticed and we conducted deep analysis of Sinanju Eub us a possible nuclear processing center, but they seemed to indicate it was nothing more than an industrial town with no clear military significance."
"But it is a denied area?"
"AH of North Korea is a denied area."
"That's right, isn't it?"
Walter rolled his eyes in silence. Middle managers, he thought ruefully. Aloud, he said, "I have the latest digitized sweep of the area on-screen now, and nothing seems to have changed since last year."
"What about the other Sinanju?"
"As I recall," Clark said, tapping a key, "it was of no importance whatsoever."
The red rectangle squeezed down to the lower red dot, and it exploded into a section of muddy coastline.
"Looks blank. I'm going in tighter."
Keys clicked and the picture bloomed into a close-up.
"Wait a minute," Clark said.
"What have you got? What is it?"
"One minute, sir. This is strange. This is very strange."
"What is? What is?"
"The second Sinanju appears to be a fishing village."
"Can't be."
"I agree. There are two strange configurations here, sir. On the beach there are two—I can only call them formations."
"What do they look like?"
"From above they look like two pieces of giant driftwood, but they cast shadows that show their true nature. They look like fangs," Clark said.
"Fangs?"
"There's one at one end of a section of beach and a matched one on the other. Sort of like curved fangs or maybe horns, except they're quite large and separated by some distance."
"Any supporting facility?"
"Just fishing shacks."
"They can't be fishing shacks."
"I have to agree, sir. If for no other reason than I see a three-lane highway that stops right at the edge of this so-called fishing village."
"Where does it go?"
"Just my question. I'm backing off from the fishing village and—uh-oh, this highway, sir, runs in a direct line from Pyongyang, bypassing Sinanju Eub altogether."
"No one builds a three-lane highway from the capital to a goddamn fishing village."
"I think that's a safe analysis," Walter Clark said dryly.
"Any traffic on that road, Clark?"
"None whatsoever."
"Strange."
"North Korea is chronically low on fuel, private ownership of cars is restricted to less than two percent of the population and in the countryside they're supposedly eating their sandals for want of rice. So it's not strange at all."
"This is super work, Clark. Keep digging."
"Thank you, sir," said Walter Clark a half second lifter the line went dead in his ear. He went back to his screen. This was interesting.
This was very interesting. Why, he wondered, had no one noticed this before?
Chapter Thirty-three
En route to Skopje, two fast Galeb fighter jets appeared and bracketed the passenger jet. The copilot came back to the cabin, where the winds howled and paper scraps flew, and approached the Master of Sinanju, who sat patiently in his window seat.
"We have been warned to divert to Belgrade or we will be shot down," he reported anxiously.
"Who has warned you of this?" Chiun asked.
"Those Serb fighters on our wings."
"There are only two?"
"Yes."
Chiun signaled for Remo across the aisle. "Dispense with those pests."
Sighing, Remo got out of his seat and began collecting pillows and seat cushion flotation devices until he had two bulging maroon armfuls.
"Try to get ahead of them," Remo told the copilot.
"Yes, yes, but do not get us shot down. I have children."
"Don't sweat it," said Remo, moving to the end of the cabin.
The rest room doors banged loudly in the whooshing cabin winds, and the rearmost emergency exit, which led out to the cone-shaped tail of the plane, hung open to frame blue sky.
Remo whistled patiently as the jet's engines spooled up. Briefly it pulled ahead, outpacing the two fighter escorts, which jinked in and out of view in the open tail.
Remo began pitching pillows and seat cushions at them. Tumbling out like funny marshmallows, they were sucked into the Galeb's intakes with big whoofing sounds.
The jets flamed out, first one and then the other, and when the pilots realized there was no restarting their engines, they hit their seat-eject buttons.
Canopies popped, rocket-assisted ejection seats kicked them upward and out of sight. Since he had a few cushions left, Remo waited for the pilots to descend and tossed pillows at their faces. The slipstream provided the velocity. All Remo had to do was calculate the vectors and let go.
Both pilots received big cushy maroon kisses to their unhappy faces and shook angry fists as the passenger jet pulled ahead and out of view.
Returning to his seat,
Remo asked Chiun, "Are we there yet?"
"Stop asking that. You sound like a child."
A page of some newspaper careened toward Remo, like a fluttery bird, and he caught it with an unconscious reflex that turned it into a pea-size ball faster than the eye could follow.
"I've had quieter flights, you know," he remarked, flicking the papery pellet out the rear.
"Be grateful there are no stewardesses to perch on your lap and toy wantonly with your locks."
"After three months on the reservation, I've begun to appreciate stewardesses."
"Would that you appreciated me. I am the one you should appreciate. I and no other."
"I'd appreciate you more if you hectored me less."
"I would hector you less if you appreciated me more."
"You first," said Remo.
And when neither thought the other was looking again, relaxed smiles touched their downturned lips. It was just like the old days.
Chapter Thirty-four
In his windowless office at CIA headquarters, Ray Foxworthy was bleary eyed from reading all the Intel intercepts crossing his desk. If half of them were to be believed, America was out in the cold while the rest of the world furiously developed some hitherto unknown technology with significant military applications.
The phone rang. He picked it up, one eye scanning a report out of India noting a weapon called Shiva-Urga. It was said to mean an incarnation of the Hindu deity Shiva in his most destructive form.
"Yeah?" he said absently.
"Chattaway. NRO. I could use some help, linguistically speaking."
"Are we NOIWONing here?"
"We will as soon as I nail down a few facts."
"What language?" Foxworthy asked.
"Korean."
"What do you need to know?" Foxworthy asked warily.
"The North Koreans have code-named their secret weapon Sinanju Chongal. I need to know what that means."
"What'll you trade for it?"
"This is national security!"
"And this is my ass if I don't have something to give the Pentagon—same as you."
"Okay, how about we say you came up with the original report, brought it to me, I went back to you on linguistics and we keep the DIA out of the picture entirely?"
"Sounds good to me. Sinanju, you said?"
"Spelled S-i-n-a-n-j-u. We already know 'Chongal' means 'scorpion.' "
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