IT WAS ASSOLA AL KHOBAR'S greatest victory. Therefore, it was Islam's greatest victory.
America had been brought to its knees. The world's only remaining superpower was helpless to react:
The Ebla Arab Army soldiers that he now commanded marched through the streets of America with impunity. It was a show of both strength and defiance.
Al Khobar had insisted that the Arabs parade every two hours-to mock the helpless nation in whose side he had shoved the knife that could not be removed.
Every time the occupying army went out on maneuvers, television stations from nearby Los Angeles sent dozens of helicopters into the air. At the moment the aircraft buzzed like angry hornets above the column of tanks as it made its way up a closed section of the Hollywood Freeway between Santa Monica Boulevard and Ventura Freeway.
Assola al Khobar could not help but be reminded of that first MiL he had shot down so many years ago.
This wasn't the first time the Ebla Arab Army's American detachment had plunged brazenly en masse onto this bleached-out stretch of multilane highway. However, it was the first time Assola al Khobar had gone along for the ride.
Al Khobar posed boldly, half-out of the open lid of the desert tank's broad turret. One military boot was pressed in a cocky stance against the thick metal bulwark at the lip of the opening. White sun beating down atop his checkered kaffiyeh, al Khobar surveyed the land beyond the barriers of the freeway as if it were his own.
Above their heads a single chopper broke from the buzzing flock. It swooped down over the column of tanks, passing over the upturned faces of Eblan soldiers. As the shadow of the lightweight aircraft flitted over him, al Khobar clearly saw the wide, unblinking eye of a videocamera jutting out the open side door. He pretended he didn't notice it.
Posing for his own private film, the terrorist remained proudly defiant as the big tank rumbled down the desolate freeway. His jaw of scraggly beard pointed forward as the helicopter roared past in the opposite direction.
News at six and eleven. Probably right now assuming the live coverage was continuing.
Al Khobar's heart thrilled at the notoriety.
So many of his adult acts had been in secret. Always skulking, always hiding. But this. This was what he'd truly longed for from the start. Fame.
Like so many before him, al Khobar had come to Hollywood to become famous. But unlike nearly all of them, Assola al Khobar had succeeded. He prayed to Allah that his construction-worker father was watching.
Part of him felt like Charlemagne, Caesar and Alexander the Great. The rest felt more like Mel Gibson, Cary Grant and his beloved Omar Sharif.
Assola al Khobar was receiving more press coverage than O. J. Simpson during his infamous freeway escape attempt. And he was reveling in every minute of it.
Far down the line the news helicopter banked left. Cutting away from the tank, it soared out over the wide abyss below the elevated portion of freeway.
From the rear of the column, a few randomly fired bullets suddenly rattled toward the aircraft. They clattered against the side of the helicopter.
Al Khobar was instantly horrified.
Hearing the noise, he twisted in place atop the lead tank, dropping his foot down onto the inside ladder.
The aircraft had responded to the attack by pulling far away from the rolling line of tanks. Al Khobar caught sight of it as it swooped back toward the clustered pack of hovering helicopters and moved into position behind the rest.
All of the choppers seemed to respond the same way to the gunfire. Noses lifting, they pulled farther away.
"No!" al Khobar shouted up to the helicopters. He waved to them in a beckoning fashion. "Come back! It is safe!"
They weren't listening. All at once the wounded chopper broke away from the pack to head back in the direction of Los Angeles. A thin trail of trickling black smoke followed it.
Furious, al Khobar twisted in place. He looked directly at the men atop the two side-by-side tanks behind his own.
"I have told you before, you sons of desert dogs!" he screamed. "For Allah's sake, no shooting at the press!"
The nearest Eblans nodded dumb understanding. The order was barked down the line of military vehicles.
But the damage was already done. The helicopters remained at a cautious distance. There would be no more close-ups of him grandly posing for the six-o'clock news.
Glumly Assola al Khobar settled back into the open turret lid of his desert tank.
Unmolested, the tanks rattled onward down the deserted California freeway.
Chapter 18
Even after all that had taken place over the past few days, the more recalcitrant members of the United States press corps were still willing to give Sultan Omay sin-Khalam the benefit of the doubt. Before the press conference, that is.
"After all, Cokie," said Stan Ronaldman on a special prime-time edition of his Sunday-morning show, "his only real crime is hating the United States and who, after all, can blame him for that?"
But any lingering notions of goodwill dissolved two minutes into Omay's press conference.
The erstwhile Great Peacemaker had developed an instant and irrecoverable reputation the moment the first shot was fired at Helena Eckert's aide. The subsequent shots, coupled with the look of demonic possession in the eyes of Sultan Omay, had made it impossible for the international press to label him anything more charitable than "mentally unbalanced."
In America in the immediate wake of the televised murder, Ebla-hating became a national pastime. The practical effect of the young diplomat's death, Ebla's military build-up along Israel's border and the occupation of Hollywood was a call for action like none seen since the bombing of Pearl Harbor. They were lining up at armed-forces recruitment offices around the United States. The military was turning applicants away.
A cottage industry of anti-Eblan T-shirts, mugs, caps, key chains and bumper stickers had sprung up overnight. Sales figures were staggering.
It was the furor created during the Iranian hostage crisis of the late 1970s, multiplied by a factor of twenty.
The passion of patriotism rose like a national tide every time the parade of Eblan soldiers passed along the by-now-familiar stretch of the Hollywood Freeway.
Every two-hour tour by the U.S. contingent of the Ebla Arab Army brought the rest of the civilian population of the nation closer to invading the state themselves. White House spin masters were out in force trying to explain to the nation why this was not the best course of action. It was a tough sell.
Sitting in his Hollywood hotel, Remo Williams shared the frustration of his fellow Americans. Smith had insisted he wait, and so he would. But like the rest of the nation, he didn't know how long he could sit on his thumbs before he finally snapped. He had barely moved from the same spot on the floor all afternoon. His deep-set eyes were glued to the flickering images on the TV screen. The column of tanks had just taken an off-ramp near the Hollywood Bowl.
Threatening to collapse the raised structure, the huge tanks rumbled down the ramp in single file. Thick treads chewed pavement.
They'd return again two hours later. Like clockwork.
And Remo would still be sitting here. Waiting. As he watched the last of the tanks roll down the ramp, Remo's supersensitive ears detected a familiar confident glide coming from the hallway. His eyes were flat when a moment later the frail form of the Master of Sinanju passed into the room.
As he closed the door, the old Korean noted the television.
"They are not playing that same program again?" Chiun complained dully.
"It isn't a show and you know it," Remo said from the floor. A cup of tepid tea sat near his knees.
"Not one worth watching repeatedly-that much is certain," Chiun said. He nodded to al Khobar's tank. "Now, if the brilliant Rowan Atkinson was in that first vehicle, perhaps steering it with his feet, then you would have a program that might bear repeated viewings."
Remo wasn't in the mood. "Cram it, Little Father
," he growled. "These bastards have invaded America, and you've got nothing better to do than traipse around Hollywood like the freaking Korean Dorothy Parker."
The look of frustration on his pupil's face was great. The Master of Sinanju paused in the middle of the room. Looking to the image on television, he nodded somberly.
"Let it not be said that the Master of Sinanju does not feel empathy," he intoned gravely.
"Yeah, right," Remo snorted.
But the old man's face was suddenly shadowed with deep understanding. "Remember, Remo, Korea has been conquered many times in the past. The Japanese and Chinese always thought the rice was whiter across our fair borders. But even though invading armies came and went, Sinanju was never affected."
"So what are you saying, we should just wait them out and everything'll be hunky-dory?" Remo asked dubiously.
Chiun's happy mood blossomed full once more. "Empathy does not mean that I actually care," he lilted. "Is the tea water still hot?"
Not waiting for a response, he stepped placidly over to the hotel room's small kitchenette.
"Yeah? Well you should be more concerned," Remo called, annoyed, after him. "If this turns out to be Uncle Sam's last birthday, the two of us will be lining up at the Sinanju soup kitchen."
"There are other ways to make a living," Chiun replied mysteriously.
The admission shocked Remo. For Chiun the job of professional assassin was the most noble calling one could have. For a moment Remo forgot about the Arab occupation.
"Don't tell me Bindle and Marmelstein actually bought your script?" Remo asked warily.
Chiun came back out of the kitchenette, a steaming cup of green tea in his wrinkled hands.
"Not yet," the old Korean admitted. "They have turned it over to a trusted subordinate known as a reader of scripts." He sank to the floor in front of the TV.
"Yeah, I remember," Remo said. "Neither one of those boobs knows how to read."
"Reading is overrated," Chiun sniffed. "They need only recognize great writing when it is read to them." He sipped pensively as he watched the Eblan tanks drive along Sunset Boulevard. "Change the channel."
"No. Look, even if they want to make it, don't be too sure there's gonna be enough dough left when it comes time."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"The two of them were spending money like water last time I saw them," Remo said.
"Taurus is the mightiest studio in this province," Chiun intoned. "Its coffers are deep."
"Just a word to the wise," Remo sighed.
"As offered from the brainless," Chiun retorted. They sat in silence for a few long minutes. The tanks had disappeared from the screen, replaced by the serious faces and empty insights of network reporters and anchormen.
Remo didn't know exactly how much time had passed when he first heard the noise.
It started far away. A loud, protracted rumbling. For a moment Remo thought it might be thunder. But as he listened he realized the sound he was hearing was artificial not natural. The relentless, echoing rumble was joined by a chorus of mechanical grinding and squeaking sounds-almost obscured by the great volume of the louder noise.
"Tanks," Remo said, jumping to his feet.
He ran to the window. Drawing back the long, ceiling-to-floor drapes, he peered down at the street. The first of the Ebla Arab Army tanks had rounded the corner. The ground shook beneath their great treads as they rumbled up the street, figures of strength and menace.
Assola al Khobar perched like a conquering tyrant in the front of the lead tank. The tank's turret swiveled back and forth, threatening in turn the buildings on either side of the street.
Chiun joined Remo at the window. His fingers grasped opposing wrists inside the voluminous sleeves of his kimono.
"When this is all over, I'm going to enjoy stuffing his flea-infested head down that cannon barrel," Remo commented flatly, nodding down to the terrorist.
"Bindle and Marmelstein do not like him," Chiun replied in a bland tone.
Remo raised an eyebrow. "That mean I have your blessing?"
The Master of Sinanju shrugged. "In its five-thousand-year history Sinanju has not seen a single day's work from Ebla. The loss of one lapdog to the latest skinflint to roost upon the Khalamite throne will not be noticed by anyone that matters. As long-" Chiun raised a cautionary talon "-as it does not affect my movie."
"I'm gonna hold you to that, Little Father." Remo looked back down on the column of tanks. There were almost fifty of the heavy military vehicles. It took nearly forty-five minutes for them to grumble their deliberate way up the wide road in front of the hotel.
Al Khobar had long since vanished by the time the last straggling tank pulled into view.
The sight of the column of old-fashioned foreign military vehicles driving unmolested through an American street filled Remo with loathing. He had seen the worst parts of his nation for so many years that he didn't think he would ever feel as strongly about America as he had in his youth. But with each tank that passed beneath his window, the level of bile in his throat rose until he thought he'd burst in angry frustration.
And, he soon discovered, he wasn't alone.
As Remo and Chiun watched the last of the tanks pass by, a lone figure stepped from beneath the awning of the building across the street. Remo plainly saw the revolver in his hand.
There were only two tanks left. One farther up the street, the other just beneath Remo's window.
The man with the gun stepped in front of the rear tank. He raised his gun in a marksman's pose, propping his gun arm up with his free hand. Hand thus steadied, he promptly began firing at the oncoming face of the final tank.
The gunshots had no effect. The bullets pinged uselessly off the heavy armor plating.
Up ahead the second-last tank slowed to a stop. It hesitated for a moment, as if surveying the scene. And, while Remo and Chiun watched, the turret began to turn slowly around. Back in the direction of the lone shooter.
"We'd better get down there," Remo said sharply.
"Why?" Chiun asked. "We will be able to see better from up here."
But Remo was no longer beside him. Chiun frowned, turning.
The door to their suite swung open wide.
The Master of Sinanju sighed. It was as he'd feared. Remo was already turning into a Hollywood youth. Desperate to call attention to himself, if only to step out from beneath the shadow of his celebrity father. It would only get worse when Chiun's movie came out. Remo would have to be put on suicide watch when the Academy Awards rolled around.
Offering silent commiseration to Marlon Brando for the travails he'd suffered with his children, the Master of Sinanju flounced out the door after his own wayward son.
Chapter 19
Anyone who claimed to never want to be a hero was a bald-faced liar. Lieutenant Frank Hanion, LAPD, retired, knew this for a fact. Everybody wanted to be a hero. But there were very few people who were actually capable of heroism.
Hanlon was one of them.
A twenty-year veteran of the Los Angeles Police Department, Frank had been a hero from his first day in blue to his last day as a detective. Even though he had never fired his gun once while on duty and had spent most of his time on the force touring grammar schools as part of the department's antidrug campaign, Frank knew down into every last red blood cell in his uniform-blue bone marrow that he was a hero. He had just never had an opportunity to demonstrate that fact to anyone.
Until the Occupation.
There was nothing America could do. It faced a simultaneous threat, both at home and abroad. The President and other government officials were paralyzed. American citizens in the occupied areas were cautioned to stay in their homes.
Appeals for calm during this difficult time only brought to a head Frank's long-smoldering call to heroism.
This crisis didn't demand calmness. Quite the opposite. It screamed out for men of action. Heroes. Of which Lieutenant Frank H. Hanlon was one.
He lived in the Valley, just over the hill from the Hollywood sign, within the lines set up by the U.S. Army. Frank piled whatever provisions he thought he might need in the back of his Dodge. As he cruised the streets in search of trouble, spare ammunition, blankets, life preservers from his old rowboat-one never knew-and a few bottles of liquid courage sat on the rear seat of his mobile assault unit.
It was when he pulled over to the side of the road for a pit stop that he heard the rumble of tanks in the distance. Zipping up, he spun away from the potted plant that had doubled as his litter box. Frank waited anxiously in the alcove of a posh Beverly Hills hotel.
An eternity later the lead tank rolled into view down the wide street.
The man perched atop it was familiar. Before leaving his apartment, Frank had seen that face on the news as the convoy thundered down the freeway. There was no mistaking that scraggly beard and those rotten teeth.
He could have taken an easy potshot at Assola al Khobar. But as the first tank rolled into range, Frank's courage quickly fled. He realized that he was still a little too drunk to aim accurately. If he missed knocking out their leader, the entire line of fifty tanks would be after him. Frank might be a hero, but even John Rambo wasn't crazy enough to take those odds.
"A real hero ish always cautious," Frank slurred, pulling his hip flask from his jacket pocket. Hands shaking, he took a steadying gulp.
The first tank passed by, rumbling off down the street. At an intersection it took a left, moving out of sight.
The rest of the Ebla Arab Army, U.S., took a long time to pass by. Hidden in the shadows, Frank slowly drained his flask. By the time they'd gotten down to the last two tanks, Frank Hanlon was as drunk as a gibbon and raring to fight.
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