"Beloved colonel," he said, "I am looking for a new commander of all my armies."
"No," came back the voice of the colonel.
"What?"
"No deals. I am a soldier, not some dealer in promotions. I have fought an honorable battle. If I become a general, I will earn it on the field of honor."
"Of course I am talking about honor, the honor of being a field marshal."
"You obviously want me to set up someone, and I'm not going to do it. I will meet whatever enemy I have face to face, and live or die by what I can do with my courage and martial skills. No more scheming. No more baby killing. No more parking a car with a bomb at a supermarket and claiming some great Arab victory. I am going to live and die as a man, as a soldier, as an Arab soldier. Do you know what that is, General?"
"I stand enlightened, brother. Your courage and honor shame me. Let me express my support for your new stand to your second in command."
When the General got another colonel, he whispered into the phone:
"Colonel Khaidv]y has gone crazy. He is talking about getting you all killed. I authorize you to seize command from him immediately and I am promoting you to general as of now. This is an inviolate order."
"I'm not stabbing my brother in the back," said the other colonel. "If I get a promotion, it will be for killing enemies, not Arabs."
"So true. So true," said the General, and asked if there was anyone else near the phone. To twelve men he offered supreme command of the Idran forces, and twelve men refused him, talking about honor, not as a normal word of conversation to make a point, but taking it to some ridiculous extreme. They were going to live by it.
As a last resort he tried the colonel who had caused all this trouble in the beginning. And Colonel, now General, Arieson was most pleased to learn that a thin American with high cheekbones and dark eyes was now flying toward him on an Idran plane that was going to attempt to land on his decks.
"He wanted to kill you, and how, I thought, could I protect our greatest victory but to warn you of his impending arrival? I am showing you I am saving you by sending him on a defenseless plane. And to show my good faith, I made sure it was not flown by a Russian, but an Idran hero commander ace pilot. They may not even reach your deck."
"And in return?"
"Hold off your attack against Jerusalem and meet with other Arab leaders. I will make you commander of all our victorious forces. You may be the ruler of the Arab world."
There was only laughter at the other end of the phone.
"But you don't understand. I have what I want. I don't want the world. I want my war, my good old-fashioned war."
"Struggle, of course. It ennobles the soul. But a war must have a purpose, brother General Arieson."
"It is the purpose, brother struggler," laughed General Arieson, and hung up.
Remo learned almost immediately why the Idran air force, with the most modern jets money could buy, was ignored by the General in favor of hijacking of civilian airliners, machine-gunning of kosher restaurants, and bombing of discotheques where American servicemen danced.
He was two thousand feet up, and still rising in Russia's most advanced fighter jet, when the pilot in the front seat of the two-seater jet asked him how he was doing. He asked in Russian. Remo only remembered bits of archaic Russian needed to understand Sinanju's many years of service to the czars.
"I guess you did all right," he answered in that language.
"Do you want to take over now?" asked the pilot. He was a hero, with medals for shooting down countless enemy planes-according to the publicity, fifty Israeli, twenty American, and ten British to be exact. Actually, under cover of diplomatic protection he had shot a British bobby from an Idran embassy, and when he was ejected from that country, given credit for shooting down British fliers in fair combat.
"No, that's all right," said Remo. "You're doing fine."
The blue sky over the tight canopy made him feel part of the clouds. It was true what they said about an advanced fighter. It was a weapon strapped to the body. He did not like the weapon because it was not his body. But he could see how it would enhance the crude unrhymed moves of the average person to make him forceful. Gut a corner at Mach 3 like an off ramp. Bang, turn, and you were gone into the clouds.
"Did you like my takeoff?" asked the pilot.
"It was fine," said Remo.
"Don't you think I should have throttled forward more?"
"I don't know," said Remo.
"I felt too much resistance. That's why I asked."
"I don't know," said Remo.
"You didn't feel the lack of throttle?"
"What throttle?"
"Aren't you my Russian adviser?"
"No. I'm your passenger."
"Eeeah," screamed the pilot. "Who will land the aircraft?"
"You can't land?"
"I can. I know I can. I've done it in the trainer, but I've never done it without a Russian at the controls behind me."
"If you can, you can," said Remo.
"Not on a carrier."
"You can."
"That's special training."
"I'll show you how," said Remo.
"How can you show me how if you don't know how?"
"I didn't say I didn't know how, I just don't know how to fly the plane."
"That makes absolutely no sense!" screamed the pilot.
"Don't worry," said Remo. "It'll work. Just make a pass at the carrier."
Before they reached the carrier, they had to fly over the entire Sixth Fleet, which sent up planes to look them over. The American pilots flew nerve-shatteringly close.
"Don't think about them. Don't let them bother you."