"I'll teach you a trick. I'll teach you how to land the aircraft also."
"But you've never flown one, you said."
"Never," said Remo.
"You are crazy."
"I'm alive and I intend to stay alive. Now, the first thing you have to do is notice the sky."
"It's filled with American planes flown by pilots who not only know how to fly by themselves but are considered the best in the world, if the Israeli pilots aren't. We are cursed with skilled enemies."
"You're not doing what I said. Look at the sky. See the sky. Feel the clouds, feel the moisture, be the moisture, be the clouds, be the sky."
"Yes, I can almost do that."
"Breathe. Think about your breath. Think about breathing in and breathing out."
"I do. It is good. Oh, it is good."
"Of course. Now, don't think about the planes."
"I just did."
"Of course," said Remo.
"I don't understand."
"I dare you not to think about a yellow elephant. You'll think yellow elephant. But when I tell you to think about your breath, you automatically don't think about the other planes."
"Yes, that's so."
"Your breath is vital," said Remo. "Be with your breath," and he saw the man's shoulders slump ever so slightly, indicating the muscles were relaxing, and now the man's skills could begin to take over. Remo brought him out to the sky, out to the clouds, and when they saw the pitching, bobbing little stamp of a carrier deck beneath them, he carefully avoided talking about landing and made the deck a friend, not an object of terror.
One of the most difficult feats in all aviation is landing on a pitching carrier deck, but the pilot was down before he knew it. Precisely before he knew it. If he had known he was landing the aircraft instead of joining the plane strapped around him to a friend whose motions he understood and felt, he would have either crashed or pulled up in panic.
Their plane was immediately surrounded by armed Idran soldiers, but they were not hiding behind their weapons like the guards at the palace. There was something different about these men. They were anxious to grapple with anyone who dared cause trouble.
That was what Remo had noticed about the Ojupa at Little Big Horn. It was Arieson's handiwork. He was sure of it.
And the beauty of an aircraft carrier was that there were no dust storms. This was a manmade thing of steel corners and traps. Arieson and his strange body would not be able to escape in dust this time.
"Ariseon. Arieson. I'm looking for Arieson," said Remo.
"Ah, the general," said one of the soldiers.
"Where is he?"
"Wherever he wants to be. We never know where he is," said the soldier.
Because he had landed in an Idran plane, Remo was accepted as one of the Idran Russian advisers. No one believed the pilot had landed it himself, being a brother Idran. They told him they had found a new way of fighting, using their courage and not machines.
Remo searched the hangars beneath decks. He found the American captain a prisoner in his own cabin. He found marines disarmed but treated well. He found American fliers and servicemen under guard, but nowhere was Arieson.
Finally he took the ldran soldier who had been guiding him around and said:
"I got bad news for you. I'm an American."
"Then die, enemy," said the Idran, and brought up his short-nosed automatic weapon, firing well and accurately right at Remo's midsection. And he was rather quick about it too, for a soldier.
But he was still a soldier. Remo blended him into the bulkhead.
"We're taking over this ship," he said to the marines watching.
"These guys are tough," said the marine.
"So are you," said Remo.
"Damned right," said the marine.
Remo freed the sailors the same way and then the pilots. The battle started in the main hangars and spread up to the control tower. Bodies littered the passageways. Gunfire ricocheted off the metal walls, spinning sparks and death at every level. The two sides fought from midday until midnight, when the last Idran, with his last bullet, charged at a marine with a hand grenade. The hand grenade won.
From the loudspeaker system came a voice:
"I love it. I love all you wonderful guys. You're my kind of men. Here's to you, valiant warriors."
It was Arieson. Moving along the deck was like skating on oil, so thick was the blood. Most of the living could hardly stand. Remo squished up a gory stairwell. It had been carnage. This is what Chiun had meant when he referred to the butchery of war. None of the men were really in control of themselves, rather fighting their own terror and forcing themselves to function as soldiers. It was like a butcher shop.
Arieson was laughing. Remo found him in the captain's control room.
"Now, this is war," he said with a grin as wide as a parade.
"And this is good-bye," said Remo.
He didn't wait for Arieson to commit, he didn't explore, he got Arieson with the steel cabin wall behind him and put two clean blows right into his midsection, the second to catch whatever lightning move Arieson had made to escape in the dust back at Little Big Horn.
Both blows struck.
They met iron. But not the steel of the captain's control room. Remo found himself with his hands piercing a helmet with a red plume on top and a burnished steel chest protector.
In Jerusalem, an archaeologist identified them for him as a helmet and cuirass prevalent in the Mediterranean for centuries before Christ. What puzzled the archaeologist was why anyone would make them new today.
"These are brand new. Look at the forge marks. Look, some of the wax from the lost wax method is still in some of the finer scrollwork."
"I saw that."
"I would say these are fakes. But they use a method of manufacture that has been lost for centuries. How did you make them?"