"Sure, can I use them? Assuming I can find them now."
"No!" said Chiun firmly. "Consign them all into the Gulf!"
"Then let me unleash our air assets," Hornworks pleaded. "Please. We gotta knock out those Scuds fast! We can do it inside of a day, maybe three. We have Wild Weasels, Ravens, Skyhawks, Blackhawks, Tomcats, Eagles, Flying Falcons, Cobras and Jaguars, all set to go.
"I will not risk the lives of innocent animals in a war not of their making," Chiun said flatly.
"But we can own the skies!"
"Let the enemy have the sky," proclaimed the Master of Sinanju in a triumphant voice. "We will take the ground."
"Yes," said Sheik Fareem sagely. "We want nothing of the sky." The old sheik turned to his adopted son. "Are you in agreement, my son?"
"Absolutely. There is no oil in the sky."
Praetor Hornworks blinked. His eyes narrowed craftily.
"How about Apaches?" he asked. "And maybe a few Tomahawks? At least let me use the tip of the spear."
"This is not a Wild West movie," Chiun sniffed. "I will not allow the noble but oppressed red man to be dragged into the white man's folly."
"I suppose warthogs are out of the question?"
"Did you hear that, Father?" exclaimed Prince Imperator Bazzaz. "The infidels have brought pigs onto Moslem sand."
"They're just called warthogs," Hornworks said hastily. "They're actually tank-killer planes. The A-10 Thunderbolt is the official designation. What is it about you guys and pigs, anyway?"
"Moslems are taught that the mere touch of swine is an abomination that will make us unclean and unprepared to enter Paradise," explained Bazzaz solemnly.
"How can it be called Paradise if you can't chow down on ham and eggs?" Praetor Hornworks wondered aloud.
The prince imperator and the sheik turned pale and looked away.
The Master of Sinanju interrupted. "No noisy machines that fly will be allowed in the legions I envision."
"How about a blimp or two?" Praetor Hornworks asked sarcastically. "Nice fat harmless blimps. Unarmed."
Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed.
"Yes," he said slowly. "There might be a place for blimps in my great plan. Yes. You have my permission to do this."
"Good. Maybe we can laugh the Scud crews into helplessness."
"Possibly," Chiun said vaguely. "Have you fulfilled my instructions?"
"Your what? Oh, yeah. The silent Scud killer. How could I forget those? I got a couple in my back pocket here, courtesy of the good of CIA."
Praetor Hornworks dug into his back pocket, extracting a pair of thick silver tubes, sealed at one end with black caps.
Prince Praetor Bazzaz accepted one of these from his American counterpart. He looked it over, as Chiun took the other, curiosity wrinkling his tiny visage.
The sheik watched as his adopted son removed the black cap, sniffed the exposed tip, and recoiled from the pungent smell.
"If you can get special operations personnel to those Scud launchers armed with one of these little doodads," said Hornworks confidently, "our problems could be solved in jig time."
"It is a Magic Marker, this doodad?" asked Bazzaz, for once encountering an odor stronger than his own.
"It may be a marker, but magic it isn't," said Praetor Hornworks flatly. "Officially, they're called LME's."
"Ah," said Prince Imperator Bazzaz. "I understand now. Poisoned food. We trick the enemy into eating these, and they are dead."
"You're thinking of MRE's-meals ready to eat. Obviously you tasted some."
Bazzaz made a face, saying, "I barely survived."
"Anybody who mistakes an LME for a Popsicle gets a bite of death," Hornworks said confidently. "How many will do you? I can get you as many of these as you want. "
"As many as there are launchers for these Scum missiles," Chiun told him.
"Cruds. I mean Scuds." Hornworks threw up his hands. "I don't know what I mean. I think I'm having a nightmare."
"Nightmares come from eating pork chops," said Prince Imperator Bazzaz sanctimoniously.
Praetor Hornworks, who happened to enjoy pork chops, especially smothered in applesauce, was searching his mind for an unoffending comeback when an orderly ran into the room waving and shouting.
"The Iraitis are on the move!"
"What?"
"Sir, they're pouring over the Maddas Line like a million ants," said the orderly.
"They're advancing? These are dug-in defensive troops! Why the hell are they advancing? They should be making us come to them!"
"Because they are led by an imbecile," said Sheik Fareem wisely. "Have you not come to understand this?"
"I'm still trying to get used to the SOB still being on the planet." He turned to the orderly. "Don't just stand there, decurion! Let's get some tactical computers in here!"
"Begging your pardon, Gen . . . I mean Praetor, but all the computers are off-line. We're blind as bats, tactically speaking."
Hornworks slapped his broad forehead in disgust. "My God! That's right! What the blazes are we going to do?"
"The answer is to be found in this very room," said the Master of Sinanju gravely.
Hornworks whirled. His eyes went to his imperator's long pointing finger. He followed an invisible line starting at the tip of the nail to a nearby tabie. There sat the tortoiseshell.
Eyes widening, Praetor Hornworks made a wild dash for it.