"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."