"To who? Mexico?"
Around the Situation Room the faces of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the secretary of defense paled noticeably. No one spoke. All eyes were locked on the masklike face of the JCS chair.
"I do not advocate a ground war with Mexico," he said.
Pent-up breaths were released in a slow rush. Color returned to the faces in the cramped white soundproofed room.
"Let me show you something," the JCS chair said.
From his black valise case came a sheaf of satellite photographs to which were clipped brief typed reports, one for each man in the cramped room. Their chins dropped as their eyes fell on the documents.
"You are looking at an hours-old high-res satellite photograph of an installation on the west coast of North Korea that appears to house the Korean version of this new wonder weapon. Note the three-lane highway and the obvious attempts to camouflage the site as a fishing village."
Everyone agreed that it was a fishing village with its own three-lane superhighway.
"What are these two curved shadows on the beach?" the President asked.
"That," said the JCS chair, "is the question of the hour. I have here a computer-generated image of what they probably look like from ground level."
A glossy color graphic was placed in the center of the table. The President took it. The others leaned in.
It showed, in the vivid paint-box colors of cyberspace, the beach as seen from the water. There was sand, tumbled rock and in the background a cluster of ramshackle fishing shacks.
At either end of the beach was a half arch of what appeared to be natural rock. The tips of both horns faced one another. Pushed closer together, they would form a natural arch.
"Christ!" said the secretary of defense. "These look like the Horns of Old Saint Nick."
"My thought exactly," breathed the President.
"We didn't know what it is. We don't know what it does. Assuming these new terror weapons are one and the same, we have only to locate similar formations in other hostile countries, target them with our ICBMs and we have our countermeasure."
"Don't you mean counterweapon?" asked the President.
"I do not. I mean countermeasure. A counterweapon presupposes a first strike. I am not advocating a first strike here."
Heads nodded around the table. Nobody wanted a first strike. Especially when no one knew what the terror weapon was.
"On CIA maps of North Korea, this installation is called Sin-an-ju. Inasmuch as understanding Korean syllables requires knowledge of the precise Chinese characters the Koreans used to record the name, we cannot with certainty translate this name. CIA thinks it means 'New-blank-far.' Other possible translations are 'New Peace Sandbank' or 'New Place of Peace.'"
"Doesn't sound very threatening," the President said.
"Neither does brainwashing or ethnic cleansing. Or concentration camp—until you understand the terrible reality the words cloak."
"I see your point."
"And do not forget that North Korea calls itself the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. There are at least two lies in that name."
"Three if you count the fact the real Korea is South Korea," the secretary of defense muttered.
The JCS chair grew intent. "Mr. President, consider this suggestion. We target New Peace Sandbank with a submarine-launched SS-20 missile."
"As a countermeasure?"
"As a warning to North Korea and the world. We quietly inform Pyongyang that we have acquired this Sinanju as a retaliatory nuclear target. And then wait."
The President's forehead wrinkled up in slow grooves. "For what?"
"For a global response. If we assume North Korea and these other nations all acquired this new technology from a single arms source, Pyongyang will communicate this intelligence to their suppliers. These suppliers will in turn report this to their clients. Enemy nations will, of course, understand if U.S. satellites can acquire the Sinanju target we can also acquire—" he consulted a sheet of paper "—El Diablo, Al Quaaquaa, Turul and the remaining threat sites."
"This will—"
"—deter," whispered the secretary of defense in the President's ear.
"—these other nations?"
"Exactly."
"Mutually assured deterrence," the President said firmly.
"Close enough," the JCS chair commented. "It will buy us valuable time while CIA discovers exactly what this brute does."
"Do it," the President said decisively. Then, turning to his wife, he asked. "That okay with you, hon?"
Off in the corner away from the table, the First Lady sat firmly on her pillow and gave her spouse a sheepish thumbs-up sign.
Chapter Thirty-seven
They were welcomed in Athens. Girls danced. Men danced and lyres not sounded since the days of Ho Megas Alexandros were plucked.
At the presidential palace, Remo asked the Master of Sinanju a simple question. "I thought we don't serve democratic rulers."
"We do not serve presidents. This man is a prime minister. It is different."
"It's not that much different," said Remo, ducking to avoid an attempt to kiss him on the lips by a wine-besotted Greek cabinet minister who was overjoyed that the House of Sinanju would return to storied Athens.
The prime minister was overjoyed, too. Rice lay heaped at their feet in the state dining room. There was fish of all kinds, steamed, broiled and prepared with special sauces. Duck was available. As was goose.
Remo dug in.
"The Greeks know how to throw a shindig," he said happily.
"We have yet to see the color of their gold, or sink our mighty teeth into its legendary softness."
"Soft gold is good, right?"
"Soft gold is best."