"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."
"How can I not think about them?"
"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: