Warren Murphy: An Old Fashioned War

That meant the prohibition against whites was not universal. The Russian soldiers had somehow earned the friendship of the Mongols, and considering the Mongol mentality and the military mentality, she was fairly certain how it happened.

"Remo, ask the leader why they are friendly with Russians now."

She heard Remo call out to the backs of the hundreds of horsemen and one of them turned around and galloped back. She heard Remo ask questions in that strange tongue and saw many hand motions on the part of the Mongol.

Remo translated as the Mongol spoke.

"There was a great battle, not in numbers but in spirit. The whites showed they did not fear death. They only feared dishonor. They showed a love of battle and a love of war."

Anna nodded. It was all coming together now. Remo continued:

"They did not fight as whites ordinarily do, to steal something, to protect something, or just to save their miserable lives. They fought for the honor of fighting. These are the first whites who understood war."

"He mentioned that name for Arieson. Kakak."

"No," said Remo. "That is their name for war. Mr. Arieson, I guess quite logically, means war."

"That's the only thing he seems to mean," said Anna. So elements of the Russian army had joined the Mongol horde. And she was fairly certain how they would pull off this war with America. And they just might win it, even without the use of nuclear weapons.

They could pour over the Bering Strait supported by ships from the Vladivostok naval station that had sailed north. It would not be easy, but since America always suspected an attack against Europe and not its own borders, then they could be taken by surprise. What forces did America have to oppose the Russians? Nothing but what was in Alaska, and the trek up through Canada would be almost as long as Russia's trek to its borders. They could battle down through Canada, and with the spirit of these soldiers, they could just as well win.

What was she thinking? Was she insane? Was she so marrow-deep a Russian that she thought they would win something by conquering America?

How could they occupy a country of two hundred and forty million, moving their forces not only through Siberian transit but down across Canada as well? They would also have to conquer Canada. And should that even be possible, should moving the troops be as easy as moving from Minsk to Pinsk, why on earth would they think that occupying America would do them any good? To be free of a competitor with nuclear weapons? There would surely be another, and if Russia should attain its age-old dream of conquering the world, anyone who knew how men traditionally ran things had to understand that the world would have to split up into two camps and there could just as easily be a war between Russia East and Russia West.

No, this had to be stopped here. This had to be stopped now. And she was grateful that the man beside her, this glorious, handsome, wonderful anachronism, was the only man to do it.

As for Mr. Arieson, she was sure there was a logical explanation for this creature that had not occurred to Remo or his rather intelligent superior, Harold W. Smith.

Remo understood the world of the extent of the human body. Smith understood things mostly in the great world of technology, but no one yet had brought common rational sense to Mr. Arieson.

It was she who had been able to understand that for some reason, Remo and his surrogate father, Chiun, were immune to Arieson's blandishments. It was she who understood that the only reason Remo felt he had failed was that he had not enjoyed the total victory Sinanju was used to.

And it was going to be Anna Chutesov who would figure out what Mr. Arieson's real weaknesses were. She had never failed with any other man. There was no reason to start failing now.

And yet, Anna was not prepared for what she saw.

Riding on a little pony was a man so apparently powerful that power became a handsomeness the like of which she had never seen. His presence almost took her breath away. His beard seemed a perfect accessory for his strong jaw and muscled neck. His eyes had a glow of infinity to them. And he wore a simple Russian soldier's helmet, making it more glorious by his presence underneath it than any helmet on any soldier she had ever seen. She understood now why men could feel a glorious call to battle in his presence, and she hadn't even spoken to him vet.

"Here comes the spoilsport, men. Here he comes, sauntering after the fine cavalry. Come on, ruin it all for everyone."

This from Mr. Arieson, the voice carrying over a thousand tents and filling the slight valley in this wasteland.

"Look, already the horses are clearing out just because he doesn't want them. Glad to see you're here, Remo. You're not going to get me, but here you come nevertheless, empty-handed, despite the deal your father made."

"I see you don't mind the smell of horses," Remo called out. The entire camp stopped to look at the two men facing each other, taunting each other.

"Have you ever smelled a battlefield two days after? The rotting bodies would make you pass out."

"So why are you trying to start a war?" Remo called out. He made sure Anna was to the side as he walked steadily toward Arieson.

"Who said I didn't like the smell? I love it. I said you'd pass out. I'd roll around in it and make sure people built statues there so they wouldn't remember how horrible it was, and think they really accomplished something."

A tank commander, hearing Mr. Arieson yell insults at the lone stranger, thought he would do a favor for this man who had given him the gift of heroism by running over the skinny white man who seemed not to need heavy winter clothes. He turned his massive ground-chewing machine toward the man and drove. He heard Mr. Arieson call out that it wouldn't do any good, that it never had, but the man now filled with the true spirit of battle was ready to die trying.

He charged his behemoth down on the thin figure and the man didn't bother to dodge, but like a bullfighter stepped to the side, cleaved off a tread barehanded, then cleaved off the other tread as the tank spun helplessly around.

The tank commander, enraged at losing his armorplated chariot, stormed out with his sidearm and a knife, and promptly found out what they tasted like as the thin stranger stuffed them down his throat and kept walking.

"See, it won't do anyone any good," called out Arieson. "That is an assassin. No soldier there. A Sinanju assassin. No glory there. Death in the night. Highest bidder gets the service. No courage in that man. Doesn't even fight fear. Uses it. No courage there, assassin."

"Is that true, Remo? Is that what is different?" said Anna.

"I have fear. I just use it. He's right."

"Look, let's talk to Mr. Arieson."

"I don't want to talk. I want to nail him."

"Have you tried talking?"

"You can't talk with a man who loves the smell of rotting bodies."

"But you haven't, have you?"

"I'll kill him, then I'll talk to him," said Remo, thinking that since his body blows had proved ineffective he might try hurling a soldier or two at Arieson's head and see what that produced.

"Very bright, Remo. Are you good at talking to the dead?"

"I mean when he's dead he won't be a problem anymore."

"You haven't succeeded yet. Just let me talk to him."

"Don't make it too long," said Remo.

"Why don't you fight some people while you're waiting?" said Anna.

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Partly, but I want to understand his reactions to you. They're very interesting."

Close to Arieson, Anna sensed an inner laughter at everything that went on, almost as though he cared but didn't care. Several soldiers issued a challenge to Remo. Arieson called out that it wouldn't do any good, that the soldiers would die against Sinanju, that by the evening their commanders would be dead, and they would no longer be an army.