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.He did not look forward to returning to the goats at all.Such washis mood after a decade of conflict.It was a moonless night when Kaitmast heard the dull sounds rolling out ofPakistan.He snapped out of his sleep, thinking that it was the rumble of T-72 tanks.Afighting grin came over his battle-hardened features.Perhaps it was theShouroui-the Soviets-he thought, returning for more sport.Could theirsoldiers have grown bored with peace as well?His Kalashnikov cradled across his crooked elbows, Kaitmast crawled along thehigh barren crags of the Khyber Pass.Reaching a point of vantage, he peereddown into Pakistan, his squint eyes eager.What he saw made him blink in wonderment.But what he heard froze his blood.It was a high eerie keening.The winds through the eternal Khyber might haveproduced such beauteous sounds.It filled the clear night air like a dark wineof song."Allah!" Kaitmast muttered, not immediately comprehending.And because hefeared what he did not understand, he lifted his AK-47 and, setting it to firesingle shots, began to snipe into the great dark shape that moved inexorablytoward the Khyber Pass.Strangely, there was no return fire, no faltering of the ground-shakingthunder or the unearthly song that was like an intoxicating wine.Kaitmast emptied his clip without result.Inserting another, he emptied thattoo.But it was like shooting at the wind.He began to grow afraid.The song and the thunder did not abandon the Khyber Pass until long after thesun had risen the next morning.When it did, it illuminated the cold cadaver of Kaitmast, the Afghan freedomfighter.Or at least such pieces of Kaitmast as had landed where the sun'srays shone.Those ragtag Mujahideen who found him later that day thought tothemselves that a human being could be rendered into such ruin only by beingdrawn and quartered by wild horses and then the separate pieces chewed byravenous wolves.And when they went to see what had done this to their brave comrade, theydiscovered spoor like a great winding serpent track that was dotted withill-smelling lumps of excrement.It led deep into the heart of Afghanistan.Over hot tea flavored with sour yak butter, they conferred over how best todeal with this incursion.After long argument, the freedom fighters weresplit, and they went their separate ways, each group to act upon its bestjudgment.Those who elected to follow it were never heard from again.Those whose curiosity was less keen lived.Neither forgot to the end of their days the song they were privileged tohear.Chapter 29The decurion brought the Master of Sinanju a butyl rubber gasproof environmentsuit and matching gas mask.Laying these before Chiun's feet, the decurion said, "Specially tailored toyour size, sir.Since we're about the same height and build, I tried it on toPage 57 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlbe sure.It fits me."The Master of Sinanju poked at the ugly slick material of the suitdisapprovingly.He had seen its like before, months ago, in the doomed town inMissouri that had been decimated by deadly gases.It had been the start of theassignment that had brought him to a near-death in the cold water of apeaceless eternity.Inwardly the Master of Sinanju shuddered at the thought.These last few monthshad been an ordeal.First the death that was not, and then the loss of Remo.He had seen the television transmission from cursed Abominadad, showing Remoand the girl who was Kali, their skins black in death.All was lost.All wasover.One last mission and his work would be done.He would return to hishumble village to live out the remaining days of his difficult life, childlessand bitter.Chiun looked up toward the decurion's expectant face."I do not intend to wear such an abomination," he said sternly."I asked onlyto examine one of these monstrosities.""But you have to, sir.The Apache's waiting to ferry you into Indian country.The Iraitis have gas up there.""Then let them look to their diets," sniffed the Master of Sinanju."Sir?""Never mind," Chiun sighed [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.He did not look forward to returning to the goats at all.Such washis mood after a decade of conflict.It was a moonless night when Kaitmast heard the dull sounds rolling out ofPakistan.He snapped out of his sleep, thinking that it was the rumble of T-72 tanks.Afighting grin came over his battle-hardened features.Perhaps it was theShouroui-the Soviets-he thought, returning for more sport.Could theirsoldiers have grown bored with peace as well?His Kalashnikov cradled across his crooked elbows, Kaitmast crawled along thehigh barren crags of the Khyber Pass.Reaching a point of vantage, he peereddown into Pakistan, his squint eyes eager.What he saw made him blink in wonderment.But what he heard froze his blood.It was a high eerie keening.The winds through the eternal Khyber might haveproduced such beauteous sounds.It filled the clear night air like a dark wineof song."Allah!" Kaitmast muttered, not immediately comprehending.And because hefeared what he did not understand, he lifted his AK-47 and, setting it to firesingle shots, began to snipe into the great dark shape that moved inexorablytoward the Khyber Pass.Strangely, there was no return fire, no faltering of the ground-shakingthunder or the unearthly song that was like an intoxicating wine.Kaitmast emptied his clip without result.Inserting another, he emptied thattoo.But it was like shooting at the wind.He began to grow afraid.The song and the thunder did not abandon the Khyber Pass until long after thesun had risen the next morning.When it did, it illuminated the cold cadaver of Kaitmast, the Afghan freedomfighter.Or at least such pieces of Kaitmast as had landed where the sun'srays shone.Those ragtag Mujahideen who found him later that day thought tothemselves that a human being could be rendered into such ruin only by beingdrawn and quartered by wild horses and then the separate pieces chewed byravenous wolves.And when they went to see what had done this to their brave comrade, theydiscovered spoor like a great winding serpent track that was dotted withill-smelling lumps of excrement.It led deep into the heart of Afghanistan.Over hot tea flavored with sour yak butter, they conferred over how best todeal with this incursion.After long argument, the freedom fighters weresplit, and they went their separate ways, each group to act upon its bestjudgment.Those who elected to follow it were never heard from again.Those whose curiosity was less keen lived.Neither forgot to the end of their days the song they were privileged tohear.Chapter 29The decurion brought the Master of Sinanju a butyl rubber gasproof environmentsuit and matching gas mask.Laying these before Chiun's feet, the decurion said, "Specially tailored toyour size, sir.Since we're about the same height and build, I tried it on toPage 57 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlbe sure.It fits me."The Master of Sinanju poked at the ugly slick material of the suitdisapprovingly.He had seen its like before, months ago, in the doomed town inMissouri that had been decimated by deadly gases.It had been the start of theassignment that had brought him to a near-death in the cold water of apeaceless eternity.Inwardly the Master of Sinanju shuddered at the thought.These last few monthshad been an ordeal.First the death that was not, and then the loss of Remo.He had seen the television transmission from cursed Abominadad, showing Remoand the girl who was Kali, their skins black in death.All was lost.All wasover.One last mission and his work would be done.He would return to hishumble village to live out the remaining days of his difficult life, childlessand bitter.Chiun looked up toward the decurion's expectant face."I do not intend to wear such an abomination," he said sternly."I asked onlyto examine one of these monstrosities.""But you have to, sir.The Apache's waiting to ferry you into Indian country.The Iraitis have gas up there.""Then let them look to their diets," sniffed the Master of Sinanju."Sir?""Never mind," Chiun sighed [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]