Warren Murphy: Arabian Nightmare

"We must make a glorious gesture," he announced. "The eyes of the Arab world are on us now. How can we smash the aggressor? Come, come, I must have suggestions."

"We could send the Renaissance Guard south," the health minister offered, carefully. "If you think we should."

"Good. And then what?"

"They must take up the defense of the Maddas Line and our new thirteenth province before the hated aggressor overruns our position."

"A waste of good soldiers. Have more PPPA conscripts sent to the front. They are like the dinars in my pocket. Of use only when they are being spent. Our best must remain in readiness for the great sheik of struggles to come."

"We could blow up the oil wells in Kuran," the defense minister suggested.

"What good would that do?" asked Maddas Hinsein.

"It would make a wonderful series of explosions. Perhaps if there was no oil in Kuran, the Americans would have no reason to stay and vex us so."

Maddas Hinsein considered this novel thought at length.

The man who had ventured the suggestion had put it forth only because he had been put on the spot. He knew that such a deed would infuriate the world. But in a choice between infuriating the world and annoying his Precious Leader, it was no contest. The world was not sitting across the table from him.

"I will consider this," said Maddas Hinsein. "It is a good idea."

A servile knock on the door interrupted the next speaker.

"Come," said Maddas Hinsein.

A red-bereted Renaissance Guardsman entered. "Precious Leader, we have found an American girl on one of the returning planes. She desires to speak with you."

"Good. Have her tortured. I will speak with her afterward. "

"At once, Precious Leader. But she has said that she has a plan to end the war."

Hearing this, Maddas Hinsein broke out into a bristly smile. He laughed. The laugh grew into a roar, which traveled around the room like insane wildfire.

"She wishes to end the war and there is no war!" Maddas roared. "She does not understand the proud Iraiti people. We want war! We revel in war. We look forward to war."

"Yes, we revel in war," chorused the Revolting Command Council, which believed no such thing.

"She says she is an expert in things nuclear," the guardsman added.

Maddas Hinsein swallowed his laughter. There were only two words that riveted his attention. The word "nuclear" happened to be one of them. "Torture" was the other.

"Bring her," he said quickly, his face returning to its natural sober cast.

The girl was brought in. Her stark optical-print dress made their vision swim, as if they stared at her through a disturbed pond. The yellow ribbon in her hair made Maddas Hinsein frown darkly.

"Hi, I'm Sky Bluel," she said brightly. "Peace."

"Uh-oh," said Don Cooder, recognizing the girl.

The foreign minister stood up. In thick English he asked, "You are a U.S. scientist?" His tone was skeptical.

"Actually I'm a student at USC," Sky admitted. "But I did grad work at Lawrence Livermore Laboratories-before I got booted out for kinda borrowing nuclear-weapons technology."

"You seem a mere girl."

"Physics majors can be girls-I mean, women-too." Sky looked past the foreign minister suddenly. "Hey, I know you! You're that over-thirty TV anchor-pig. You helped me build a neutron bomb that got me into all that trouble. Tell them."

All eyes turned to Don Cooder.

"It's true," he said carefully. "I know this gal. She stiffed me. I helped her build a neutron bomb for demonstration purposes and she left town before airtime. We had to show a repeat." He made it sound like a leg amputation.

Maddas Hinsein interjected himself into this exchange with a gruff question. The foreign minister leaned over to explain the exchange.

While they huddled, Sky Bluel folded her arms. "For your information," she whispered to Don Cooder, "I was kidnapped. A lot of bad things happened. Palm Springs was almost wiped out. Someone died. And worst of all, I had to leave the country. My parents packed me off to Paris to study."

"My heart bleeds," said Don Cooder acidly.

Presently the foreign minister lifted his iron-gray head out of the huddle.

"You can build a neutron bomb?" he asked.

"If you got some tritium lying around, some beryllium oxide for the tamper plastique. Oh, yeah, and steel for a combat casing."

"We do. But why would you do this for Irait? You are an American."

"That's the groovy part," Sky said excitedly. "The U.S. has nukes all around you, right?"

"This is true."

"So I build you a few neutron bombs, and presto-instant balance of power. They can't nuke you and you can't nuke them."

This kernel of invincible logic was passed on to Maddas Hinsein. His moist brown eyes went to the girl's innocent face. A crafty smile came over his fleshy caramel visage. He whispered in the foreign minister's ear.

The foreign minister bestowed his most disarming smile on Sky Bluel.

"Our Precious Leader," he said smoothly, "he sees the wisdom of your point of view. He wishes to know how soon you can build these peace-ensuring devices for us."

"Oh, a week," said Sky. "Maybe a month. Depends on what I have to work with."

"I thought you were antinuclear," Don Cooder whispered.

"I am. But I'm more antiwar. Listen: No blood for oil! USA out of Hamidi Arabia!" She lowered her voice. "Do I sound like Jane Fonda, or what?"

"You sound 'or what,' " Don Cooder snapped. "Definitely."

When Sky Bluel's words were translated, Maddas Hinsein's grin broadened. He clapped his hands loudly. He spoke at great length.

The foreign minister spoke next.

"Our Precious Leader has decided to put this to a vote in true democratic fashion. All in favor of delaying further military action in favor of building neutron bombs, say yes."

"I'm voting no," said Vice-President Jackman.

"Me too," Don Cooder chimed in. "This is ridiculous."

"All opposed will be issued service pistols along with one bullet."

"Why only one?" asked Cooder.

"Because when one wishes to commit suicide by pistol," he was told, "one bullet is all that is necessary."

"I vote yes," Cooder said instantly.

Vice-President Jackman raised an eager hand. "Make that two yeses."

In point of fact, it was unanimous.

This impressed Sky Bluel. "Wow! Ho Chi Minh's got nothing on you!"

As the foreign minister led Sky Bluel from the room, she asked a question in an uncertain voice.

"That stuff about suicide. That was a joke, right?"

"In Abominadad, we are always cutting up. I myself often thank Allah for providing us with a sense of humor second to none in the Arab world."

And the foreign minister smiled like a piranha eyeing legs in the water.

Chapter 34

A day passed. Two. Three. A week. Two weeks.

As the world held its breath, America's industrial might geared up for the military mission destined to go down in the pages of history as Operation Dynamic Eviction.

An Ogden, Utah, factory went to around-the-clock shifts, turning out flamingo-pink butyl rubber gasproof suits outfitted with what appeared to be corkscrew antennas in the seat area. No one knew why.

In plants scattered throughout Iowa, Michigan, and elsewhere in America's heartland, specially customized pink gas masks rolled off assembly lines, were packed under the watchful eyes of armed MP's, and then loaded aboard C-5 Galaxy transports for the five-thousand-mile flight to Hamidi Arabia.

Idle Detroit auto factories received rush orders for unique fiberglass shells that were too big for ordinary stock cars and aerodynamically unsuited for small airplanes-the plant manager's second guess.

In Akron, Ohio, rubber capital of the world, customized blimps were rushed through the manufacturing stage and shipped flat, ostensibly for use in the next Rose Bowl parade. Their actual destination was the Star in the Center of the Flower of the Desert Military Base in Hamidi Arabia, where they were inflated in the security of desert-camouflage bunkers.