"It is English Leather," said the prince general proudly.
"You musta got the industrial-strength version," returned Hornworks dryly.
To General Winfield Scott Hornworks' utter astonishment, the Pentagon had gone for the insane shared-command idea.
"It's politically expedient," the U.S. secretary of defense had told him.
"Let me speak to the JCS," snapped General Hornworks, who decided to appeal to someone with sense and a uniform.
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was equally supportive of the shared-command concept.
"And what the hell do I do if this goes to conflict?" roared General Hornworks.
"That won't happen. Maddas Hinsein isn't that crazy, to take on the U.S. in open conflict."
Except that as the weeks rolled by, it looked more and more as if he was. He had taken hostage every Westerner in Irait. He began threatening Israel. He promised a global conflagration if the U.S. did not withdraw from the gulf region. And when the Iraiti ambassador to the U.S. had been found strangled by a yellow ribbon, he had attempted to have two of the most prominent Western hostages publicly executed.
It was the eleventh month of the crisis. Word came from the U.S. President to prepare to begin the run-up to liberate Kuran.
Unfortunately, the execute order came at 2:36 P.m. Hamidi Gulf Time, while Prince General Suleyman Bazzaz was technically in command of the Star in the Center of the Flower of the East Military Base, a sprawling command post north of Nehmad.
"Absolutely not," sniffed the prince general, who was redolent of Old Spice on this day. This was a concession to the Americans, who had been driven to fits of retching by prolonged exposure to excessive amounts of English Leather. They were wearing out their gas-attack equipment.
"What do you mean?" roared General Hornworks. "That was a direct order from our commander in chief!"
"Your commander in chief," Bazzaz said with cool unconcern. "To us, he is hired help."
General Hornworks had to be restrained from strangling the prince general on the spot. Recognizing two things despite his lack of military background-that his life was in mortal peril and that once his watch was over, the infidel general was certain to execute the insane order of the United States President-Prince General Suleyman Bazzaz did the only thing that to him made tactical sense.
He had the general clapped in irons.
Then he called his father, the sheik.
"You have done well, my son," said Sheik Fareem. "I can see the day when you will stand proud as sheik general."
"May your greatness increase, O Father," said the prince general. "What do we do now?" "We will not risk a foolhardy war over the spoiled Kuranis. Instead, we must have patience and trust in Allah. Something will come up."
The hoped-for something came by U.S. military plane a day later.
A smartly dressed Pentagon attache asked to speak with General Hornworks. It was not yet dawn, so this was no insult to Prince General Bazzaz, otherwise he would have found himself in chains as well.
"General Hornworks has been disposed of," he told the attache.
"You mean he's indisposed?" asked the man, thinking he had encountered nothing more than the expected language barrier.
Bazzaz had to think about that one. "Yes, I mean that. You may deliver your message to me, the prince general in charge of UN Central Command."
"I am sorry, General Prince-"
"Prince General."
"Prince General," went on the attache in a polite robotlike tone that implied the prince general had no more standing than Whistler's mother. "But my orders are to deliver this briefcase to General Hornworks in person. It is urgent, sir."
Prince General Suleyman Bazzaz noticed that the man carried the briefcase manacled to one wrist. He contemplated accusing the attache of theft, which would give him a wonderful excuse to chop off the infidel's hand and not have to fuss with the doubtless complicated lock.
Further consideration brought him to the reluctant conclusion that even if he did that, there was still the matter of the briefcase lock. War was such a tiresome affair, he concluded.
"Come, then," Prince General Bazzaz said stiffly.
The attache was escorted to the general's basement cell. He didn't blink an eye when he saw his superior behind iron bars.
"This is for you, sir," he said, snapping to rigid attention, the briefcase held out in stiff arms.
"You can hold that pose until the desert turns to glass," General Hornworks said acidly, "but as long as those bars are between me and that briefcase, there's not a dang thing I can do about it."
"I will agree to open the cell," Prince General Bazzaz said, "if my American counterpart will agree to abide by my every wish."
"Eat sand."
Bazzaz stiffened. He was not sure what would happen if he unlocked the cell, but the contents of the briefcase intrigued him.
"I would open this cell as a gesture of solidarity, and trust to your good instincts, even though you are a consumer of pork chops and bacon, if only you would agree not to harm me."
General Hornworks' eyes narrowed craftily. "Done," he said quickly. "I ain't one for holding a grudge."
"Excellent."
The prince general signaled the turnkey. The cell opened.
The American general stepped out. Silently, he took the briefcase and unlocked it with a key the attache silently handed to him.
Out of the briefcase came the leopard-spotted tortoiseshell.
With a hangdog expression on his square-jawed features, General Winfield Scott Hornworks turned the cracked, desiccated shell over in his hands as if that would somehow activate it.
"This thing's just a goldurn turtle shell," he muttered. "Let me see that," said Prince General Bazzaz.
"See it?" snapped Hornworks. "You can keep it. It's nothing."
The prince general accepted the shell in his smooth hands. And with both of his callused hands, Hornworks shoved him into the cell he had just vacated. He kicked the door closed.
"Now it's your turn," he snorted.
"You are not authorized to do this," Bazzaz protested, grabbing the bars. He let go when he realized he was getting rust on his immaculate sleeves. "It is day."
Hornworks looked around the dim cellblock. "Sure looks like night to me." He eyed the attache. "Wouldn't you say, soldier?"
"Yes, sir, it's definitely dark," said the attache. "Pitch."
"Let me out! This is an outrage!"
"What're you beefing about?" growled General Hornworks. "You got your dum turtle shell."
Bazzaz looked down. In the wavering light he examined the cracked shell. He turned it like a compass, as if recognizing it.
As the American general and his attache walked away, he called after him.
"Wait! I understand now!"
"Glad to hear it." The general chuckled. "Next war, we might even get along."
"No. This shell, it contains the secret! I know what to do now." The prince general's voice skittered excitedly.
General Hornworks stopped dead in his tracks. He turned.
"If this is a trick," he warned, "I'm gonna reach my hands in through those bars and throttle you good."
"Truly, it is not a trick. Look!" The prince general held the tortoise shell in the light.
"Looks like a mud turtle after a deuce-and-a-half squashed it into Tennessee roadkill," Hornworks concluded.
"Examine the cracks. Please," pleaded the prince general.
Frowning, Hornworks returned to the bars. He leaned down to see better in the weak light.
"Explain it to me," he muttered.
The prince general used a shaking-with-excitement beringed finger to trace a line across the length of the shell.
"Behold!" he said proudly. "This is the border with our country and unfortunate Kuran. And this long brown shape must be the infamous Maddas Line."
"Naw, it's a squiggle of color put there by nature."