But not completely out of the picture.
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs barged into the Tank, a green trash bag clutched in one fist.
"I got one!" he crowed. The Joint Chiefs gathered around a table as he emptied the contents into a table. They picked through it eagerly.
"It's pink!" mumbled the commandant of the Marines. "I can't have my men wearing one of these! The Navy will never let me live it down."
"What're these triangles hanging down?" asked the Army Chief of Staff, fingering one.
The Air Force Chief of Staff snapped his fingers. "Gotta be a gas-detection patch. Probably turns green at the first sign of chlorine."
"And this flexible squiggle in back must be some newfangled gas sensor," put in the chief of naval operations.
Everyone agreed that this had to be so.
But the pink coloration continued to baffle them. Outside of a guerrilla war in Miami Beach, no one knew of a combat environment in which flamingo pink was dominant.
But even more troublesome was the fact that the White House was keeping them in the dark about the operation to come.
At the White House, the President of the United States was out to callers-especially those emanating from the Pentagon.
He was on the cherry-red line to Folcroft Sanitarium and Harold Smith.
"So far, so good," he was saying. "General Hornworks says his troops will only need another day's training before they move north."
"Has there been any word of the Master of Sinanju since he went into Irait?" Smith asked.
"None. But I share your concern. It was a brave thing that he did, darn brave."
"Normally I would not be concerned, Mr. President. But after his lengthy ordeal, he is not up to par. When this is over, I fear he will be of little use to us in the field."
The President sighed. "Let's get through this crisis before we start fretting about the future. My biggest worry after this is over and done with is having our armed forces restored to normal. You should see the new table of organization. Reading it takes me back-to Mrs. Populious' ancient-history class."
"Of course, sir."
"Has there been any activity from bait?"
"Nothing. A few broadcasts. They're continuing the pretense that Reverend Jackman and that anchor, Cooder, are now full-fledged members of the Revolting Command Council, but that's obviously a ploy to duck the hostage issue. But no military activity has been reported since the attempted border incursion. Let us hope it remains that way until Dynamic Eviction has been successfully concluded," Smith concluded tightly.
"You know, Smith, as crazy as this thing is, I can't help but feel absolute confidence in it," the President confided.
"The Master of Sinanju has never failed us yet."
The call was terminated. The world went back to counting the days and wondering what would happen next.
But apparently nothing happened. Not on the ground or in the air.
Only in space was a hint of future events picked up. Five hundred miles above the earth, an orbiting Lacrosse spy satellite detected an unusual plume of methane gas emanating from the interior of Afghanistan. It was tracking westward, but CIA analysts could not identify it. It seemed to be a natural phenomenon, but on a scale they had never before seen.
Because it was moving against the prevailing winds, a volcanic or lake-bed eruption was discounted. The only other possibility might have been droppings of a mighty herd of water buffalo. But a water-buffalo stampede of this magnitude had never been noticed before. There was no animal on earth large enough to panic that many cattle.
Throughout occupied Kuran and Irait, Kurdish warriors stole into aircraft revetments and Scud bunkers, writing their names invisibly and leaving the scenes of their depredations undetected by man or satellite.
And in Abominadad, Irait, a wooden crate arrived, addressed to President Maddas Hinsein.
Chapter 35
President Maddas Hinsein was no fool.
When the wooden crate postmarked Pyongyang, North Korea, was delivered to the Palace of Sorrows, he had his most valuable council members open it while he descended to the German-made bunker under the palace, nicknamed the Mother of All Bunkers. He always selected his best men for this duty, because he knew it would deter them from shipping him bombs themselves.
Today his favorites happened to be the foreign minister and Vice-President Juniper Jackman.
Jackman was only too happy to take a crowbar to the crate. The line of AK-47's pointed in his direction constituted tremendous motivation.
"Bet Dan Quayle doesn't pull this kind of duty," he complained, confident he would not be shot because no one in the room understood English.
The planks split with a crack and revealed a magnificent sword as long as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and encrusted with precious stones.
Maddas Hinsein was called up only after the sword had been safely removed, examined for venomous barbs, and dipped in a solution that would change color if a contact poison had been applied to the blade.
"It is a gift, Precious Leader," the foreign minister reported. "Truly. See?"
"The North Koreans obviously stand in solidarity with us," said the president of Irait with quiet satisfaction.
"Yet they claim otherwise. I have spoken with their ambassador and he knows nothing of this magnificent gift."
Maddas Hinsein frowned. "I will accept it anyway. Hang it over my desk in a place of honor."
"At once, Precious Leader."
When the sword was firmly in place, President Maddas Hinsein locked the door behind him and stood looking at the sword. He grinned. It was a worthy blade, and it gave him solace after the destruction of the crossed scimitars that had lifted so triumphantly over Arab Renaissance Square.
The sadness of that setback reminded the Scimitar of the Arabs of the treason of the four-armed Kimberly Baynes, and made him wistful for the corrective discipline of her quick, firm hands. With her gone, there was no one to spank him anymore.
Impulsively he went to a phone.
"The spider-armed girl," he demanded of his chief torturer, the minister of culture, "is her body still in the dungeon?"
"With the American assassin, as you commanded, Precious Leader."
"Do they . . . smell?"
"Strangely, no."
A quick smile broke over the president's dark face. "No? Hmmm. Perhaps I will torture them, then."
"Can one torture the dead?" wondered the culture minister, a hint of interest in his voice.
"If one has the stomach for it." Maddas Hinsein laughed, hanging up.
Down in the coolest part of the dungeon, the bodies lay on cold slabs of black basalt. Their skins were a remarkable flat black, as if powdered with coal dust.
The woman was completely nude. Maddas Hinsein dismissed the thought of mounting her. He had raped a cold corpse once, when he was a carefree young man. Never again, he vowed. He had caught a terrible cold.
The man lay composed in death, eyes closed, an austere look on his face. His colorful harem silks were in tatters, but Maddas Hinsein had no eyes for those. He noticed the large egglike bump in the center of his forehead. Obviously a bruise.
It was quite unusual, and the President of Irait could not resist poking it with his finger.
To his horror, it slid apart like a ruptured plum.
"Allah!" gasped the Scimitar of the Arabs, recoiling. For the bump had opened like a dead eyelid, revealing a sightless black orb. There had been no such organ on the man's brow in life, he recalled clearly.
As Maddas Hinsein backed away, black arms stirred like an upended lobster on the slab behind him. A naked chest shuddered, impelled by an indrawn breath.
The figure on the slab levered itself to a sitting position in silence, and blood-red eyes fell upon his unsuspecting back with a fiery regard.