Hussein patted his shoulder. "Boldness is a virtue in a warrior," he said, blue eyes flashing, "but in this case, your attack would have stalled. The canal was mined. The Belt commander was very good, well-schooled and disciplined."
There were some in the Fedayeen who thought that Hussein should have been appointed supreme commander of the Fedayeen, but Kidd's defense of Newark had galvanized the nation and, even more important, Kidd had the support of President Kingsley. Politically more astute, Kidd was gracious in victory, personally guaranteeing that captured rebels were humanely treated. By contrast, Hussein torched whole cities, poisoning water sources and showing no mercy. When Hussein was severely injured during the assault on Dallas, Kidd appointed his adjutant to take over the Third Army. The adjutant, unwilling to use the brutalities employed by Hussein, gave ground to the Texans' relentless counterattacks, retreating back to the border. Three months later, when Hussein was released from the hospital, the war was over.
Left with one arm, two prosthetic legs and the nation's highest military decoration, Hussein challenged the adjutant to a death match. In the chill of November, the two of them circled each other in the outdoor combat ring at the academy, went round and round, knives flashing as they waited for an opening. It was over within the first minute; Hussein eviscerated the adjutant, left him staring at his guts steaming on the sand.
There had been some grumbling at the manner of death, the adjutant deemed worthy of a heart strike rather than being gutted like a fish, but Kidd had stood quietly from the gallery, acknowledged Hussein as the victor and declared that Allah had spoken. Hussein served another ten years before retiring to his estate on Vashon, one of the small islands just offshore from Seattle. From time to time he tutored the best and brightest from the academy, schooling them in his own slashing techniques of attack and counterattack. Amir had been coming to his home for seven years now, ever since his first term at the academy. Amir's success against the Mormons last year was considered an adaptation of Hussein's feint and strike maneuvers against the Belt forces. It was only in the last year that Amir realized his education was secondary to his recruitment.
"How…how did you take Amarillo?" said Amir.
Hussein beckoned and his youngest wife appeared from the house bearing tea and sweet cakes, stuffed dates and dried apricots.
Amir watched her pour tea for them, head bowed, a soft smile on her face. Such tiny hands, and such long, slender fingers. She backed away and out of sight.
Hussein sipped his tea. "Do you find her lovely?"
"If she is lovely, it is for the glory of Allah and her husband," said Amir.
"A diplomatic answer." Hussein popped a date into his mouth. "There are times you are too much like your father."
"I respect you, Hussein," Amir said quietly, "but you should be careful not to underestimate me. I'm the only person who has the ear of both my father and the president. The Old One recognizes my value. You should do the same."
Hussein set his teacup down.
"Now tell me, how did you take the city?"
Hussein picked among the dried apricots. "I called for a meeting with the Belt commander. Offered to meet him on his own turf. Accompanied only by two officers, I approached the city in an open vehicle, passed through their lines staring straight ahead." He pointed at the display. "We met there…at a lovely Catholic church. I'm sure the commander intended to unnerve me, but I was raised Catholic, did you know that?"
"No…I didn't."
"I was a good Irish Catholic with a bleeding crucifix tattooed on my left bicep," said Hussein. "I had it lasered off when I converted to the truth faith, but you could still see it…then Allah in his mercy chose to have it blown away with a rocket blast." He lifted the empty sleeve, let it drop. "A blessing. Now I can enter Paradise unsullied."
Amir watched the blue fabric ripple in the breeze. "Is that why you never had a prosthetic arm attached?"
"Seemed like the least I could do to show my gratitude." Hussein slowly chewed the apricot. "The rebels live-casted my meeting with their commander-Major Tom Muzilla, a tough old Texan with a wad of chaw in his cheek. We talked football and old movies and the way things used to be. The way things might be again, if politicians got their heads out of their asses and realized we were all Americans. He said he was in no hurry to fight with us, but if it was a battle we wanted, we best be prepared to die." Hussein looked at Amir. "I said I'd think about it. Said I was going to go back and pray for guidance. He said, 'Sir, take as much time as you need,' and we shook hands. His hands were rough as cactus, but it was a good, solid handshake."
Amir remembered his father's hands holding the glass of khat infusion this afternoon. When he was a child he felt he could curl up and go to sleep in the palm of his father's hand, sleep forever in safety and peace.
Hussein pointed to a spot near the eastern edge of the city, "That's the main natural gas delivery system. Guarded like it was Fort Knox. But here…" He tapped a point closer to the center. "And here, and here." More taps. "These are the primary intersections where all that gas feeds into the city…and those spots weren't guarded at all." He narrowed his eyes. "While most of Amarillo was watching their commander and me talk, I activated a squad I had sent into the city a couple of weeks earlier, and these men blew the gas feeds with incendiaries. Within ten minutes the whole city was ablaze, the streets filled with people on fire." He chewed, grinding away at the apricot, turning it to paste. "You could hear the screams from a mile away. Their security perimeter collapsed, volunteers throwing down their weapons in their haste to flee." He spit the apricot pit into the display, the hologram shimmering for an instant before regaining its structure. "Next morning the smoldering city smelled like bad barbecue, and we headed toward San Antonio to join up with the rest of our force."
"I…I never read anything about that," said Amir.
"It wasn't something that President Kingsley was proud of," said Hussein. "To be honest, it wasn't something I was proud of either. That Belt commander…he and I, we could have been friends if he wasn't an infidel dog." He glared at Amir. "You may have the ear of this coward they call the president, but never forget who put you in position to whisper your soothing words into his ear." He swept the holographic city into oblivion with a wave of his hand. "The secret of victory is to find the point of maximum vulnerability and then strike. No matter your feelings. No matter how much you respect the enemy. So when the moment comes for your father to choose sides, you best be ready to do what is required of you. If that means you have to kill him, then do it. Afterwards you can shed salty tears at his funeral like a good son."
CHAPTER 14
Spider curled in the armchair of his study, watching Sarah. The noise of the Catholic sector seeped through the security windows. "Have you told Rakkim what your zombie found in D.C.?"
"Her zombie?" Rakkim pulled the blanket up around Spider where it had slipped off. "Yeah, she showed me."
"Rakkim is…skeptical." Sarah looked at Leo. "Did you find where the safe room is?"
"Not exactly." Leo loudly blew his nose. His allergies had kicked in. Probably a dust storm in Tibet or somebody on Mars had a new kitten. "Not yet."
Spider dimmed the lights, the wallscreen flickering. "We cleaned up the original, increased the resolution."
The D.C. rubble bobbed onscreen, bones littering the sidewalk, the American flag in the gutter. A quick pan of the collapsed Capitol dome as the zombie gave his voice-over sales pitch, his breathing moist and heavy through the decon suit, boots kicking up cinders and dead newspapers. The cameraman's emaciated face was reflected for a moment in a sheet of glass, his sunken cheeks behind the plexi-hood, damp hair plastered across his scalp.