"Prince Imperator Bazzaz." The prince turned to the sheik. "Does that not sound wonderful, Father?"
The old sheik beamed. "I am proud of you, my son."
"Since navies are Greek and everyone knows the Greeks are unrepentant pork-eaters," Bazzaz said firmly, "I withdraw my request for a personal aircraft carrier."
"Done. What would you have in its place?"
"My very own legion," Bazzaz said quickly.
"Since this request befits a prince imperator, I will agree to this," Sheik Fareem said, clapping his hands once.
"I hate to break into this touching family scene," said General Hornworks, "but I'd like to point out that what we're discussing here is sending all our forward units into the biggest breastworks of entrenched positions and high-density troop concentrations since World War One."
"Yes," said Chiun. "That is what we're talking about here."
"These front-line units, they're mostly kids and old men," Hornworks added. "They're keeping their elite Renaissance Guard in the rear."
The Master of Sinanju nodded. "That is my understanding. "
"Our people will be chopped up before we even get to the elite uni . . . centuries. Assuming we get that far. Once they realize we're not gonna use air and sea power, they're gonna hit us with their missiles. If they don't get the drop on us while we're all sitting on our duffs brushing up on our Latin."
"They will use their missiles first," Chiun decided. "It will be up to our socii to deal with those. Our allies."
"How? Sneak a British SAS team into Irait? We start blowing them up with twenty-twos, and they'll just launch the rest of them."
"We will not do it that way."
"Yeah, how we gonna do it? By magic?"
"That is why I have summoned you here, Praetor Hornworks," Chiun said. "I must have a method of rendering these devices harmless. It must be a silent method. It cannot be complicated because the socii I envision to undertake this action are not trained to work with complicated tools. Stealth will be their chief virtue."
"Stealth!" cried Praetor Hornworks. "Now you're talking! The Fifty-seventh Tactical Air Wing is standing ready to carpet-bomb the bejesus out of those heathens-in a manner of speaking."
"Send them home," said Chiun indignantly. "We will drop no booms, fire no cannon, and destroy no carpets. These primitive methods are not the way of Imperator Chiun. We will defeat the enemy with our brains."
"Let me get this straight-you want a way that will knock out those missile launchers so that no one will know they're knocked out?" Hornworks asked in a dubious tone.
"Yes."
"But that's impossible."
"Nonsense," said the sheik. "You are an American. Americans are very ingenious. The world knows this."
Prince Imperator Bazzaz nodded eagerly. "Yes, everyone knows Americans are ingenious. Your movies are beyond compare. You create the most wonderful toys, like aircraft carriers. Surely you have a big wondrous toy to make this happen?"
Praetor Winfield Scott Hornworks' eyes traveled from face to face around the war room.
"Why do I get the feeling I'm just a spear-carrier in this comic opera?" he grumbled.
"Because you are," said the Master of Sinanju simply.
Chapter 18
President Maddas Hinsein paused to light up a Cuban cigar with a cylindrical pipe lighter that emitted a blue flame almost a foot long. He took his time, rolling the clipped tip of the cigar in the flame, watching it darken and shrivel. Presently it caught like a slow coal. He collapsed the lighter, cutting off the high blue flame. The lighter went into a pocket and the cigar went into his mouth. He puffed thoughtfully while, beyond the window which, of those in the council room, only he faced squarely, the noxious yellow cloud of Sarin nerve gas rolled inexorably toward the Palace of Sorrows. The nervous antiaircraft fire had died down to an occasional colorful sputter.
Those sitting on either side of the long open meeting table were very aware of that window. Their eyes careened toward it often, only to be drawn inexorably back toward the too-calm figure of their leader.
Once the cigar was really going, Maddas Hinsein drew in a double lungful of aromatic tobacco smoke. His barrel chest swelled. He held the smoke deep within him.
Then, in a steady insolent stream, he released the smoke. It rolled down the long table, a bluish-gray harbinger of the death that would soon be theirs.
Everyone held his breath. To inhale the expensive tobacco smoke that had emerged from the Precious One's lungs was a transgression punishable by hanging.
"Go ahead," prompted Maddas Hinsein, "inhale. I do not mind. It is good smoke. And you have earned it, loyal ones."
Obediently the Revolting Command Council leaned into the rolling smoke, inhaling greedily. They recoiled, coughing and hacking. The stuff was wretched-worse than the nerve gas could ever be. Or so they imagined.
"The Arab who can inhale this heady smoke and not cough is the man who may succeed me one day," Maddas Hinsein said with a careless gesture. "When I am prepared to ascend into Paradise," he added.
"Precious Leader," said the foreign minister, "if we do not evacuate this building soon, we will all be dead from our own war gas."
"That is the beauty of our position," said Maddas Hinsein coolly.
"What is?"
Maddas Hinsein took the cigar from his mouth and bestowed upon his council a broad, toothy smile. "We are already dead. Therefore we are capable of anything-any valor, any grand gesture."
And he opened his smiling mouth to give vent to a low, humorless laughter. It sounded like something a mechanical carnival clown might utter. There was nothing human in it.
The Revolting Command Council had no choice. They joined in. Not to laugh was to die, and even though to stay in the palace meeting room was to die also, they unanimously preferred to die by gas than at the hands of the man they called Precious Leader.
"Brief me," Hinsein commanded, going instantly somber. He flicked cigar ash into the hole in the table, as if it were some great ashtray.
"The Americans have not attacked," the defense minister reported. "Their aircraft no longer fly. In fact, they are sending their carrier battle groups into open sea. We do not know why."
"They have not attacked because they fear our gases," Maddas pronounced. "Therefore, they will never attack. We are safe forever from the Americans."
Everyone knew that this was a colossal miscalculation.
"Then it was good that the former defense minister released the hostages," the defense minister suggested carefully. Maddas frowned darkly. "He was a fool. But Irait will survive his foolishness. For deep in the dungeons below us, we have two of the most important hostages anyway."
The council leaned toward their leader. "Precious Leader?" one muttered.
"I refer to the infidel black priest Jackman and the television reader Don Cooder."
At that, every man at the table paled under the caramel coloring of his Arab complexion.
"They are our insurance against further American aggression," added Maddas Hinsein.
"But you just said that the Americans will not attack," the foreign minister stuttered.
"They will not," Maddas said flatly. "But they may wish to after we enter the next phase of our annexation of Greater Arabia."
Around the table, jaws dropped. "Precious Leader?"
Maddas paused to draw on his smoldering cigar. "We are going to take Hamidi Arabia," he said with quiet confidence.
Jaws clicked shut. Silence filled the room. All thought of the approaching nerve gas fled. A tiny gurgle broke the silence. It was followed by another. Those whose bladders still held reached down to their laps to prevent their gall from joining that of their comrades on the floor.
"But . . . how?" This was from the defense minister, who would have to execute the operation-or be executed for refusing a direct order.
"By striking at the most vulnerable point of the infidel army of occupation," said Maddas Hinsein, as if suggesti
ng a stroll along the banks of the Tigris.
"Can we do that with impunity?" wondered the education minister.
President Hinsein nodded. "Yes. Once the world understands as you do that Maddas Hinsein still lives-and that the most important of our foreign guests do as well."
"You propose a news conference, Precious Leader?"
"I do."
"Do you propose this soon?" he asked, eyes flicking to the window and the hazy mustard-colored sky beyond it.
Maddas nodded confidently.
"Then let me suggest that we conduct this conference down in the gasproof dungeon of this very palace."
Maddas wrinkled his nose. Outside the window, the yellow gas rolled closer. He placed his fingertips against his cheek in a thoughtful manner, as if reconsidering.
"To run from our own gas could be seen as a sign of weakness," he pointed out.
Every man in the room held his breath. For one reason or another.
When their Precious Leader at last spoke, they released it with closed eyes and muttered prayers to benevolent Allah.
"But it would be the last thing they would expect from brave Arabs such as we," decided Maddas Hinsein, smiling faintly.
"Then let us do this immediately," cried the information minister, pounding the table with his fist. "Why should we delay? The Americans must know we are not to be trifled with."
"Yes, we will go now," said the Scimitar of the Arabs as he stood up.
They let him go first. The Renaissance Guardsmen who had been standing sentry outside fell in behind him. There would be no opportunity to stab this madman in the back, they realized. It made them wish to weep.
The elevator ride to the dungeon took an eternity. No one could remember it having taken so long in the past. Their faces were a smoky lavender from holding in their breaths. All except Maddas Hinsein, who continued to breathe normally.
He was funny that way.
Chapter 19
Samdup watched a snow owl swoop into the valley and felt in his heart a sharp pang of hunger for the same boundless freedom the wild bird enjoyed.
Samdup was a Tibetan. No Tibetan was free, or had been since the Chinese People's Liberation Army had stormed in, killing the lamas, burning down the beautiful temples, and turning a land of peace into an outpost of barbarism. That was long ago.
Samdup was neither priest nor soldier. He was too young to remember the days of the gentle Dalai Lama, who once had exerted his benevolence over the mountain kingdom. The greatest destruction had occured before Samdup was born. The Tibet he knew was but a shadow of what it had been. So said the elders, whom Samdup revered.
The snow owl shook its dappled wings majestically, alighting on a high crag of snow and rock. When it seemed that it would not take wing soon, Samdup resumed his journey.
The high peaks of the Himalayas were quiet, with a lack of sound that a non-Tibetan would term loud. To a native, the mountains always expressed the silence in loud voices. It was a paradox, and imponderable. But it was pure Tibet.
So when strange sounds made the mountains ring like great gongs of brass, Samdup froze in his tracks.
The sound seemed to come from the east, moving west. It was a thunder of a sound. It began as a rumble. It continued as a rumble. A rolling, unending rumble. An eternal rumble.
And inextricable from that extended sound was another. It might have been the product of a thousand benevolent gods singing in chorus. The rising sun could conceivably author such a song, had the sun a throat. Beautiful maidens might produce such sounds, had they low, yet melodic voices.
It reminded Samdup of the lamas, whose surviving members sometimes congregated in the potala-the great temple of Lamism-to chant and pray to benevolent Buddha.
But this sound was so loud, so wondrous, that no ordinary lama brought it forth into the world, he knew.
It could mean only one thing, thought Samdup, his heart quickening. It was the song that heralded the return of the Dalai Lama.
Breaking into a run, Samdup ran to meet it.
After twenty minutes he was forced to slow to a walk. But it was a brisk walk, for his heart leapt high, his feet feeling as if they were encased in jade shoes.
The Dalai Lama had returned, and Samdup would be the first to greet him!
After many minutes of walking, a PLA truck column came up the road and roared past him, faces joyless.
Samdup stepped out of the way.
"Where are you going?" he shouted after them.
A young soldier only a few years older than he shouted back, "To defeat the aggressor."
And Samdup's brisk stride faltered. His wide peaceful face grew as dull as a weather-beaten gong. Tears started in a corner of one eye.
The Dalai Lama had come back only to fall before the godless Chinese barbarians, thought Samdup.
Still, it was a moment of high drama. Samdup quickened his pace. He must behold it. If only to tell the world of Chinese cruelty.
Only minutes later, the truck column roared toward him, in full retreat.
The looks of horror etched in the survivors' faces were shocking. The wounded were many. They lay about the back of the trucks like smashed dolls in green uniforms. Their eyes told of an encounter with a power greater than mortal man.
Samdup raced on, his heart straining as if to burst. Wild tears of joy streamed down his apple cheeks.
The Dalai Lama had returned in triumph! Not even the wicked Chinese had been able to turn him from the path of right.
On and on ran Samdup the Tibetan.
The thunder swelled and the song of the mightiest lama continued its bountiful ululations. Nothing so beautiful had ever been heard on earth, Samdup thought.
Soon he rounded a snow-dusted hillock, and there the road stretched out as straight as the spokes on a prayer wheel.
At first there was only dust. It swirled and roiled and was impenetrable to sight.
This was as it should be, Samdup thought. The coming of the Dalai Lama was too great a sight not to be obscured from men.
Samdup took a position in the center of the road and bowed twice. He stuck his tongue out as far as he could. This was the proper manner of greeting among Tibetans. He showed a good long length of tongue, did Samdup the Tibetan.
And through the swirling dust, a dark shape emerged. Mighty flanks rippled with unstoppable muscularity. A thousand remorseless eyes seemed to wink like stars that had hardened to black diamonds. And hooves of horn unlike anything Samdup had ever imagined could be discerned dimly.
And through it all, the song swelled until it filled Samdup's very soul.
He fell to his knees before the sheer grace of it all.
He was found in the center of the road two days later, stamped as flat as a dog under a PLA tank's tracks. No one could explain what had happened to him, and so his body was thrown to the dogs, as was the custom with the honored dead. The lamas prayed for his soul, and hoped that he had not suffered.
In truth, Samdup had died with his heart full of joy.
The quiet thunder continued to roll west.
Chapter 20
Don Cooder was angry. Really angry. He had not been so angry since the network had hired that Korean barracuda Cheeta Ching as weekend anchor. He wouldn't have minded a crack reporter in the slot. It would have been good contrast. But there was no way he could compete with hair like hers. Next contact, he vowed, he would have a best-hair clause written in.
"This is an outrage," he stormed, pacing the ill-lit dungeon room. "Who does Maddas think he is-William Paley reincarnated? I'm not just any old hostage. I'm the highest-paid anchorman in the universe. Even people who never watched me are in awe of Don Cooder. I get more respect that Superman." "Superman gets higher ratings and he's in reruns," put in Reverend Jackman sourly. "Maybe you should wear one of his sweaters."
Cooder shook a fist at the dripping walls. "Last time, I got a hotel room. Clean sheets. Room service. All the proper amenities."
"You got them b
ecause you were with me. Don't kid yourself."
"No way. Maddas is a Moslem. He's not kowtowing to you, a Baptist minister. Hell, those people talk about the Crusades like they happened last Tuesday." Don Cooder shook his wildly disheveled black hair. "No, you were treated good because they mistook you for my friend."
"So explain how we ended up in this fix.."
Don Cooder stopped pacing. He rubbed his blue-bestubbled jaw, bringing the bags under his eyes into sharp relief. He drove a fist into one palm, producing a meaty smack.
"It's fate. I was destined to be the world's witness to Maddas Hinsein's resurrection. I'd strangle puppies for a camcorder and a satellite uplink right about now. The greatest story in the world. And I can't broadcast it. I'll bet that sticky-haired Cheeta Ching has got my dressing room by now."
"She can have it. I want to get out of this heckhole alive."
"They won't kill us," Don Cooder said stubbornly. "I'm too famous."
"You got a short memory, gloryhound. They already tried to execute us once. We got a reprieve, is all."
"Nonsense. That was obviously staged so that Maddas could disappear."
"The man who believes that has got a major crush on Tinkerbell too," scoffed Reverend Jackman. "I told you not to tip Maddas when he brought us to the palace like that. It was an insult. Man's a head of state."
"I always tip cabdrivers, no matter what," Don Cooder returned. "They start wailing on me when I don't."
The drumbeat of footsteps filtered through the rusty iron bars embedded in the heavy oaken door.
"Someone's coming," Reverend Jackman muttered, his eyes going so wide they looked close to dropping from their sockets.
"Do you wanna check, or shall I?" Cooder muttered.
"You're by the door."
"Yeah, but I'm not sure I'm going to like what I see."
In the end, both men went to the bars.
Heads butting, they vied for a good look.
"It's Maddas Hinsein," Jackman hissed when it was his turn.
Don Cooder shoved him aside. His mouth went slack.
"And he's got a whole bunch of guards with him."
"Do they look like the kind who came for us last time?"
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