Arabian Nightmare td-86 Read online

  "The Iraitis blame us, huh?" the President said., laying aside the photos. "Is that good or bad?"

  "If they consider it a provocation, they'll probably go to war over it. After all, Maddas is sandfill and Abombinadad is releasing everybody." "Exactly why we should launch a preemptive strike," the chairman said firmly.

  "Last time I did that," the President said ruefully, "the damn Hamidis blocked us."

  The chairman cleared his throat. "I understand that situation has been rectified. General Hornworks is once again in control of the situation on the ground. He informs me that based on new intelligence findings, he has repositioned forward units to counter any Iraiti advance."

  "What findings?" the President asked, raising one eyebrow.

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff placed his hands behind his back and regarded the scarlet ceiling. He declined to give a yes-or-no answer. It was the military way when confronted with the imponderable. Also, he figured it was even money he would run against the President next election. No sense providing a future political enemy with ammunition in the form of a directly attributable quote.

  The President drew his defense secretary aside. "What do you think?"

  "Diplomatically, so far we're winning. We're getting our hostages back. Maddas is wormfood. I say we press the advantage. Demand they withdraw unconditionally from Kuran."

  Frowning, the President tapped the sheaf of recon photos. "What about this crater thing?"

  The secretary of defense shrugged his shoulders. "That's out of my bailiwick," he told his commander in chief.

  The President excused himself and, in the privacy of the Lincoln Bedroom, put the same question to Harold Smith.

  "I can only assume that, er-"

  "The Caucasian," interrupted the President.

  "-is active in Abominadad," finished Smith. "Only he is capable of such unchecked carnage."

  "What could he be up to?"

  "It's impossible to say."

  "Well, whatever he's doing," the President mused, "he's winning hands down. You should see those photos. Abominadad looks like an earthquake struck. Smith, can you deactivate him somehow?"

  "Only the . . . Oriental might be able to accomplish that mission."

  "Smith, get on it. Do whatever you have to. We have a chance to avert war here. But only if we move fast."

  "I'll do what I can."

  Harold Smith found the Master of Sinanju sitting up in bed watching a videotape.

  As Smith entered, Chiun clicked the image off.

  "You have been replaying the tapes?" Smith asked.

  "I have been bored," Chiun said aridly. "The nurses do not comfort me as they should."

  Smith cleared his throat. "I have heard from the President. He is gravely concerned. Some agency has created a crater in the middle of Abominadad."

  Chiun's tight expression went slack. "The dance has begun."

  "Master?"

  "The Tandava. It is the dance that will destroy the world. Nothing can stop it. Kali has lured Shiva into the Tandava, despite his wishes to the contrary."

  "I understand," said Smith in a tone that plainly said that he was not comfortable with that understanding. "I was about to ask you to stop Remo."

  "He is no longer Remo and he cannot be stopped," Chiun said, brittle-voiced.

  "The Iraitis are threatening war unless Remo ceases."

  "The jest is on them. War or no war, they are doomed. And they will be only the first. Shiva and Kali will trample and snuff out all life on this forlorn globe."

  "I am sorry to hear that," said Smith, for lack of anything better to say. A thought occurred to him. "I suppose you will wish to return to Sinanju."

  "Why?"

  "Why, to be with your people when the end comes. Unless you think Shiva will spare Korea?"

  Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed. "No," he said, his voice growing steely. "Shiva will not spare Sinanju."

  "Shall I arrange for a submarine passage home?" asked Smith.

  "No," the old Korean said after a pause. "I wish a telephone. For I must contact certain allies."

  "I can arrange that," Smith said crisply. "Anything else?"

  "Yes. Send word to Sheik Abdul Hamid Fareem, of Hamidi Arabia."

  Smith's lemony face puckered. "What word?"

  "Tell him two things. One, the Master of Sinanju yet lives. And two, he is coming to parley."

  "Does this mean you will need transportation to the Middle Fast?"

  "That is the last thing I would have you do, Emperor Smith," said Chiun, closing his tired old eyes.

  Chapter 9

  The call flashed eastward. It traveled along fiberoptic telephone cable from Folcroft Sanitarium, was microwaved to an orbiting satellite and bounced back to an earth station in the Far East, where the message was received, transcribed on a lambskin parchment in an ancient tongue, and carried by hand to the eyes for which it was intended.

  The message was terse:

  "Follow the Seven Giants to the Ishtar Gate. Bring the caliph's sack."

  Wise eyes lifted skyward, where the stars continued in their ancient procession.

  A voice was raised.

  "I hear, and obey, friend of the old days," it said.

  And then the thunder began to roll.

  Chapter 10

  As they slunk through the streets of Abominadad, Don Cooder and Reverend Juniper Jackman noticed a strange thing.

  Cars were streaming by. A constant parade of them. Buses too. Each was filled with Americans and other non-Arab nationals. All under heavily armed guard.

  "What do you think's going on?" Reverend Jackman wondered in a low, uneasy voice.

  "I think it's a mass execution," Cooder said. "They must be taking them to a central location. Probably in retaliation for the A-bombs that are dropping all over."

  Reverend Jackman cupped a hand behind one ear. "I don't hear no more bombs, A, B, or C. And if I'm gonna be executed, it ain't gonna be with plain folks. I want center stage."

  "And I want the U.S. embassy. We're public figures. They'll give us sanctuary."

  "You mean they'll give me sanctuary," snapped Reverend Jackman. "But I'll try to put in a good word for you."

  Arguing, they pushed on.

  When they reached the U.S. embassy, they were shocked to their core to discover the main gate was chained closed.

  "What's this?" Reverend Jackman bleated. His eyeballs protruded like shelled eggs being squeezed from fists.

  Don Cooder's eyes, on the other hand, narrowed over his waxy bags as if not wishing to face reality.

  Both men had to read the sign three times before its full import was brought home to them.

  The sign read:

  ATTENTION, ALL CONCERNED:

  THE IRAITI GOVERNMENT HAS DECREED THAT ALL U.S. CITIZENS AND OTHER THIRD-STATE NATIONALS ARE FREE TO EVACUTE IRAIT. IF YOU FALL UNDER EITHER CATEGORY AND DESIRE EVACUATION, PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO MADDAS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. THIS EMBASSY HAS BEEN CLOSED FOR THE DURATION OF HOSTILITIES.

  -THE U.S. AMBASSADOR

  "Does this mean we're stranded?" asked Don Cooder in a tight dry voice.

  Swallowing an indigestible lump in his throat, Reverend Juniper Jackman looked toward the west, where the airport lay.

  An Air Irait 747 lifted off, trailing a sooty plume of exhaust. In a matter of seconds, another launched itself after the first. A third followed.

  "Not yet," said Reverend Jackman. "But from the way they're hightailing it outta here, I'd say procrastinating ain't a good idea."

  They stepped out into the street in search of a cab. Don Cooder whistled through a mouthful of fingers. Reverend Cooder, recalling the sixties, looked for a clean patch of asphalt where he could stage a one-man civil-disobedience sitin.

  Maddas Hinsein galumphed along like a big ungainly scarecrow draped in a black cape. His all-concealing veil-lifted and fell with each puffing exhalation. He was running out of breath. Even though he had appointed himself field marshal
of the Iraiti Armed Forces, he had never seen military service. Consequently he was a tad out of shape.

  It happened that a green cab careened around a corner just as Maddas Hinsein had reached the limit of his endurance. Three short blocks.

  He stepped out into the path of the cab, crying, "Halt!" in a high-pitched voice.

  The cab screeched to a halt, the driver leaning out of the driver's window to hurl abuse at him.

  "One side, kebir gamoose!" he yelled.

  Maddas Hinsein strode up to the driver. Still keeping his voice high, he asked, "What did you call me, effendi?"

  "I called you a big water buffalo," the other snarled. "Now, get out of my way. I have Americans to fetch. The new president has decreed that they be released before the bombs begin to fall."

  "New president?" Maddas asked, for the first time noticing that the driver lacked the politically correct mustache all Iraiti men by law had to cultivate.

  "Yes," the man said impatiently. "AI-Ze'em. Razzik Azziz."

  "That is very interesting," said Maddas Hinsein, surreptitiously reaching into his abayuh. "But that name you called me-is not the nickname certain disloyal elements have bestowed upon the last president?"

  "He is dead, and Allah curse his bones," spat the driver. "Now, be off, woman. There is money to be made."

  "And you have earned your last dinar, traitorous one," intoned Maddas Hinsein in his normal gruff tone. And he shot the cabdriver through the temple with such exquisite precision that both of the man's eyes were whisked from their sockets like magic.

  Opening the door, the Scimitar of the Arabs reached in to yank the corpse from his seat. He took the man's place. Such had been his skill that little blood and no brains decorated the front seat. Killing was one thing to Maddas Hinsein. Wallowing in the result, another.

  Placing one heavy foot on the gas, he wrenched the wheel around. He was bound for the U.S. embassy, where no doubt the traitorous son of a pig had been headed. And woe to any American who fell into his hands.

  It was not that there was any lack of taxicabs in the heart of Abominadad. There were plenty, Don Cooder and Reverend Jackman found. And they were all going the right way-to the airport.

  The trouble, they discovered upon being ignored by the seventh speeding cab, was that they were all crammed to the windows with Western evacuees.

  "Why do they got rides when we don't?" Reverend Jackman demanded from the safety of the curb. His sitin had not survived his first brush with a cab's hurtling grille.

  "Because you're still stuck in the sixties," Don Cooder said, determination creeping into his voice. "Watch how a nineties man does it."

  He stepped out into the middle of the street. A cab came along. He lifted his arms and waved them frantically.

  The cab slowed to a stop. The driver leaned on the horn.

  Ignoring the sound, Don Cooder confidently strode over to the rear window. He knocked. It rolled down.

  "Hi, I'm Don Cooder, legendary BCN anchorman," he said brightly.

  "I don't have time to be interviewed," said the man in back. His Phillies baseball cap identified him as an American. "We're on the way to airport. They've set us free."

  "Got room in back for two?" Cooder asked through a fixed smile.

  "No. My wife is with me." A redhead with a drawn face gave him a brave little wave, adding, "I watch you all the time, Mr. Brokaw."

  Pitching his voice lower, Cooder added, "How about just one?"

  "Sorry. Driver, let's go. Wallah!"

  Don Cooder had been holding on to the cab's chrome trim when the passenger gave the order. The trim was torn from his hands, taking part of a fingernail with it. "Yeoow!" he screamed, anguish gullying his craggy features.

  Reverend Jackman came running up, horror writ large on his own pop-eyed face.

  "Are you shot? Did he shoot you?"

  "A fingernail! I lost a fingernail! How will this look before America?" Reverend Jackman put his hands on his hips and a frown on his face.

  "You know what? You are wound tighter that the mainspring of my granddaddy's old turnip watch. Never mind your damn manicure. We gotta fetch us a ride."

  "All America looks up to me for personal grooming guidance," said Don Cooder, sucking on the injured digit, which happened to be his thumb. He looked very comfortable sucking his thumb.

  The next cab to come along actually slowed down when it saw them.

  Reverend Jackman started for it. He saw the back seat was empty. His face exploded in pleasure.

  "Hey, thumbsucker!" he called. "I got us a lift!"

  Don Cooder looked up from the curb where he sat performing surgery on his ripped thumbnail with a small penknife.

  "What say?"

  "It's empty. Get your thumb out of your hole and your ass over here.."

  Cooder shot to his feet. In a flash, he was beside Jackman.

  "We go to airport, savvy?" Jackman was saying to the driver.

  Don Cooder shoved him aside, saying, "You don't say 'savvy,' you idiot. This is Irait. You say 'wallah'!" He turned to the driver. "You, take us to the airport. Wallah!"

  The driver regarded them through a dense mesh veil. For the first time they noticed that the figure behind the wheel was shrouded in the native costume of a Moslem woman.

  "I thought women weren't allowed to drive in this country," Reverend Jackman muttered.

  "That's down in Hamidi Arabia," Cooder retorted. He addressed the silent driver. "You! Maddas Airport. Got that? Maddas. Mad Ass. Savvy?"

  "La! Maddas," said the driver. The shrouded head nodded eagerly.

  "Great!" said Don Cooder. "She understands. Let's go."

  They piled in back.

  The cab got under way, tires squealing.

  "This is great," chortled Reverend Jackman. "You done good. When I'm president, I might just have a place for you in my administration."

  "President? You're dreaming. You're pass."

  "You just lost a chance to be my press secretary," Reverend Jackman sniffed. "I'm a shoo-in next time. All I need is the black vote. That's almost forty percent if I can get them into the voting habit. Brother minorities, like the spies, wops, et cetera, should fetch me fifteen percent. Then I got the NOW vote. That's thirty-five percent. Those who watch my talk show. I got a two share. That's what? Two million? We'll call it four. I figure that's three percent of America. Then the liberals. Twenty percent for sure. And those who admit being liberals. A quarter of a percent."

  "That's almost one hundred and fifteen percent!"

  Reverend Jackman smiled confidently. "In like Flynn."

  His smile went south when he noticed that the aircraft lifting off could not be seen through the windshield past the driver's head.

  "Must be a lull," he remarked.

  "Sure hope they didn't run plumb out of gas," added Cooder. "Gas has been drying up all over this town faster than cow piss on a flat rock."

  Over the engine mutter they heard the continual roar of takeoffs.

  Don Cooder looked out his window and Reverend Jackman his.

  They saw no aircraft, although the intermittent roar continued.

  Their eyes met, grew wide, and all at once they snapped their heads around to look out the rear window.

  There, framed in the bouncing glass, was a climbing string of aircraft. They were all shapes and sizes. Large air buses. Small private ships. Even a couple of helicopters. It looked like the fall of Saigon.

  Their heads whipped back around and they began accosting the silent driver.

  "Hey, you! Islam. You're going the wrong way."

  "Driver, turn around. You turn around right now. That's a direct order. I'm an American anchorman."

  Don Cooder reached out to grab the driver's shoulder. He snagged instead the hood of the black garment. It came away in his grasping fingers.

  "Now you done it," Reverend Jackman whispered. "I think what you just done is against the law in this place. In fact, it's practically rape or something."

/>   "I don't care. I'm going to the airport. Wallah! Wallah! Turn around."

  The driver did turn around finally. But not the way they expected. After braking the car abruptly, throwing Reverend Jackman and Don Cooder slamming facesfirst into the front-seat cushions, the driver himself turned around in his seat.

  A vaguely familiar visage showed a broad smile and the manhole-size muzzle of a shiny pistol.

  "Bass!" he said. They took that to mean "Settle down." They weren't far off.

  After they had stopped bouncing back and forth in their seats, Reverend Jackman's eyes seized upon the face of the driver.

  "You know," he hissed, "this guy ain't a he. He's a she."

  Don Cooder swallowed. "Does she--I mean he-kinda look like Maddas Hinsein to you?"

  "Kinda. But everybody in this neighborhood looks like Maddas."

  Don Cooder licked his lips. "Maybe. But this guy really, really looks like of Mad Ass."

  "Can't be. He's dead."

  The cab started off again.

  "If that ain't Mad Ass," Reverend Jackman wondered, "why ain't he taking us to the airport?"

  "Don't say that. Don't even think it."

  "I can't help it. My eyes are telling me one thing and my brain another."

  The two men fell silent for several moments. Then Reverend Jackman offered another disheartening observation.

  "Don't look now," he muttered, "but that's the Palace of Sorrows up ahead."

  "You know any prayers?" asked Don Cooder.

  "No. I do sermons, not prayers. There's no money in praying. Look at Mother Theresa. Can't hardly feed herself on what she earns praying. I ask you, what kinda life is that?"

  Chapter 11

  Sheik Abdul Hamid Fareem was worried.

  When he had wanted the U.S. to strike Irait first, they had hesitated, preferring to defeat Maddas Hinsein and his criminal hordes with sanctions. As if such dealings would not increase the Shame of the Arabs' appetite.

  When Maddas had apparently been assassinated before a global television audience, Sheik Fareem had breathed a sigh of relief. He understood how it was in Irait. Maddas Hinsein ruled absolutely. His death would break the Iraiti will. Sheik Fareem saw the fine hand of Sinanju in these occurrences. Had he himself not greeted the white Master of Sinanju who was called Remo, and assisted him in entering occupied Kuran?