Which was precisely the thought racing through the dazed mind of Maddas Hinsein when he witnessed the identical sight. He had stumbled through the souks and byways of downtown Abominadad in his frayed abayuh until he had come to a movie theater which played, by presidential decree, a perpetual double bill consisting of The Godfather, parts one and two. They were Maddas Hinsein's favorite films.
Maddas had ducked into the theater's welcome darkness. It was deserted, so he took a seat in the center of the first row.
As it happened, he came in on the scene where Don Corleone first mumbled the immortal line, "I'm gonna make you an offer you can't refuse."
Under his concealing veil, the big brown eyes of the Scimitar of the Arabs misted over. He had sent his foreign minister to a summit with the now-deposed Emir of Kuran with instructions to deliver that very line at exactly high noon.
When the emir had refused Irait's generous offer to surrender the vital Homar oilfield and a pair of unimportant islands to Irait, despite his own nation's heavy indebtedness to Kuran, the foreign minister had broken off talks, as instructed.
Obviously the emir had not been a movie buff. He had missed the very clear diplomatic signal.
The first Iraiti tank divisions rolled through Kuran within twenty minutes of that pretext of a meeting. They advanced, as one newspaper had put it, "as if laying down blacktop, not waging war."
Don Corleone knew how to motivate men, thought Maddas Hinsein as the flickering screen images filled him with nostalgia.
Unfortunately, Maddas Hinsein did not know how to run a movie projector. The reel ran out, leaving the engrossed Scimitar of the Arabs blinking at a blindingly white screen. He cursed the lack of a projectionist. The man had deserted his post. When he was restored to power, Maddas promised himself, he would have the slacker hanged for dereliction of duty.
It was as he stumbled out into the deserted streets that Maddas Hinsein saw the first fireball. It was like a fist of flame snaking skyward.
It looked exactly like a mushroom cloud.
"Impossible!" howled Maddas Hinsein. "It cannot be!"
There were two reasons for his hasty conclusion. First, he knew that these could not be U.S. nukes. The Americans had not the stomach to nuke Abominadad, he was certain. Of course, he had been equally certain that the U.S. would not bat an eyelash at his lightning annexation of Kuran. And before that, that his neighbor Irug could not resist his invading armies more than a month. A decade-long war that bankrupted both regimes had resulted.
Then another fireball blossomed before his veiled eyes like an angry flower.
"How can this be?" Maddas sputtered.
The second reason the sight of mushroom clouds stupefied the Scimitar of the Arabs was that he was certain they could not mark an Israeli attack. Not that the Jews would hesitate to strike. But that by now their entire leadership should be breathing Sarin, Tabun, and other fatal nerve gases.
For the deadfall commands President Maddas Hinsein had left with his loyal defense minister, Razzik Azziz, were explicit instructions to unleash war gases on Tel Aviv and other key Israeli installations via the dreaded al-Hinsyn missile.
"Traitor!" snarled Maddas Hinsein. "The coward has betrayed his heritage to save his worthless skin."
Gathering up the ebony folds of his abayuh, Maddas Hinsein stormed down the street.
Another mushroom cloud lifted into the air. The distant thunder of concussion shock blew glass out of windows, showering him with wicked shards. Miraculously, none struck him, which the Scimitar of the Arabs took as a sign from Allah.
His course took him past the sprawl of Maddas International Airport. What he beheld there stunned him to the core.
He saw Americans and Europeans, their faces alight with relief, stumbling from buses and official vehicles. They carried luggage. His own national police were escorting them to waiting planes lined up at terminals and on the runways as if anxious to carry the hostages to the outer world.
"More treachery," said Maddas Hinsein, reaching through a slit in his black garment to grasp the ivory grips of his personal sidearm.
He considered executing the traitors where they stood, but realized he had only six shots in his pistol, while they had AK-47 assault rifles.
Reversing direction, Maddas Hinsein retreated like a furtive black specter.
The fireballs had expended themselves, he saw. Except for the regular roar of jet aircraft taking off, the city had grown quiet. It was like the lull before the storm.
As he rushed toward the U.S. embassy, the only source of hostages available to him, he vowed that Maddas Hinsein would be the storm of all storms.
Chapter 8
The President of the United States received with profound relief the news of the exodus of what were diplomatically called "guests under duress" by the Iraitis and "hostages" by everyone else.
"This means we're out of the woods, doesn't it?" he suggested to his defense secretary.
"Yes," the man said firmly.
"No," inserted the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, just as firmly. His dark handsome face was stiff with resolve. As the first black to hold the position, he was not about to become a yes-man to the defense secretary, whom everyone knew harbored presidential aspirations. So did he, but he was too sophisticated a strategist to tip his hand in advance.
The President's brow furrowed. "No?"
"Look at these satellite recon photos," said the chairman, laying down a folder stamped "TOP SECRET" on the polished table.
They were down in the White House Situation Room. The red threat-condition lights were ablaze.
The President extracted the photos. He looked at the one on top. So did the defense secretary.
What they saw was an overhead shot of Abominadad. They knew it was Abominadad because of the unmistakable latticework of a roller coaster that had been inexpertly thrown up on the western outskirts of the city, near the fixed antimissile missile batteries. The roller coaster had been part of the loot of Kuran. Taking it down and transporting it overland had proved easier than putting it up correctly. Most of the tracks stopped in midair, as if bitten off.
Closer to the center of the city was a large area of debris, much like a crater. Smoke smudges billowed up from this area.
"What is it?" demanded the President, shifting to the next photo. It showed a slightly larger crater. As did the one below it.
"Arab Renaissance Square," reported the chairman. "You can see the mangled scimitar in the upper-right-hand corner."
"Looks like a pretzel," the defense secretary commented.
"What caused this?" asked the President.
"Unknown, sir. But whatever it is, it's getting wider. The CIA believes this is why the Iraitis are so hot to capitulate."
"This is why they've asked us to cease hostilities?" the President asked, dumbfounded.
"I believe so."
"But we haven't started hostilities. This isn't our doing. "
"Must be the Israelis," said the defense secretary. "Their fingers have been on the trigger ever since this fracas started."
"If we ask nicely, do you think they'll stop?" the President wondered aloud.
The defense secretary called the secretary of state, who in turn called the Israeli ambassador to the U.S. Word was flashed to Tel Aviv and flashed instantly back.