The foreign minister spoke next.
"Our Precious Leader has decided to put this to a vote in true democratic fashion. All in favor of delaying further military action in favor of building neutron bombs, say yes."
"I'm voting no," said Vice-President Jackman.
"Me too," Don Cooder chimed in. "This is ridiculous."
"All opposed will be issued service pistols along with one bullet."
"Why only one?" asked Cooder.
"Because when one wishes to commit suicide by pistol," he was told, "one bullet is all that is necessary."
"I vote yes," Cooder said instantly.
Vice-President Jackman raised an eager hand. "Make that two yeses."
In point of fact, it was unanimous.
This impressed Sky Bluel. "Wow! Ho Chi Minh's got nothing on you!"
As the foreign minister led Sky Bluel from the room, she asked a question in an uncertain voice.
"That stuff about suicide. That was a joke, right?"
"In Abominadad, we are always cutting up. I myself often thank Allah for providing us with a sense of humor second to none in the Arab world."
And the foreign minister smiled like a piranha eyeing legs in the water.
Chapter 34
A day passed. Two. Three. A week. Two weeks.
As the world held its breath, America's industrial might geared up for the military mission destined to go down in the pages of history as Operation Dynamic Eviction.
An Ogden, Utah, factory went to around-the-clock shifts, turning out flamingo-pink butyl rubber gasproof suits outfitted with what appeared to be corkscrew antennas in the seat area. No one knew why.
In plants scattered throughout Iowa, Michigan, and elsewhere in America's heartland, specially customized pink gas masks rolled off assembly lines, were packed under the watchful eyes of armed MP's, and then loaded aboard C-5 Galaxy transports for the five-thousand-mile flight to Hamidi Arabia.
Idle Detroit auto factories received rush orders for unique fiberglass shells that were too big for ordinary stock cars and aerodynamically unsuited for small airplanes-the plant manager's second guess.
In Akron, Ohio, rubber capital of the world, customized blimps were rushed through the manufacturing stage and shipped flat, ostensibly for use in the next Rose Bowl parade. Their actual destination was the Star in the Center of the Flower of the Desert Military Base in Hamidi Arabia, where they were inflated in the security of desert-camouflage bunkers.
The entire operation was mounted under the strictest security since the bombing of Tripoli. There were no leaks. This pleased the sector of official Washington that was privy to the plan.
Which did not include the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the Pentagon. They didn't have a clue. For the first time in the history of the United States, America was going to war and its high command was out of the loop.
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.