Orange-red tracers streaked through the night. And missed.
"Correct your aim, offspring of donkeys!"
The PPPA antiaircraft battery did. This time they fired wide in another direction, missing spectacularly.
Soon the thing was passing directly overhead and Barsoomian, seeing the four pink hooves looming directly over him, countermanded his order.
"Do not shoot! We do not want the unclean thing falling upon us!"
The order was unnecessary. The gunners were good Moslems. And they heard the continuous amplified squealing that the floating pink monster seemed to be making. It chilled the blood of every man along the long Maddas Line-for at strategic spots over the fortification, other silent pink monsters hovered like the most evil of omens.
Moslem faces turned skyward. Moslem mouths gaped in awe and fear. All eyes were on the silent monsters above.
And as if connected to a timer, the monsters all went pop! at once.
Shards of slick pink fleshlike matter began to fall. Soldiers scrambled for their holes, their bunkers. A few retreated from the line. Some ran screaming. No one stopped them. No one cared.
And when the commotion began to abate, the remaining defenders heard another sound.
It welled up from the south, out in the frontier. It was a kind of whistling, but great in its fullness and magnificence.
Colonel Barsoomian, thankfully untouched by the unclean pink rain, crawled up to the breastworks mound and employed his field glasses once more.
This time his mouth went round. For he saw the advancing host.
They were coming in a long skirmish line, thirty deep. It was a line that stretched in both directions, a wall of pink.
Pink legs marched in unison. Pink hands held M-16 assault rifles across pink chests. The rifles were not pink, but the faces above them were-pink, inflexible, and terrible. Eyes goggled glassily over pink snouts that were punctured by two pink-rimmed nostrils. Pink triangular ears flapped and beat against chubby pink cheeks as the pink soldiers advanced in an unbroken pink line.
And ahead of them, here and there, rumbled round pink monsters with identical beastlike snouted faces. They left trails in the sand like those of tracked vehicles. And they squealed and grunted and gave vent to "oink-oink" sounds that made Colonel Barsoomian's devout Moslem skin crawl as if from inquisitive ants.
But most terrible of all was the sound that advanced before that unclean beast-army like a wall of sound.
It was a great whistling. The tune was hauntingly familiar to the shocked ears of Colonel Hahmad Barsoomian.
He couldn't place it. But he knew he had heard it before. Somewhere.
Colonel Barsoomian had no idea he was listening to a thousand pink lips giving voice to the theme from the classic motion picture Bridge over the River Kwai.
He no longer cared. He dropped his AK-47 and dashed for an APC. The starter ground as he cursed the balky Soviet-made vehicle. Then he sent the APC careening north, driving with one hand over an ear to keep out that damnable whistling.
He had to warn his fellow Renaissance Guards that an army of the unclean was on the march.
He did not care what happened to the undisciplined PPPA. Let the infidel khazir army have them. It did not matter. It would take real soldiers to defend Irait from this most wicked aggression.
If that were possible.
Chapter 37
The news was so dire, no one wanted to deliver it to Maddas Hinsein.
The Revolting Command Council sat around the table. Their president was due at any moment. The foreign minister suggested that the vice-president deliver the bad news. But since the vice-president did not speak Arabic, this was difficult to implement.
"But the infidel have rolled across the Maddas Line," said the education minister in a voice so tight a hand might have been at his throat.
"Without firing a shot," added the minister of culture. "The PPPA simply deserted their posts. The Precious Leader will be furious. Someone will be shot."
"Let us suggest that he himself shoot the PPPA," the foreign minister said suddenly. "Each one. Personally. He will like that. And it will keep him occupied."
The defense minister added his two cents. "It is a brilliant idea, but too late, alas."
"What do you mean?"
"They have been decimated by the Renaissance Guard, who cut them down as they overran guard divisions."
"Are there not any left?" asked the foreign minister.
"Only Renaissance Guard elements, and they are our last hope to hold Kuran," he was told.
Eyes met around the conference table. At one end, Don Cooder and Vice-President Jackman exchanged uneasy glances.
"Looks like they got bad news or something," whispered Jackman.
"Looks like," Cooder said, fingering his new mustache. It was really coming in now. He hoped the Precious Leader would approve. Maybe it would impress him enough that he would not be shot, as seemed to happen a lot. He was just starting to get the hang of the job, which seemed to consist of groveling. Don Cooder had garnered extensive groveling experience during his previous career interviewing various heads of state.
"Well, we're safe," Jackman ventured.
"How you figure that?"
"I'm second from the top and you're my right-hand man."
"That didn't help the last information minister," Don Cooder pointed out.
Reverend Juniper Jackman grew very quiet.
President Maddas Hinsein stormed in a moment later.
"What news?" he demanded, taking his seat.
No one answered. Maddas pounded the table with his fist. "Report! What transpires at the front?"
"It . . . it has been overrun," said the defense minister. "Completely."
Maddas Hinsein blinked. "The Maddas Line? My pride and joy? The bulwark of Islam?"
"I am sorry, but it is true." The defense minister squeezed tears from his eyes. Frowning, Maddas Hinsein extracted his pistol from its holster and casually shot his defense minister in the face. Everyone was impressed by the results. Not to mention splattered.