"You are Oncle Sam," she blurted as the figure strode toward her.
"Why aren't you lying facedown in your vomit?" the man demanded in a frosty voice.
And as he came on, his left eye began flashing. The livid light. It was coming from his eye somehow. He had an artificial eye. It was like a small strobe light, pulsing and flashing, and he was coming closer and closer. He was aiming it at her as if it were a deadly laser.
And Dominique realized it must be. A laser that did not burn but made strong men give up the contents of their stomachs and pitch unconscious into it.
The realization hit her just as her questing fingers found the cold, reassuring steel of her MAS.
She snapped it up, aimed and pulled the trigger once.
A hand that she saw was fashioned of steel segments clamped over the weapon, pinching her thumb and fingers. Still, she squeezed the trigger.
The weapon refused to discharge, its slide held in place by the hand that then began to whir as hydraulic fingers compressed and compressed with irresistible, inexorable power.
Dominique pulled her fingers free just before the fine-machined steel became a grinding, spitting tangible shriek of steel.
"Mon Dieu!"
"French, eh?"
"Oui. "
"I hate the fucking French."
"You are not Oncle Sam Beasley, who loves all mankind."
"I love only money," said the familiar voice as the steel hand swept up and grabbed her by the hair.
"What do you want of me?" Dominique said, squirming.
"There's just one thing I want from you."
"What is that?"
"Give it to me straight. What does that clown Lewis have that my Mongo doesn't?"
Chapter 17
The first battle-damage-assessment reports from the Blot were most disturbing.
They came in the form of aerial photographs taken by a low-flying Gazelle equipped with a gun-sight camera.
The photographs were laid on the desk of the president of France. "Are these men dead?" he asked.
"We do not know, Monsieur President."
"Is that not blood spilling out from under their still bodies?"
"It is not red."
"Then what can it be?"
"Either piss or vomit. The analysts have yet to determine."
The president of France turned the picture in his hand this way and that. "It is vomit, I think."
"We should leave this to experts, non?"
"Piss is more transparent. This is thick."
"Not all. Some appears soupy."
The president shrugged. "Some could have eaten soup and then thrown it up."
"We have experts who understand these matters," the aide said dismissively. "What do we do?"
"We cannot leave them lying about like so many fallen toy soldiers. These are Frenchmen. Oh, to see them with their proud red berets in the dirt."
"It is asphalt."
"Dirt. Asphalt. The outrage knows no name."
"We must act quickly to contain this matter, before the Americans learn of it and lodge a protest."
"Has there been no word from Washington?"
"Not yet. But soon. That is why you must act instantly."
"I should never have listened to that bouffon," moaned the president of France.
"What clown?"
"The minister of culture."
"He is not such a clown. He has spearheaded the drive against the detestable Franglais, he has banished-"
"Enough. Enough. Order our Foreign Legionnaires to storm the Bastille."
"You mean the Blot."
"I mean to see this matter ended before that bouffon calls to complain," the French president said testily.
"The culture minister?"
"No. The President of the United States."