Colonel Intifadah raised his clenched hands above his head triumphantly, bestowed the crowd with a snaggletoothed smile, and tried to make the best of it. In truth, he was deeply disappointed.
He hated green. The flag that he had personally designed for the new Lobynian republic was red and carried the hammer-and-sickle emblem of international Communism. But he comforted himself with the thought that on some days you initiate the tide of history and on others it carries you along. Either way was fine with Colonel Intifadah just so long as the tides of history eventually deposited him safely on shore. If he got a little wet in the process, that was okay too. Just as long as it wasn't his own blood soaking his uniform.
Today, as it had been on so many other days since he had risen to power in the North African desert nation of Lobynia, the blood on the Colonel's uniform belonged to someone else.
Colonel Intifadah looked down at the gleaming dark spots spattering his sleeves and blouse. They shone redly wet. He knew from experience that later the spots would brown into a rust color and finally cake and flake off. Al-Qaid's blood would be no different from that of the hundreds of others who had displeased him.
Colonel Intifadah reached for a damp cloth, intending to rub some of the blood off. But he decided against it. Better to let the Russian see the spots, to know that this son of the desert stood so close to the kill.
Colonel Intifadah went to his desk and stood behind it. In the floor-length mirror on one wall, he regarded himself critically. His middle-aged face had coarsened, the skin dark and large-pored. His mouth was cruel and arrogant, his eyes as black as the tight-curled hair that no comb would ever tame. Although it was early, the beard growth had already started to show.
It was a face that intimidated weaker men. With that face, Colonel Intifadah would intimidate this Russian. Colonel Intifadah straightened out his uniform. It was green. He always wore green, even though he passionately hated the color. Even the gold braid coiled at his shoulder was greenish-gold.
The door opened and Colonel Intifadah hastily let the green curtain fall over his personal mirror.
"Leave us," Colonel Intifadah barked to his guards. The two men swiftly and gratefully withdrew.
"Stand before me, comrade," Colonel Intifadah ordered. The pale Russian scientist Pyotr Koldunov stepped up to the dark green desk. In order to stand before the Colonel, he would have to walk through the sticky pool of blood in the middle of the floor.
The Russian did so without showing a flicker of notice. Colonel Intifadah frowned darkly.
"I am told that the device will not work," he said sullenly. He spoke Russian. Perfect Russian. He was also fluent in French and English, as well as his native Arabic. He enjoyed seeing the startled expressions on the faces of smug diplomats when he so casually discoursed with them, they who privately thought him a crazed nomad who had wrested power by brute cunning.
"Da, Comrade Colonel," Koldunov replied in the same language. "The energy required for launch stripped the power rails and seriously damaged the carrier rails. As I told you would happen."
"Are you criticizing me?" Colonel Intifadah shouted, his sidearm flashing from its holster.
"I am merely reminding you that I cautioned you about this possibility. We should have waited."
"Waited! I have waited three years for this revenge. Revenge upon the Americans, who bombed this very city!"
"I am aware of your motivation," the Russian said with undisguised distaste.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
The Colonel fired at the ceiling in his rage.
The Russian flinched at the sounds, but he did not react otherwise. Nor run for shelter. Colonel Intifadah threw his empty pistol onto the desk. It was a 9 mm Glisenti. The grips were carved jade.
"You must be very brave, comrade. Some of my own officers think I am crazed."
"Many Moslems fire into the air to express themselves. It is their way."
"Out in the streets, yes. But not indoors. I know you send reports of my mental health back to the Kremlin. Do not deny this."
"I report to my superiors every week. Just as I report to you. As I am reporting to you now."
"You are a dog with two masters."
"I serve my homeland with pride. I am obligated to report to you. It is part of my internationalist duty."
"Do not speak to me of the Soviet internationalist duty. Where were your people when the American B-52's were raining death on Dapoli? Where?"
"There was no warning of their attack."
"No? Then why did your Soviet destroyers quietly leave this end of the Mediterranean before the bombers came? Your leaders knew. They knew everything. But rather than face the aggressor, they retreated to watch the carnage."
"I am not a military man. You will have to ask the Kremlin that question."
"I have. And you know what they told me? A coincidence. Bah! Pigs that slink from their friends. They sell me their weapons and call me their ally and sign a mutual-defense treaty and then they skulk from trouble at the first sign of American might."
"We are helping you now," Koldunov asserted. Colonel Intifadah spat on his desk.
"Years after the fact. Long after the world has forgotten. Only after I complained and complained. Do you know why your superiors compelled you to assemble your terrible invention under the Lobynian Desert?"
"Yes, I was told it was our internationalist duty."
"No. It was because I threatened to ally myself with the U.S. I said to your General Secretary: 'What good are Russian weapons if they cannot fend off an American attack, and of what use are Soviet promises if they crumble before the might of the U.S.?' They tried to reason with me. But I would have none of it. I desired revenge. And if pretending to be a friend of the U.S. would be my only recourse, then I would hold my nose and shake their bloody hands."
An unhappy look crossed Pyotr Koldunov's tight face and Colonel Intifadah knew that he had struck a nerve.
He knew the Russian resented the use his precious weapon was being put to.
"So to keep me placated," Colonel Intifadah went on, "they offer me this weapon of yours. They make promises. More promises. 'Colonel Intifadah, it is the greatest invention ever devised by a human mind.' 'Colonel Intifadah, with it you can strike into the heart of America without fear of retaliation.' 'Colonel Intifadah, with this device, you can deliver a nuclear weapon to any point on the earth without fear of satellite detection.' "
"All of this is true. My device can do exactly that."
"And so they make me sign another agreement. And I have the weapon. I am a proud man again. I have been given new teeth for my mouth. I have a rod with which to smite my enemies. And when the weapon has been delivered and assembled, what do I learn?"
"It works," Pyotr Koldunov said stubbornly.
"Oh, it works. But where are the nuclear weapons? Where are the missiles for this glorious new missile-delivery system?"
"No one promised Lobynia nuclear weapons."
"You said that on the day the launcher was assembled. You also said that to strike America with nuclear weapons would be unthinkable. Do you remember telling me that?"
"Clearly."
"Clearly! Not as clearly as I!" thundered Colonel Intifadah. "I had visions of America reduced to a burning wasteland and I found that I had been given the pistol but no ammunition."
"The device is still a prototype. It should be tested with less volatile projectiles. A malfunction at launch could possibly detonate a nuclear explosion on Lobynian soil."
"I would have taken that risk! But did your country offer a choice?"
"It was not in the agreement."
"No," Colonel Intifadah said bitterly. "It was not in the agreement. No. Not at all." The Colonel paced back and forth behind his desk, his black eyes flashing like ebony buttons. He turned suddenly and pointed at the Russian with light green gloves.