THE STEEL DOORS burst open to the operations room in the command post. Armed Libyan soldiers, wearing camouflage uniforms, rushed into the spaces, dispersing throughout the blue-lighted area. Their AK-47 automatic weapons waved threateningly back and forth as they ran through the room.

"Not here!" shouted one of the soldiers.

"Nor here!" a soldier crouching in a corner, hidden by the shadows of the blue-lightened space shouted, his voice echoing from the other side.

The gray-clad Libyan soldiers manning the computer consoles watched, expressions changing from confusion to anxiety to fear.

The tall, lean sergeant, standing in the middle of the open steel doors, took one step backward into the hallway. He turned right and saluted someone out of sight of those at the consoles and said, "Neither of them appear to be here, sir."

A mumbled reply could barely be heard by the console operator nearest the doors. The voice sounded familiar. The operator's dark eyebrows bunched as he concentrated on the voice.

"Yes, sir," the sergeant replied. He stepped back into the operations room and shouted, "Corporal, search the back rooms!"

A slender black Arab saluted, touched two of the armed soldiers near him, and the three ran around the back row of computer consoles and through the door leading to the briefing theater. They came out a few seconds later.

The corporal looked at the sergeant and shook his head. The sergeant pointed to the galley doors at the far end of the room, partially hidden behind the raised platform chair that overlooked the two rows of computers. The three soldiers ran to the other side and slammed the swinging doors out of the way as they burst into the kitchen.

The sound of metal pots and pans banging together intermingled with breaking china.

"I said, see if they're here, not tear the place down!"

The corporal led the three out of the kitchen. "All clear, Sergeant!" Behind them, three cooks emerged slowly, standing close together, wiping their hands on stained aprons and watching as the armed soldiers surrounded the operators.

The sergeant turned his head toward the hallway.

"I heard, Sergeant," the voice said.

The operator placed the voice, a smile spreading across his lips as he mumbled a prayer to Allah.

A moment later, Colonel Alqahiray strolled through the door. The fear of those at the computer consoles changed gradually to smiles of relief. The hero was back. The soldiers at the consoles stood. A nervous clap by the operator turned into a torrent of standing cheers and applause. The newspapers were wrong. Alqahiray's wounds must have been less serious than believed. That was obvious! Otherwise, how could the man be here? Most recalled how, attacked and wounded in the briefing theater off to the right of the operations room, the colonel had personally shot his assailant -- his own cousin! It was truly a miracle. Allah blessed Alqahiray.

Alqahiray nodded and waved at the loyal soldiers manning the consoles as he moved past. His head turned quickly from side to side as he tried to watch everyone at once.

Sergeant Adib shadowed three feet behind the colonel, his sharp eyes tracking everyone and searching everywhere. Any one of these operators could be an assassin. The soldiers' enthusiasm over the return of Alqahiray caused most to miss the sergeant's finger tightening on the trigger of the AK-47. The tall figure standing quietly in the shadows saw the slight movement but remained silent.

Those nearest reached out to touch the hero colonel, the founding father of their new nation. Alqahiray nervously avoided their hands by touching them slightly with his before sweeping past. A dull throbbing pain from the shoulder wound reminded him how close he came to death here four weeks ago. Death did not bother him as it would others. This earthly existence was only temporal anyway. Something to enjoy while alive. What mattered was to complete his mission before he died. Alqahiray's eyes, hidden in deep recesses of abnormally sunken eye sockets and overarching, heavy eyebrows, searched the compartment, looking for Colonel Walid, the traitor, the turncoat, the son of camel dung. The comments he overheard from these worshipers told how they believed he had killed his own cousin, a lie that might serve him well. His cousin had died trying to protect him. Walid had twisted the story to hide how the traitors kidnapped and held him prisoner in his own home. Thanks to Allah, his cousin had foreseen something like this and had made arrangements. Twenty-four hours earlier, when gunfire and explosions rocked his house, he had hidden under a table, thinking Walid had returned to kill him. Now it was his turn, and he would not make the same mistake Walid had. Walid would soon be dead. This time, Alqahiray would leave no one alive who threatened his power. For Major Samir -- the one who shot him -- his death would be a slow one. Allah, allow me to honor Islam with the blood of traitors.

Seconds later, after avoiding most of those in the enthusiastic crowd, he made it through the two rows of computer consoles to where the raised platform in back offered an opportunity to stand and survey the operations room.

He ignored the circle of men surrounding the platform, pulled an Old Navy cigarette from his shirt pocket, and lit it, grimacing slightly from the gunshot wound in the shoulder. The strong, bluish smoke wafted up, slowly sucked away by the ventilation filters overhead. Your day will come, Walid. He touched the bandage around his shoulder. Since his freedom this morning from the guarded confinement at his home on the outskirts of Tripoli, he had been salivating at the thought of this moment. This moment when he strolled into his headquarters and resumed the reins of the great jihad against America. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, relishing the prospect of personally pulling the trigger to send Walid into Allah's arms. Opening his eyes, he saw everyone watching him, waiting for his words.

He smiled. "My fellow warriors, my comrades in arms, my loyal patriots. I apologize for my absence, but I am back. Please return to your consoles. I want each department leader to brief me on his situation. Until then, we must push forward with the Jihad Wahid until we are finished." Jihad Wahid -- Holy War One -- the overall plan to unite the entire North African coast into one nation stretching from Morocco on the Atlantic to Egypt along the Red Sea. For, whatever had happened, the genesis of a radical Islamic nation was proving fruitful, even if attempts to stop it still existed. What the world needed was an example of the avenging arm of the new Al-Qaida, which he would lead. He had the weapon to do it: a weapon of such magnitude that it would cause the nations of the world to show respect for the new nation. Then the Republic of Barbary and North Africa would leave the rest of the world alone until --

Alqahiray looked down at the electronic warfare officer. "Ahsan, where is Colonel Walid and my intelligence officer, Major Samir?" he asked softly.

The officer snapped to attention at his console, his boots clicking together as he stomped down on the rubber matting, and saluted. "Colonel Alqahiray, welcome back. We are honored you have returned. Sir, Colonel Walid departed several hours ago with Colonel Samir and many others. They left in such a hurry, they failed to say where they were going."

"Did you say Colonel Samir?"

"Yes, sir. He is a colonel now, thanks to you, sir."

Well, he can die as a colonel as well as a major, thought Alqahiray. The traitors had to be nearby, and they would find them. To seal him off in his house after shooting him and tell the people he was dying. They broadcast false words attributed to him to stir the people's patriotism. No, Walid and Samir, your deaths will be slow and painful. Your deaths will be a lesson to this new nation I have formed and that I will lead. Plus, the work you did to make me look omnipotent will be put to good use. For that, you only have yourselves to blame.

"Thank you, Captain!" Alqahiray shouted, causing the young man to jump and start to sit down. "No, don't sit down," he said, calmer, motioning the captain to come nearer. He must control his temper. "I need an aide. You are it. Moreover, we can't have a captain for an aide; you are now a major. Ahsan, what is your full name?"

"Ahsan Hammad Maloof, Colonel!"

It pleased Alqahiray to see the smile spread across the young man's face. It further pleased him when he saw moisture in the young man's eyes. Then he recalled that Walid smiled the same way with moist eyes when Alqahiray pulled him from the ranks and made him a member of their inner circle. He would not make the same mistake with this young officer. This soldier would die for him, and that was what he wanted: unquestionable loyalty. Someone he could shove in front of him, if needed.

The captain -- now major -- saluted again. Alqahiray reached forward and shook Ahsan's hand briefly. Applause roared across the closed room again and would have continued for several minutes if Alqahiray hadn't held up his hands to stop it. Alqahiray was no fool. Promotions such as this reminded those around him of his power. It would encourage others to remain loyal as they fought for his benevolent attention, and it would strike just the right chord with those who risked their own lives to free his. He silently congratulated himself on his ability to manipulate those around him. He was damn good. So good, that it even amazed him. Every human being begged for recognition of work well done. Alqahiray believed it was his job to ensure awards were recognized in such a way so as to seal loyalty to him.

The new major beamed as he waited for Alqahiray to say something. "Well, Major Maloof -- Ahsan. See what the cooks can whip up for Sergeant Adib, his men, and me. It has been a long morning, and we have yet to eat. I have missed my strong cups of tea with my croissants."

"Aiwa, ya Colonel," the new Major Maloof, standing at ramrod attention, replied, whipping off a snappy salute before hurrying through the swinging doors in back of the operations space.

Ah, thought Alqahiray, he moves with a song in his heart and spring in his step. He tightened his lips to keep from laughing. Stupid boy; he would wear his arm out with all that saluting! There would be no more Walids in Alqahiray's life.

Two soldiers stood guard near the open heavy, soundproof steel doors leading into the spaces. He made a mental note to increase the security leading to this deep underground complex. It seemed to him that if it was this easy for them to reach the operations space, then others could also. Of course, few had his knowledge of the command post; he helped design it and oversaw the building of it.

Alqahiray stepped onto the raised platform that held his chair. He tossed the still-burning cigarette at the nearby trash pail and missed. Alqahiray pulled himself up into the high control chair in the center of the platform and patted the arms twice as if welcoming himself to an old and familiar place. He pulled another cigarette out and lit it. Within minutes, the familiar blue cloud of acrid smoke encircled the hero of the revolution. He recalled how he had sat right here when they sank the American destroyer USS Gearing. His idea, his plan, and his revolution. No one else would have figured out how to lure the American warship into Libyan waters and then sink it.

He took another deep drag. He hoped he could restore Jihad Wahid to its proper course. His eyes studied the intelligence screens lining the tops of the walls around the compartment. The gigantic digital screens allowed him to start with the first, and as his eyes moved from one to the next, he began to interpret the current situation as it unfolded, screen by screen, with ever-increasing resolution. The first screen showed the Mediterranean Sea and the littoral countries surrounding it. Red diamonds reflected the location of enemy ships, and red brackets told him where enemy aircraft were operating. Each symbol had an arrow pointing in the direction of travel with a number on the arrow identifying the speed of the contact. In the southern desert of Algeria, a red square flashed alongside a similar one flashing in southern Morocco. What are those? he asked himself.

The second screen showed the North African coast and about 100 kilometers of surrounding sea. The third refined the presentation to show Algiers, and the fourth reflected an outline of the Libyan coast. The remaining three rotated presentations with various situations ranging from the Red Sea to hundreds of miles into the Atlantic. The key to good military operations is having a firm grasp on situational awareness. He pursed his lips as he took in the information on the screens.

A bank of seventeen six-inch-wide lights glowed a mixture of red and green above the intelligence screens. A red light meant the American satellites, identified in bold black Arabic letters beneath the light, were out of range of Libya. The green lights identified those overhead surveillance systems currently watching the new Barbary Republic. If only the Chinese had given him one of their laser weapons, this constant surveillance would be a thing of history. Even the information warfare data the Chinese provided to change the geopositional satellite output to lure the American destroyer into their waters was gone. The Chinese had put a self-destruct program in the software weapon they sold to him, ensuring he could never use it again without their help.

They have their own problems trying to control North Korea. The threat of North Korea invading South Korea was supposed to have been a feint to occupy the Americans while he consolidated his hold on the whole of North Africa. Well, the Chinese had their hands full now. The North Koreans had invaded. The fly the Chinese thought they had under their thumb had flown away. Though America was deploying most of its forces to repel the invasion, there remained the United States Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean -- a smaller Sixth Fleet than years ago, but still strong enough to destroy everything he had worked to achieve.

He blew a cloud of smoke toward the first screen where his attention had settled. The fact that the American Marines occupied Algiers had been broadcast on state radio. Still, seeing it on the screen sent a surge of anger rushing through him. If Walid -- the traitor -- had remained loyal, this never would have happened. He would have ordered the Algerians to let the Americans go. But, no, the weasel-faced twit wanted power for himself, under the guise of true Islam. To hell with Islam; the future of this effort rested in the might of the armed forces. It rested on his shoulders.

Two broad red arrows pointed from the north coast of Morocco into the interior of this Atlantic coastal country. Then the arrows curled back, turning west to cross the Atlas Mountains that separated Algeria and Morocco, their sharp tips heading toward the important Algerian town of Oran. Oran: the Mediterranean city occupied by the remnants of President Hawali Alneuf's army. The Algerian objective would have been achieved, if only they had successfully captured the Algerian president. The Americans had rescued the democratic icon of Algeria, who kept a never-ending tirade of BBC rhetoric flowing from London. Where was their spokesman to twist their own story across the airways?

Alqahiray touched the right arm of the chair and chose the three-sequence combination of buttons to activate the mouse. He clicked on the northernmost arrow. Blinking words "Spanish 1st Infantry Division" lit up beneath the arrow. He slid the mouse over, clicked, and a list of Spanish military units scrolled down the screen, identifying several armor battalions and other known military elements associated with the arrow. The word more blinked beneath the last unit. More! This was not good!

Spanish forces moving into Algeria?

"What is that, Sergeant?" he asked the soldier technician manning the force status console to his left.

"What, sir?"

"The Spanish units moving across Algeria."

"Sir, a day after you were wounded, Moroccan units invaded Cueta. Cueta, like its sister city of Melilla, is a Spanish-owned city-state just inside the Mediterranean side of the Strait of Gibraltar on the North African coast. As you know, my Colonel, Morocco has always claimed Cueta, much like Spain claimed Gibraltar from the British. Spain landed its forces at those two cities and moved into Morocco a week ago. They have since moved eastward along the pipeline leading from our oil fields. Our army has abandoned its attempt to stop them from joining the loyalist forces of President Alneuf in Oran."

"Yes, I remember the incident, Sergeant. I ordered the Moroccans to retreat!"

The sergeant stood and looked around at the other console operators, who immediately looked down at their computers or became busy with something else. He swallowed. "Sorry, my Colonel. The word never reached them or, if it did, they refused to obey. The events . . . the events surrounding the assassination attempt on you clouded the orders, sir. Colonel, I do not believe the order was ever sent."

The Spanish needed to stay on their side of the Strait. Alqahiray knew what they were doing and where they were going. Eighty percent of the natural gas Spain used came from Algeria. Pumped via a pipeline complex, the gas traveled from Algeria, through the Atlas Mountains, across Morocco, and then beneath the waters of the Strait of Gibraltar to the Spanish city of Algeciras. From Algeciras, the gas was distributed by pipeline, truck, and train throughout Spain. Alqahiray knew without that petrol, Spain's economy would come to a standstill and the immense strides it had made economically would be set back decades. He had to convince the Spanish they had nothing to fear. Or should he? He slid the problem into a recess of his mind. It might benefit the new nation to have a weakened Spain across the Strait. He made a mental note to revisit the strategic implications of shutting down the pipeline.

He moved away from the Spanish invasion and focused for the first time on the small symbol in southern Morocco. "The symbol showing a hostile element in southern Morocco? What is that? Do loyal Moroccan units still exist? I thought they had all surrendered or been annihilated."

"Yes, Colonel, Morocco is ours. This is the Americans. They have taken a vacant airfield and established a base there. We know they have helicopters, but we are still trying to determine the number of troops and what, if any, other types of aircraft are operating at the site. Units that have approached their position have been attacked by Cobra attack helicopters."

"So, our forces have yet to reach the airfield itself?"

"No, sir. The helicopter gunships keep turning them back."

"I don't believe that. Helicopters cannot stop a concerted army effort. What do we have out there? A bunch of cowards? Who is the senior officer here?"

"I am, Colonel," answered an older, gray-haired major, who moved out of the shadows where he had been observing everything silently to stand near the edge of the platform.

Alqahiray wondered where the officer had been since he had returned. He stared at the man. He knew him. He was a Walid lackey. Must be. Otherwise, he would have fawned over him as the others did. A loyal officer in charge would have been the first to meet him upon his return; instead, he had to call for him. One more loose end to tie up later. He mentally added the major to his list of things to do. More important things required his attention now. He turned to the displays, smoke shifting and weaving around his head from the movement.

He must sew up the ripping seams of Jihad Wahid before dealing with the den of traitors who ousted him. The Spanish were a big threat, but Alqahiray believed the larger threat lay with the reopening of the Strait of Gibraltar, allowing the Americans unfettered access to the Mediterranean. The thirty-day smart mines, laid by the Algerian Kilo submarines, failed to keep the American aircraft carrier out of the Med, but they had slowed passage and in some cases stopped other vessels. He had counted on keeping the American Navy out of the Mediterranean long enough to consolidate his position and the establishment of the Islamic Republic of Barbary and North Africa. He had not counted on the United States Sixth Fleet being able to mount an offensive with its limited number of ships. His intelligence officers had eagerly agreed with him when he had doubted that America would be able to deploy a carrier battle group in less than three weeks.

Alqahiray stroked his chin a couple of times and twisted the ends of his mustache. The Islamic Republic of Barbary and North Africa. The Islamic moniker would serve as an additional shield against the heretical West, who would fall over itself to make sure that everyone knew this wasn't a war against Islam. The good news was that no one in the Moslem world would believe it.

He inhaled and grinned as he recalled how the Algerian Kilo submarine torpedoed and sank an American destroyer, a destroyer that had intentionally put itself in front of torpedoes to save the aircraft carrier USS Stennis. As much as he hated the Americans for killing his parents, he respected the bravery of the skipper who gave his life and the lives of his crewmen in battle. You may hate your enemy, but warriors must respect bravery. If the Kilo had stayed and fought, it might have survived instead of being blown up by its own mines.

"Major Bahar, I did not see you when I came in," Alqahiray said menacingly to the Libyan officer standing beside the platform. He watched the major in his peripheral vision. "I am surprised you would still be here."

"I believe the colonel knows that I would be no place else. I have been standing here, Colonel. Welcome back. We are pleased your wounds were not serious," he answered, his voice calm and methodical. "It is truly Allah's miracle that has healed you so fast. As you can tell, the troops are happy over your return."

"And I presume you are, too, Major." It was hard to tell with Bahar what he truly thought. The man's face never betrayed his feelings. That was another reason Alqahiray distrusted the officer.

Bahar bowed his head in an exaggerated nod. "Of course, Colonel. We are all pleased."

He moved the major's name up a couple of notches on his list. "Thank you, Major." He pointed to the map of Morocco displayed on one of the intelligence screens. "What can you tell me about this?"

Bahar looked up at the place on the screen that Alqahiray had highlighted. "Yes, sir. That is a small abandoned airstrip in the Moroccan desert. The Moroccan Air Force used it decades ago in their fight against rebels in that area. It has been abandoned for many years. Last month, a new American Amphibious Task Force, led by USS Kearsarge, arrived off the Atlantic coast of Morocco. They mounted an airborne assault and captured the airfield from the weeds and sands that defended it. The airfield is near the border with Algeria. The unopposed assault took less than a day. Afterward, with the exception of an unknown number of helicopters and troops, the remainder of the assault force reboarded the amphibious carrier Kearsarge and sailed with it through the Strait of Gibraltar a week ago."

"Why would they want to put troops there? There is nothing there. It is nothing but sand and grit and heat."

"Colonel Samir believed they have either vacated the airfield or are preparing to vacate. An American ship passed through the Strait of Gibraltar yesterday and turned down the coast of Morocco. We think it is hurrying to a position off the coast so that the Americans can abandon the airfield.

The Marines are at the airfield to rescue Americans stranded in southern Algeria. Reports from Algeria show two of the rescue helicopters were destroyed by our forces when they touched down near an oil drilling site." He reached down and touched a button. A red light lit up inside Algeria about 400 miles from the captured airfield. "Here. According to the last report, two days ago, the American Marines and their evacuees disappeared into the Sahara in two humvees and an old oil rigging truck. They are attempting to drive out with their evacuees. We lost contact with both them and our forces, which were pursuing them, two days ago."

Alqahiray grunted. "Good. Let the desert bleach their bones as it has bleached others who have tried to conquer it."

Major Bahar nodded.

Alqahiray pulled another Greek cigarette out and butt lit it from the one nearly burned to the filter. He then tossed the still-burning butt toward the ash can, missing again. Major Bahar followed the track of the cigarette and watched it roll onto the floor. He took two careful steps to the right and ground the cigarette out. His face showed no expression. A mask, thought Alqahiray as he observed the officer. Bahar gazed up at the colonel.

"Major, order the Moroccan forces to take the base back. There cannot be many troops there, and with the ship in no position to help them, they are stranded. How foolish and stupid can the Americans be to leave a sacrificial lamb like this! Well, let's take their offer to our new republic." He laughed. Did the Americans think they could come with impunity and establish a base inside the Republic of Barbary and North Africa? "Send the orders immediately!" He slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair.

Major Bahar nodded and saluted. "Yes, sir. It will be done."

The sound of combat boots marching down the corridor echoed off the tile floor outside of the operations room, capturing Alqahiray's attention. The sound brought back memories of how they marched him, wounded and bleeding, into his home in Tripoli, where they held him prisoner for nearly four weeks. The roles were reversed now.

Six soldiers turned the corner. Two half dragged, half pushed a short, dumpy man between them. The sleeves were torn on the man's suit, and specks of blood dotted the ripped white shirt. The tie lay askew across his right shoulder with the knot pulled down several inches below the top two opened buttons, exposing another double chin and a chest full of white hair. Two officers in gray uniforms walked between four soldiers outfitted in camouflage utilities. Alqahiray recognized the two officers in gray as intelligence aides to Samir, an added bonus with the capture of President Mintab. The eyes of one of the intelligence officers shifted back and forth as if looking for an escape. Even from across the room, fear gripped the man's face, a caged desire to run evident in legs that seemed to bounce slightly. A bullet in the kneecap would stop those thoughts. The eyes of the other officer, standing ramrod straight, met Alqahiray's stare. Alqahiray's eyebrows bunched. The man should be frightened, ready to beg for his life like his comrade. Alqahiray took another deep drag on the harsh Greek cigarette. Here was a man deserving of respect. Too bad he had to die.

Alqahiray looked away from the intelligence officer and back to President Mintab, the man in the suit. Mintab must have fought, thought Alqahiray, from the condition of the man's clothes and the bruises on the side of the short man's face. He had more spunk than he thought.

Four soldiers remained in the corridor, guarding the two intelligence officers as two others shoved the civilian prisoner around the consoles to the raised platform where Alqahiray sat. Alqahiray stood as they approached. The nearby guard tightened his grip on the AK-47 and slammed it into Mintab's back, knocking the man to the floor. Mintab moaned. He spread his arms out and began to push himself up onto all fours. The operators concentrated on their consoles while snatching quick glimpses of the terror near Alqahiray's platform.

Alqahiray sauntered down the metal steps, the sound of his boots echoing slightly in the quiet of the operations room until he stepped onto the rubber antistatic mats that covered the raised metal floor. He stopped over Mintab who had managed to pull himself up onto his hands and knees. Alqahiray put his boot lightly on Mintab's back.

Mintab looked up at the Libyan mastermind. He begged quietly, "Please, please, Colonel."

Then, again, his first impression was correct. The man had no spunk. No pride. Even when Walid and Samir had overthrown him in the operations theater, he had retained his pride. A true man maintains his honor, even in the face of adversity. Most politicians would find that a hard concept. Mintab was no different.

Alqahiray lifted his foot a few inches and stomped as hard as he could on Mintab's spine, knocking the older politician back onto the floor. "Hello, Mintab, my friend. Remember me?"

Mintab nodded, his head forced away from Alqahiray. His arms and legs, spread apart, shook on the rubber matting.

"Who designed and planned Jihad Wahid? Who brought you from obscurity to lead the political effort?"

Mintab turned his head toward Alqahiray; his face rested on the floor a few inches from the colonel's boots. The out-of-shape politician clenched his eyes shut as a wave of pain racked his body. He lifted his head slightly to stare up at Alqahiray. Tears trickled out of dilated, bloodshot eyes. The blue lighting cast shadows across the deep recesses of Alqahiray's eyes, creating two dark caverns on the colonel's face where normal men's eyes would have been visible. Blood trickled out of Mintab's nose to drip on the rubber matting, building a small puddle beneath the man's head.

"Please, please, don't," whimpered Mintab. "I did not know. Walid never told me."

"Walid never told you what, Mintab?" Alqahiray nudged the man's face with the edge of his boot. "What did Walid never tell you?"

"That you were okay," Mintab stuttered. "That you were still in charge. I am still loyal to you, my Maadi. I love you. Please, please believe me. If I had only known the circumstance. These men --"

Alqahiray laughed. "Mintab, you are such a poor liar. Even I could think of a better argument. Or does fear cloud your political mind?"

Mintab slid his left arm beneath him, and pushed himself up to a near sitting position. He might be able to talk his way out of this. "No, Colonel Alqahiray. I am still loyal to you. Walid forced us to go along. None wanted to. Our loyalty remained with you, the leader of the revolution."

Alqahiray drew his foot back and kicked Mintab. The president rolled once, landing on his stomach. Mintab moaned, his hands over his face, blood running out between his fingers. Alqahiray stomped the frightened man's back twice. Mintab jerked his hands away from his face, spreading his arms out. Alqahiray brought his boot down, planting it neatly in the small of Mintab's back. He put his full weight on the boot and twisted the heel, causing Mintab's head to involuntarily bounce off the thin matting as the boot dug further into the nerves of the spinal column. The man's arms flapped ineffectively as he fought to reach the tyrant's leg.

Alqahiray heard the air rush out of Mintab's lungs and smiled as his captive fought to catch his breath. Alqahiray laughed. He moved his foot to the top of Mintab's back, leaned forward, and put all his weight on the foot holding the prisoner down, keeping him from drawing a breath, enjoying the squirming beneath his heel. Mintab fought to free himself, fighting for air. The guards laughed.

Sergeant Adib, who led the group, drew back his foot and kicked Mintab in the side, drawing a cry of pain from the man and forcing out the last air in the man's lungs. Alqahiray leaned away, taking his weight off Mintab. The gasping sounds of Mintab searching for breath brought a wider smile to Alqahiray's lips. Not a healthy sound, thought Alqahiray.

"You should have taken better care of yourself, President Mintab. Maybe if you had visited me and seen for yourself, I might be inclined to believe you. However, not one word have I heard from you since your speech at the United Nations declaring the entire North African coast a new nation -- which, by the way, was very good. Too bad for your health that you neglected to stick with making speeches. You politicians are alike; so fluid-flowing wherever you think the waters are best for you. Saying whatever will help retain the power you so cravenly desire and possess. What are you now? The interim president of the Islamic Republic of Barbary and North Africa? How impressive, Mintab! No, don't say anything. I am truly impressed how far you have risen in such a short time. Would it surprise you if I told you that I thought someday that I would be the president or prime minister of the Islamic Republic of Barbary and North Africa?" He leaned over the man. "No? I didn't think it would. And where are your cohorts who shot and kidnapped me -- Walid and Samir?"

Mintab raised his head; his lips moved silently a couple of times before his head fell back onto the floor. Tears mixed with the blood flowing from his nose. Torn lips had turned his teeth a sickly red, causing them to appear black in the blue light.

The ammonia smell of urine reached Alqahiray, causing his nose to wrinkle.

Mintab finally realized he was going to die. If he knew where Walid and Samir had fled, he could bargain. Maybe he could delay. "I don't know, Colonel. I don't know. I saw them last night when we met to discuss the situations . . ." he said weakly, gasping the words out. Think, Mintab, he said to himself. Make something up to give him. Anything to save your life. However, fear, pain, and fatigue clouded his mental faculties, and he felt himself fading into a deep blackness.

Copyright © 2002 by David E. Meadows