An hour after the ambush the burnt-out staff car was found by the next patrol. The bodies were taken to the nearest hospital, Al Adan.
The forensic pathologist who did the autopsy under the eyes of a glowering colonel of the AMAM
spotted the bullet holes—tiny pinpricks in the sealed-over charred flesh. He was a family man, with daughters of his own. He knew the young nurse who had been raped.
He drew the sheet back over the third body and began to peel off his gloves.
“I’m afraid they died of asphyxia when the car caught fire after the crash,” he said. “May Allah have mercy.”
The colonel grunted and left.
At his third meeting with his band of volunteers, the Bedou drove them far out into the desert, to a spot west of Kuwait City and south of Jahra where they could be alone. Seated in the sand like a picnic party, the five youngsters watched as their teacher took out a haversack and poured out onto his camel blanket an array of strange devices. One by one he identified them.
“Plastic explosive. Easy to handle, very stable.”
They went several shades paler when he squeezed the substance in his hands like modeling clay. One of the young men, whose father owned
a tobacco shop, had brought on request a number of old cigar boxes.
“This,” said the Bedou, “is a time pencil, a detonator with timer combined. When you twist this butterfly screw at the top, a phial of acid is crushed. The acid begins to burn its way through a copper diaphragm.
It will do so in sixty seconds. After that, the mercury fulminate will detonate the explosive. Watch.”
He had their undivided attention. Taking a piece of Semtex-H the size of a cigarette pack, he placed it in the small cigar box and inserted the detonator into the heart of the mass.
“Now when you twist the butterfly like this, all you have to do is close the box and wrap a rubber band around the box ... so ... to hold it closed. You only do this at the last moment.”
He placed the box on the sand in the center of the circle.
“However, sixty seconds is a lot longer than you think. You have time to walk to the Iraqi truck, or bunker or half-track, toss in the box, and walk away. Walk—never run. A running man is at once the start of an alarm. Leave enough time to walk around one corner. Continue walking, not running, even after you hear the explosion.”
He had half an eye on the watch on his wrist. Thirty seconds.
“Bedou,” said the banker.
“Yes?”
“That’s not a real one, is it?”
“What?”
“The bomb you just made. It’s a dummy, right?”
Forty-five seconds. He reached forward and picked it up.
“Oh, no. It’s a real one. I just wanted to show you how long sixty seconds really is. Never panic with these things. Panic will kill you, get you shot, just stay calm at all times.”
With a deft flick of the wrist he sent the cigar box spinning away over the dunes. It dropped behind one and exploded. The bang rocked the sitting group, and fine sand drifted back on the wind.
High over the northern Gulf, an American AWACS plane noted the explosion on one of its heat sensors.
The operator drew it to the attention of the mission controller, who peered at the screen. The glow from the heat source was dying away.
“Intensity?”
“Size of a tank shell, I guess, sir.”
“Okay. Log it. No further action.”