The plague missed us this time. But it's always safe to watch it on tape. Start with a camp classic: Charlton Heston is The Omega Man(1971). The part must have a dream for Chuck: as the last man on Earth after a biological weapon decimates the human race, he gets to chew a whole lot of scenery all by himself. Then he gets to save the planet. Sure, it wears a little thin when you see make-up streaks on the pale-faced night mutants. And the race-relations moral is ham-fisted. But if you're a Heston fan (and CP knows you are), this post-apocalyptic nightmare offers a decent thrill -- and a few chuckles along the way.
A bit primitive? Then go with Twelve Monkeys (1995). Devastating plague, Terry Gilliam-style. The director gets a decent turn out of Bruce Willis, a better one out of Brad Pitt, and treats us to a spectacular vision of humanity crammed underground when germs and wild animals rule the streets of a Philadelphia far in the future. At least street crime is down.
On the lighter side -- if an all-female air force spraying debilitating nerve gas over Fort Knox can be considered lighter -- is Goldfinger (1964). Easily the best of the Bonds, and ahead of its time (sort of) with its man-hating, squadron-leading femme fatale, Pussy Galore (Honor Blackman). She was a liberated woman until James tripped her up on that haystack. No Gloria Steinem, but her conversion saved a lot of lives.
Apparently our two hypothetical terrorists expected any attack they made to be blamed on the Iraqis. Please, Saddam. We'll do anything you say. Just leave us Las Vegas.