Caliphate

Chapter Nineteen

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)

Cursing herself for a fool, Petra ran toward the edge of the town. I'm an idiot, an idiot, an idiot! I've lost my damned communicator and now Hans and John are both probably frantic.

She stopped where the woods ended, looking right and left for any sign of people, especially policemen or janissaries. She saw none. Heart pounding, she released the folds of the burka she'd gathered up so she could run through the woods. She looked again for signs of people. Seeing none, and still gripping her submachine gun, she sprinted-as best she could, given the constraints of the burka- across the frozen field and for the shadows of the town. That few towns in Germany had streetlights anymore, an-Nessang not being among those that did, helped.

Breathless, Petra slammed herself against a wall and then crouched down, much like a feral animal. She listened for the sound of footsteps for a while and, after hearing none, stood and tucked her submachine gun in the folds of her burka. Even there, her fingers remained wrapped around the pistol grip of the weapon.

Trying to exude a confidence, a sense of right-to-be-there, that she did not feel, Petra walked out from the shadows in the direction of the car where she was to meet Hans or John. Her footsteps were brisk, her pace steady. A lone policeman, leaning against a lamppost, shivering and in the process of nodding off, nodded to her form instead. Politely, she nodded back and continued on her way.

Petra, raised first in a Christian town and then in a brothel, didn't know that any show of friendliness was overwhelmingly likely to be misunderstood as a show of interest, an invitation. The policeman, cognizant of his power and authority, cold and thinking perhaps of getting much warmer, followed her.

Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)

The situation was about to get hot. Still, Hans crouched behind the heavy oaken table, reinforced by chairs and trunks and whatever was to hand, that he and Hamilton had set up to cover the gate once it fell off of its hinges or was otherwise smashed through. He wasn't too worried about a direct hit. True, the oak, even at two inches thick, wasn't up to warding off rifle fire. But the trunks and other pieces in front of and behind the oak should have been enough.

A direct hit wasn't going to be the only problem, though. The open foyer in which he hid was of stone. That stone would cause ricochets. And against those, Hans had no protection at all but his officer class torso armor.

He didn't expect a lot of protection from it but, even so, Hans took the crucifix from under his uniform and hung it plainly on the outside.

Bam… bam… bam, the ram battered at the gate. Hans heard a sound of wood cracking and splintering. Bam… bam… crrraackckck and the left-hand side of the gate popped open, followed by the right.

Hans didn't hesitate. As soon as the wooden gate was out of the way he opened fire, holding the trigger down until bolt locked to rear on an empty magazine. In the confined space of the alcove before the gate, perhaps no more than ten feet by twelve, Hans put just over one bullet into every two square feet. The half dozen janissaries holding the ram were cut down like harvested wheat. Except that wheat doesn't bleed or scream.

"Goddammit, Matheson!" the pilot screamed. "I'm losing lifting gas like you wouldn't fucking believe and if you don't get your ass up and I'm leaving without you!"

"Calm down, Lee, I'm on my way," the black answered, as he prepared to close the door from the lab to the staircase. Already, with every burner in the crematorium on full blast, the temperature in the lab was inimical to human life. How high it would get neither Matheson nor Richter could be certain.

The fail safe proved to be a nonconcern. If the crematorium had such, it certainly didn't work. Matheson suspected that the burners worked only because they had no moving parts.

"Lee," Matheson asked, "are the kids loaded?"

"How the fuck do I know? My buoyancy is dropping so fast I can't even tell you what my weight is. Maybe they're on; maybe they're not."

"Roger. I'm on my way." Matheson hurried up the stone steps several flights before stumbling over a child who cried out.

"Shit. Lee, don't go anywhere. The kids are not, repeat not, loaded."

"Jesus H. Christ," said Lee.

"I'm getting them on their feet now. Just hold on."

"I'm trying to hold on, you dumb son of a bitch. I just can't guarantee I'll be… ah shit."

"What? What is it?" Matheson asked.

"Lost another gas cell. You've got to hurry."

"On your feet, children," Matheson shouted in Afrikaans, a language most of the boys and girls had at least some familiarity with. "Now up the steps."

"We tried, baas," one of the girls answered. "The way is blocked by the rest of us."

The agent thought about that for all of a second and a half before countermanding his previous order. "Lay down, kids. I'm going to have to walk over you."

Being walked all over was something, of course, that slave children were used to. an-Nessang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)

Petra walked as fast as she could towards the car. Unfortunately, with the constraints of the burka, she couldn't outpace the pursuing policeman.

Maybe I should just suck him off and send him on his way, she thought. That would be quickest and simplest. That's probably what Ling would do.

No, argued another voice, though that voice was still her own. You've spent your whole life until this evening submitting. Enough is enough. Girl, as your great-grandmother wrote in her journal, at the end there comes a time when you have to fight or it will be too late.

"Fine then," Petra whispered to herself, her fingers reaching down to caress the journal, tucked into a belt underneath her burka. "I'll fight."

She slowed her pace and began to glance from side to side, looking for a deserted alley. After half a minute she came upon one, off to her right, with no lights showing. She turned down it. Behind her, the policeman's footsteps picked up as he closed for the kill…

Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)

After throwing his weight against the door repeatedly, Matheson emerged onto the bleeding body of one of the former cargo slaves. The top of the man's head had been blown off and the body had been blocking the exit.

"Retief!" he bellowed.

"Here, Bernie," the South African answered.

"What the… never mind, you didn't have a communicator. But why didn't you move the body out from the door?"

"I figured the kids were safer down there than they'd be out here," Retief answered.

"Oh. Fair enough. But we've got to get them loaded now."

"Fine, but there's one little problem. The janissaries can bring the loading ramp under fire and I haven't been able to permanently drive them back."

"From where?" Matheson asked.

"Corner of the castle where we can't see but they can see the ramp and the airship."

"Really? Well…" Matheson took off at a sprint, or as much of one as his bad leg would permit, across the ramp. No bullets came in until he was nearly across, and those missed.

He threw himself onto the deck of the passenger compartment and then swung his body around to face back towards the hatch. He dropped his night vision goggles back over his face. Then, slithering like a snake up to the hatch, he paused to make last minute check of his submachine gun. Satisfied, he whispered a prayer, and then poked weapon and head around the edge of the hatch.

Just as a janissary exposed himself to engage the airship again, Matheson fired. an-Nessang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)

Petra stood with her back to a wall. The alleyway was a dead end. A dozen feet before her, the policeman approached with a gleam in his eye that even the dim light could not conceal.

"I knew you would be waiting for me," the policeman said. "I could tell by the way you nodded."

"Yesss," Petra answered, her voice a throaty purr. "I knew you would follow."

Petra leaned her back against the wall, and spread her legs slightly apart in invitation. So excited and incited was the man that he began to fumble with his belt even as he walked forward.

When Petra judged he was close enough that even she could be certain not to miss, she raised the submachine gun, pointed it at his chest, and fired.

Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)

Matheson saw the janissary spin and fall, and the rifle he bore go flying. His night vision was enhanced as much by the chip in his head as the goggles on his face. With those, he turned his head to look across the ramp to where Retief stood back from the wall with his arm across the door that led to the children.

"Send 'em now, Retief," Matheson shouted. "Send 'em fast!"

"You must hurry, children; do you understand?" Retief asked of the group nearest him. "You must hurry and run and get aboard and then get out of the way. Don't look down. Don't fear the pitching and swaying of the ramp. Don't pay attention if anyone else is hurt or falls off.

"Are you ready?"

Somberly, the children nearest him nodded, or said, "Yes," or even shouted it.

"Then go, go, GO!"

Off they flew, the foremost, as fast as tiny legs would carry them. Ahead the ramp bucked and twisted. Even so they ran for it. At the edge of the ramp two of the former cargo slaves waited. These helped the children, largely by shoving, or picking them up, or even throwing them onto the ramp as circumstances dictated.

Matheson stood now, on the airship's end of the ramp, encouraging the children on with shouts and open arms. Mentally, he did his best to keep count as the children passed: "One eighty-six… one eighty- seven… " He still had his submachine gun in his hand. Which helped him not at all when one of the janissaries below, perhaps enraged at his colonel's death (for it was the corbasi whom the agent had shot down), stepped out into the open and fired.

Hamilton had arrived at the tail end of the mass of children just as the gaggle began to move forward. He couldn't have them lie down, as Matheson had, to allow himself to pass, not if they were to have a chance to escape. Thus, he had to wait until the line moved ahead and the last children exited the door before he was able to get onto the battlemented roof.

Which he did just in time to see Matheson cut down.

"Bastards," Hamilton said. "Fucking bastards. Retief, get yourself and the cargo boys aboard. Now."

Hamilton waited until they were moving across the ramp and then mounted it himself. He walked halfway out, his lower body covered by the ramp's low sidewalls and his upper torso by the body armor provided by Hans. There he stood, stock still, and waited for a janissary to show himself. When the janissary did, Hamilton whispered, "This is for Bernie, you bastard," and shot the man down.

Then Hamilton turned towards the hatchway and walked aboard.

As he entered the ship, he looked down at Matheson's body and knelt beside it. Retief was already retracting the ramp and closing the hatchway.

Quite to Hamilton's surprise, the black man opened his eyes and said, "That was all very touching, to be sure, baas, but I'm not quite dead yet. And, if you can manage to stop this red shit that's leaking out of me, I probably won't be."

"You're a bastard, Matheson, you know that?"

"I didn't know you cared."

The pilot heard in his ear, "Take off now." He didn't have to be told twice. Applying full power to his vertical thrusters, he began to move the ship up and out from the castle walls.

Where's Hans? Ling asked, in his mind.

How the fuck do I know, woman. He's not my responsibility.

I asked you politely, Ling said. Now tell me where Hans is.

Goddammit, fuck off. I'm busy.

The pilot reached for the control to add gas to the central and main lifting cell. Rather, he wanted to do so but discovered that he couldn't move his arm.

For the last time, where's Hans?

"She what?" Hamilton asked incredulously.

"She wants to know what happened to Hans. Who the fuck is Hans?" the pilot asked in Ling's voice. "If I don't come up with a good answer, she's not going to let me fly this airship. She's got me frozen. Look, I've got barely the horses to get up to Switzerland. Will you please tell her."

Listening in on the circuit, Hans asked, "Ling… can you hear me?"

"She can hear you… if you're Hans," the pilot answered.

"Then listen carefully," the man said. "I want you to release the pilot. It's important to me."

"Okay… she's unfrozen me."

"Ling… honey," Hans' voice continued. "Someone had to stay behind. I chose me… "

"Aiaiaiai!" the pilot screamed, then said aloud, "Goddammit, woman, I felt that."

"Ling… I chose me for a lot of good reasons. I'm sorry… . more than I can say. They're getting ready to rush me now. I have to go. I love you."

The last Ling heard was the pffft… pffft… pffft of Hans' submachine gun.

Down below, below the airship and even below Hans, the crematorium was fed from two tanks, each containing a mix of LPG, liquid petroleum gas, and oxygen. These tanks, for ease of installation, had been placed under the floor of the lab. That floor was growing very, very hot.

In those tanks under the floor, the oxygen-LPG mix was likewise growing very, very hot. Indeed, it was beginning to boil. This boiling was forcing more and more of the gas out through the crematorium's nozzles, lowering the liquid volume in the tanks and increasing the pressure on those tanks.

For one minute give me control, Ling demanded.

Too dangerous, Lee answered. Besides, I don't know how to cede partial control. I don't know how you were able to freeze my limbs and still let me talk.

Neither do I. So what? Give me control. Please, she begged. Weren't you ever in love?

That's a low blow… Oh, all RIGHT! I wish there were some fucking way to give you only vocal control. But if there is, I don't know it. And do try to keep your hands steady on the controls, eh?

Hans' hands and gaze were steady, steadier than anyone had a right to expect, given that the fire of his former soldiers was chipping away at the edges of the oaken table and wearing at its surface. Already bullets had made their way through, only to be stopped by his torso armor. Even if stopped, they hurt. Eventually-and probably very soon-a bullet would find its way to an uncovered spot. After that? Well… After that I die.

They were in the foyer with him now, he knew. More than a dozen but less than a score. And I don't have enough ammunition left to deal with that number if they all lined up and just let me shoot them.

Unconsciously, Hans reached for the dagger at his side and loosened the retaining strap. If he had to die-and he did, and was even "comfortable" with the idea-it wouldn't be without a weapon in his hand.

He heard in his earpiece, "Hans, this is Ling, not the pilot. He won't let me talk for long. But I wanted you to know that in all my life I never loved anyone but you and your sister. And you two I loved with all my heart. Goodbye."

Hans smiled, a last smile. That was warming. He then stood, fired once, twice, and a third time. His vision had narrowed under the stress. Whether he actually hit anyone he didn't know and, perhaps, at that point, didn't much care. He flung the empty submachine gun at a janissary aiming his weapon at him, causing the janissary to duck. Hans then pulled the dagger from its sheath, screamed " Deus vult! "God wills it-and charged like a berserker, a force of nature in himself, right over the table.

Down in the lab the stone walls began to glow. Mortar, old and solid, likewise crumbled from in between set stones. Under the floor, the twin tanks of oxygenated LPG boiled and frothed furiously, albeit unseen. In the crematorium, the flames jutting from the burners were like flamethrowers pretending they were crossed swords. A mass of flame poured from the crematorium's open portal.

As the flames poured forth and the liquid volume inside the tanks dropped, the pressure on the tanks' walls increased. The tanks had a finite strength, and that strength was lessened by the heat. A small fissure appeared in the wall of one tank. Gas escaped, dropping the pressure suddenly. Under the lower pressure, and at the temperature the liquid was at, the boil became a storm. A massive quantity of the liquid suddenly flashed to a gaseous state, bursting the tank apart explosively. Gas and oxygen raced to fill every nook and cranny.

Some neared the flame pouring out of the crematorium's wide open door.

Even within the night vision goggles, vision was tunneled down to nearly nothing. Still, Hans could see a janissary rise before him. He knocked the soldier down and jumped on his chest, pushing his dagger into the gap around the neck and bringing forth a furious spurt of blood.

Booted feet stood before him. Hans began to rise. He felt a blow, then another and a third. His armor kept them out, not least because the bullets were still unstable and did not hit point on.

Sig fired at the madman to his front without effect, so far as he could tell. In the unlit foyer he could make out no more than the silhouette of the body, except in the strobelike flashing of the muzzles of the combatants.

He saw rise before him something instinct told him was a monster. Sig was an old soldier, though, and was not ruled by instinct. A more careful look caused his heart to sink. "Is it really you, my odabasi ?" he whispered.

There was no sense in denying it. Sig knew. He adjusted his aiming point upwards and fired.

Gas touched the flames. Boom.

The children were the first to notice. Their collective gasp and pointing fingers directed Hamilton's attention to the rear of the airship, toward Castle Honsvang.

What the children and Hamilton saw, initially, was a bright glow, originating at the lower levels and shining through the windows there. The glow spread upward. By the time the upper stories shone, it had expanded past the lower windows, engulfing the castle's base in flame. Inside that flame, one could not see. Yet above it, one saw the towers, the crenellations, the roof, all begin to rise in slow motion. The fireball, traveling faster, overtook most of that, reached apogee, and began to recede. As it did, roof and walls and crenellations and towers all began to return to Earth, following the fireball down. Some pieces continued upward, even so.

By the time the fireball was gone, and the rest fallen, there was nothing to see of Castle Honsvang from the airship. Nor was there anyone on the ground nearby left alive to see.

Interlude

Grosslangheim, Federal Republic of Germany,

1 October, 2022

Amal didn't have to wear a veil at home. She wore it anyway because every time her mother looked at her face, Gabi broke down in tears.

They'd moved to Grosslangheim for protection. The boys had been caught early, but the judge, an Islamic judge, had released them on bail. About this the police could do exactly nothing except to advise Gabi to take her daughter someplace else for safety until the trial.

Not that there was going to be a trial. The boys had no sooner been released on bail then they'd fled, taking advantage of both the informal network of blood relations in Germany and the fact that German police had retreated from the Muslim neighborhoods, leaving them in the charge of German-funded Islamic police who were, in effect, an arm of the very mullahs and imams who counseled that the responsibility for rape fell entirely upon the female.

The police had warned Gabi this would happen and warned her, too, that despite the boys' practical immunity from prosecution, they would still kill her daughter, if they could, as a matter of "principle."

She'd thought of returning to her home town of Kitzingen but that, the police had also advised, was large enough and had enough of a

Muslim community now that she and the girl would be in danger there as well.

"Better a small town," they'd advised. "One where there are none but Germans. You'll find a lot of us are abandoning the cities as they turn into foreign enclaves. No one will find you and Amal too remarkable. It will be better in a small town, too, since the welfare benefits are being slashed all over."

The welfare payments had become more important, too, as Gabi had found herself unable to sell much of her art. She, after all, concentrated on the human form and selling pictures of people had become a rather dangerous, as being against the Sharia, activity. Though she'd never encountered it, she'd had friends who had had their stalls and galleries ransacked by Islamic mobs.

In the end, she'd decided she must emigrate and take Amal with her.

American Consulate, Zurich, Switzerland, 5 March, 2024

After the retaliatory nukings, only Switzerland, in all of Western Europe, had maintained diplomatic relations with the United Statesnow, since the occupation of Canada, rapidly morphing into the American Empire. Thus, it had been to Switzerland Gabi had had to go to apply for a visa to immigrate into the U.S.

She took her number, and waited impatiently for it to be called. Her initial application had been submitted months before, shortly after she'd realized that no place in continental Europe was going to be safe.

Once her number was called, Gabi proceeded to a private office where a consular officer invited her to sit while perusing her file.

"I'm sorry, Ms. von Minden," the official had said. "Your application has been disapproved."

"But… but why?"

In answer, the official began taking from the file documents and photographs, sliding them across the desk. Gabi saw herself in the photographs, standing on rostra while speaking to crowds, standing in crowds while carrying signs, signing petitions while being photographed.

She didn't understand. Her face said as much.

"We still take some immigrants from Old Europe," the consular explained. "But we don't really need them. We get plenty of high quality applicants from Latin America, India, Japan, China, Vietnam… all over. We not only don't need Europeans anymore, we don't really want them.

"I'm sorry to have to say it this way but… you're diseased, you see… politically diseased. You're in the process of losing your own homeland. You brought it on yourselves and it's become irreversible now. So ask yourself: Why should we accept into our country people with a history of destroying the country they live in?

"You're diseased, Ms. von Minden, and you're contagious. We had a long bout with the disease that's afflicted Europe, and it killed millions of us. Why should we allow any more contamination?

"Europe abandoned its future for a short period of comfort in the present, and you… you personally "-the consular's hand waved towards the pictures and documents on the desk-"encouraged this. Europe stopped having children, who are the future-because it was too uncomfortable, too inconvenient. Europe began taxing the future to buy comfort in the present. Europe let in millions of inassimilable, and therefore inherently hostile, foreigners to do the work that the children which you did not have could not do. And thus you have no future-you sold it-but only a past. Why should we let you take away our future? What do we owe you that we should risk that?"

"But my daughter? Her father was an American citizen!"

"We know. But he was not a citizen until well after your daughter was born. Thus, she is not a citizen. Worse, you raised her and she probably carries the same political disease you do. We don't want her either.

"For whatever it's worth, I'm sorry for you both."