Caliphate

Highway 310, Northwest of ar-Rebchel, Province of Baya, 23 Muharram,

1538 AH (3 November, 2113)

Petra stood over Hans, her submachine gun held in both hands. Not knowing any way to help, she felt both useless and frustrated. She said as much.

"Sis, you don't have to help," Hans assured her, as he lay behind one of the cylindrical mines aiming it precisely at a point in the road. "These things have to be set just right. Even Hamilton—and he's used to weapons—doesn't know how to aim them. He's doing the most he can just by lugging them to the firing positions."

"If you say so," Petra said dubiously. "But I'd feel a lot better if I could help."

"Fair enough," Hans agreed. "So tell me again how it's going to happen."

"Okay," Petra agreed. "One: once they're all set up and wired together, with the detonators in the hole, I go to the hole and wait. If I get tired, I take one of the pills Bernie gave each of us. Two: after you tell me the assault on the castle and lab is underway, I wait some more until . . . Three: when the column comes from af-Fridhav I wait until the lead truck is right there"—her finger pointed at a boulder on the other side of the road—"and squeeze the first detonator. Four: even if that works, I press the second one anyway. I do it until the explosions begin. Five: I don't stick around, but crawl and then run toward an- Nessang. Six: there'll be a sedan waiting for me by the place John showed me. I get in back, lie on the floor, hold the bolt cutters to my chest, and cover myself with a blanket. Seven: you or John will come for me."

"Good girl! There's something else you can do, too."

"What's that?"

Hans handed her a reel of electrical field wire and said, "Run this back to your hole."