Caliphate

Flight Seven Nine Three, 23 Muharram,

1538 AH (3 November, 2113)

The great white whale of an airship turned slowly to the left and southward as it descended. For as long as the deception held, Chinese intelligence would be portraying the ship as still moving northward at eighty-three hundred feet over ground level. In fact, it was moving the other way at under eight hundred.

Lee/Ling was at the controls, wearing a set of the night vision goggles Hans had pinched from the unit arms room perched atop his/ her head. This was only a backup. Although the Chinese had killed all marking lights, and shut off all active navigation aids, the better to avoid detection, the ship itself had excellent passive limited visibility.

The captain and exec, along with most of the rest of the white crew, were down below, guarded by some of the former cargo slaves. Only Retief and three of the former slaves remained in the control cabin and for that there was a special reason.

Ignoring the flight engineer for the moment, Matheson asked, "How far down are you going to take us?"

"Just another fifty or sixty meters," Lee answered. "Any lower and people on the ground will be able to hear our engines. Any higher and we'll make a radar signal the Caliphate might pick up. Even at that height, though, there are places where we're going to appear on someone's radar screen."

"What can we do about that?" Matheson asked.

"Ourselves? Not much. My people back in Shanghai, the ones creating a false image of us proceeding north, are going to be trying to catch any time we appear on the radar and eliminate the trace on the screens. But they're not going to know we're there until after we've appeared. So there are going to be a few seconds every now and again when we will appear."

"Won't that cause the Caliphate to scramble fighters to investigate? I mean, in the Empire we'd be all over any unexplained radar signal like flies on shit."

"I don't think so," answered the Chinese. "Neither does the Ministry of State Security. Besides, you Yankees are paranoid. People in the Caliphate are just used to things going wrong. 'Will of Allah,' and all that. I think we'll be okay."

"She's got that right," Retief interjected.

"He," Lee corrected.

"He?"

Matheson explained. As he did, Retief began to laugh. "Oh, I can hardly wait to tell the captain he was being blown by a man."

Matheson didn't laugh, nor even smile. "Mr. Retief, I need to ask you a few questions. You need to think over your answers carefully."

"All right," Retief agreed.

"The man you might remember as De Wet—no need for you to know his real name—suggested to me that you have some . . . issues . . . with the slave trade."

"I do," Retief agreed.

"Enough for you to strike a blow against it? Before you answer that, you need to know that the primary purpose of the mission on which I am engaged is not to strike such a blow. It has, however, become the price we must pay to succeed in that mission."

Retief thought on that one, before answering, "I hate the trade. I hate my part in it. But I have family back home and they will suffer if I help you. That's what you're getting at, isn't it; you want my help?"

"How will they suffer?" Matheson asked. "Are you talking salary and finances or are you talking reprisal?"

"Both."

"What if I could guarantee you a diplomatic trade for your family, and guaranteed employment in the Empire?"

"You can't guarantee such a trade," Retief answered.

"Watch him," Matheson told the remaining cargo slave guards. He then turned away, walked to the empty copilot's chair, and sat down. His eyes closed.

"What's going on?" Retief asked.

"He's communicating with higher," Lee/Ling answered, while deftly tapping some control or other. "Shut up and let him do so."