Caliphate

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.