this he taped the crewman's hands together and behind him, taped the feet together, and then taped the mouth shut. Lastly, Lee ran the tape around the crewman's neck, then to the head of the bed.
'That should hold you.'
Before leaving, Lee took the trouble to reapply Ling's smeared lipstick. She knocked on Bongo's door and, when it was opened, said, 'Cockpit next.'
Lee scratched at the cockpit door like a cat asking to be let in. Retief opened the door.
'May I help you, miss?'
'You may,' Ling's sultry, breathy, desperate-sounding voice answered. 'I haven't seen my master in two days. He'd kill me if I had sex with a kaffir. And the kaffir is too loyal, he'd report me if I tried. But I'm one of those with the kind of chip that makes me want to have it, to need to have it, every day. Won't one of you or… better still all of you, please, please help me?'
'Let the poor girl in, Retief,' the unseen captain said. 'We can surely help her in her hour of need.'
God, Retief thought, what a shitty world when we do things like this to beautiful women. Hell, what a shitty world when things like this are done to anybody.
Bongo looked in on Ling's cabin to make sure the crewman was still alive. Force of habit and training had made Lee hook the needle of the autoinjector through the crewman's shirt.
One won't kill him, the agent thought. Probably. That was the only guard on this deck, too. Time to go down and check on the ship's own loading crew. Better said, time to go recruit.
The loading crew were colored slaves. As such, they didn't automatically rise and bow with deference when Bongo made his appearance in their cramped cabin. They seemed startled, though, when he spoke to them not with the pidgin such people usually learned, but with as clear a diction as any baas. That surprise was as nothing, though, beside what they felt when they noticed the silenced submachine gun in his hand and the pistol strapped to his hip.
'Gentlemen,' Bongo began, 'please sit and listen. I'd like to tell you a story about a man who died several hundred miles to the south of here, not quite two thousand and two hundred years ago.
'His name was Spartacus…'
Lee heard a mental laugh from Ling. Okay, you're a slut. But it just occurred to me that if these Boers knew what the sex was of the mind controlling my body, they'd all try to crawl out of their own skins with disgust.
That's half the fun of it, Lee sent back. I wonder how is Matheson doing down below?
Matheson declaimed, arms thrust up and out with the submachine grasped in the left hand, ''O comrades! Warriors! Thracians! If we must fight, let us fight for ourselves! If we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors! If we must die, let it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle!''
'This Spartacus fella, he say that?' asked one of the cargo slaves.
'That, yes, or about that, but in a different language,' Bongo answered, with no less truth than the purpose required.
'And what happen to him?'
'He fought. He won many battles. In the end he lost.' Bongo hesitated over telling the rest but, 'His followers were all killed. Over six thousand of them were crucified.'
All the slaves shook their heads at that. No they didn't want to be crucified.
'But we have some advantages,' Bongo added, 'notably, that we're much closer to Switzerland. And Spartacus lacked machine guns.'
Bang! The hatch to the cockpit flew open with a single kick. Bongo… no, Matheson again; there was no more need to pretend… stormed in with his submachine gun in both hands, and a fierce gleam in his eye. Everyone, except for Ling's body, froze.
He saw that both pilot and co-pilot were in various states of undress, with Ling's body kneeling between the captain's legs, head bobbing and the captain's fingers intertwined in Ling's hair. Retief was sitting at a console, studiously watching a screen and apparently trying very hard not to pay any attention to the minor orgy going on in the cockpit.
'Take thees plane to Habana!' Matheson parodied, yet in a voice full of thunder. The slaves, the soon to be ex -slaves, given any luck, poured in behind him waving knives from the ship's galley.
Lee immediately punched the captain in the crotch, stood, grabbed the shocked captain by the hair, and hauled him out of his seat, tossing him to the floor. He deftly swung Ling's body into place and took control of the airship.
'Are you sure you can fly this thing?' Matheson asked.
'People's Liberation Army Air Force Precision Airship Drill Team,' Lee answered, '2109 to 2112. Yeah, yeah… we do a lot of silly shit in the CKPLAAF. By the way, dude, your timing sucks.'
Highway 310, Northwest of ar-Rebchel, Province of Baya, 23 Muharram,
1538 AH (3 November, 2113)
'We've got the ship,' Hamilton heard in his ear. He didn't bother mentioning it to Hans; both he and Petra would have heard the same news. 'We're going low. The control for Ling says his people are painting a false image for Caliphate Air Control. As disorganized as these people are, there's good reason to believe no one will notice us dropping off their screens for a while, if at all. ETA is about ninety- seven minutes. If you need us to speed up or slow down, let me know.'
'Wilco, Bernie,' Hamilton sent back.
Hans was just about to hook up the detonators to the twin wires that led, one from the right most mine, one from the left most, back to the hole. He attached the wires and then laid the detonators on the ground. Petra looked at them nervously.
'It will be fine, Petra,' Hans said, glancing up at Hamilton to suggest that he, too, offer some words of comfort.
Hamilton knelt down on one knee to bring his face almost parallel to the girl's. 'Honey, Hans or I will come for you. I promise. And… '
'Yes?'
He looked very seriously into her eyes, just visible with the scattered moonlight coming through the tree. 'Just… I love you. I should have said it before but it comes hard to me. Please, though, remember that.'
In answer Petra threw her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. She pulled back after half a minute, looked into his eyes, and said, 'I never before knew it was possible to love a man who wasn't a blood relation. Now go before I start to cry.'
With that, Hans and Hamilton raced for Hans' borrowed truck. Initially, both went into the cargo compartment, where Hans began to cover Hamilton with a tarp. Other things were in back, too, notably jars full of cyanide crystals, sulfuric acid, a bomb ginned up by Richter via Matheson, and their weapons and ammunition.
'This is the first time I'll have been in action.' Hans gulped, holding the tarp over Hamilton and their arms. 'I just realized that I'm more nervous than Petra is.'
'Don't be,' Hamilton answered. 'I've been in the shit a lot. Trust me, you're a natural.'
'Thanks,' Hans said sheepishly. Still, the compliment did make him feel more confident, as it was intended to. 'By the way, I really am sorry for punching you.'
'Don't mention it. If you hadn't, we wouldn't have gotten as far as we have.'
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.
