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.'
Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 23 Muharram,
1538 AH (3 November, 2113)
'I'm pulling up to the castle gate,' Hans told Hamilton through the earpiece communicator. 'Be very still.'
'I understand,' Hamilton sent back. He felt the brakes bite, heard their screech. The truck slowed and then shuddered to a stop.
'Evening, sir,' the gate guard said. 'You're back late.'
'I was out looking for a place for a night exercise,' Hans lied. 'I think I found a good one, too.'
'Allah help us, sir,' the guard answered, rolling his eyes heavenward but then smiling to show it was a friendly joke. He turned around and lifted the crossbar from across the roadway. Without another word, but with a friendly wave, Hans guided the truck into the compound. Before reaching the castle proper, into which the truck would never fit, Hans turned right and drove toward the motor park. There he stopped, put on the emergency brake, but left the engine running for the moment.
'We're here,' he whispered into his communicator. 'There's a roving guard walking by. I may have to speak to him. I'll let you know when it's clear.'
Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,
1538 AH (4 November, 2113)
Sig the armorer sipped at something clear and cold and not strictly legal. Through a window he looked down at the other castle, brightly lit by security lights. He saw a truck pull in and though it was too far away to make out the driver, Sig thought it was the odabasi, no doubt returning from some late night foray to find some new training opportunity for the unit.
And isn't that just like the boy? thought the armorer. When he could be here, enjoying the warmth of the women, instead he's out on a cold night looking for ways to make of our company better men. A fine lad, that he is.
The first sergeant stopped by Sig's booth, a young houri in each arm, and said, 'Not too much of that, you hear, Sig?'
'Never fear about me, Baseski. I never take more than Allah is likely to forgive me for.'
Interlude
Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany,
11 September, 2016
A glass of a clear liquor grasped in one hand, Gabi switched channels from one covering a Moslem march in Paris to another showing a similar celebration in Berlin. Ghastly, she thought. Simply ghastly to be celebrating the murders of four million people. What kinds of terrible oppression must those poor people have suffered to make them so vindictive?
It was all too distasteful. Gabi switched channels yet again, this time to CNN International. That was, in its way, far worse.
The big story on CNN was the rise of a new political party in the United States, Pat Buckman's new Wake Up, America Party was sucking voters and contributors from the Republicans and Democrats like the Sahara would suck moisture from a sponge. Worse, senators, congressmen, and state governors were likewise defecting. CNN's commentators were actually concerned that the lunatic might win the election in a couple of months. And that just doesn't bear thinking about.
Whether it bore thinking about or not, though, Gabi couldn't quite tear her eyes from the screen nor switch channels yet again. Why? Because the image was one remarkably frightening to the modern German soul. There was a march there, too. Instead of disarmed rabble chanting slogans, however, this march showed thousands of armed, disciplined men and women, in ranks, under what appeared to be their old officers and NCOs. They sang as they marched, past the old Iwo Jima Memorial, over the bridge across the Potomac, and on into Washington in complete violation of that city's ordinances.
And the police did nothing, so said the commentators. How can that be? Gabi wondered. Don't they know, haven't they learned from our history, what that means?
CNN said there were other marches taking place in the United States. None of those were in Boston, Los Angeles, or Kansas City, of course. Those cities had ceased to exist. But in Houston? In Chicago? In Nashville and Atlanta and a score or more others? Men and women marched and sang and chanted for revenge.
9 November, 2016
When the returns came in from Massachusetts, neither Gabi nor the commentators were all that worried. With a sixth of the state's population-and the most liberal sixth at that-killed in the Boston bombing, it was only to be expected that there would be a serious swing to the right from those who remained. And besides, Massachusetts only had twelve electoral votes. (It would be fewer in coming years, so said the press, after the losses from the bombing came out of the official census.)
Still, Gabi had gone to bed with a sense of dread in her heart. California's fifty-five votes could not be known
