Caliphate

know it's not good. What can we do?

Wait. Let me think.

Retief scanned fearfully through the crenellations of the battlement. I think maybe they've backed off for a while. I can't imagine why, though. All we've got is myself and some slaves who can't shoot. And these are janissaries, first-class troops. It's not like them to run unless they think they absolutely have to.

'Give me your rifle,' the corbasi demanded of a janissary cowering with him behind the castle's corner.

'Here, sir,' the soldier said as he, more thankfully than not, passed over the weapon.

The colonel took it and, being very careful to expose no part of his body he didn't need to, eased the thing around the corner. When no return fire came he risked showing a bit more. When he had the forward half the airship in his field of view, he stopped. Moreover, for the first time he had the chance to look at the thing more or less calmly and carefully. He saw, however dimly, the South African markings on the thing. This didn't surprise him as the Americans, and he was sure they were Americans, wouldn't stop to scruple over using a false flag.

Where would the cockpit be? he wondered. We put out a lot a fire initially and, so far as I can tell, apparently didn't hit anything. No matter. No doubt everything important is armored or has a redundant back up. What to shoot; what to shoot? The gas cells? I know this kind of airship, slightly. It gets a good chunk of its lift from its shape, not its buoyancy. And it has vertical thrusters. But it doesn't get all of its lift from those. If I puncture enough gas cells, it will start to fall.

Slowly, adjusting his point of aim very deliberately between shots, the corbasi began shooting out the gas cells.

In the cockpit, Lee/Ling saw red lights start to appear on the control panel.

How truly fucking good, the pilot cursed, even as he increased power to the vertical thrusters and began to release more helium into the punctured gas cells.

'Matheson, this is Lee,' the pilot sent over the communicator attached to his ear. 'We've got a problem and you're going to have to hurry.'

Shit, Doc, Matheson sent, you've got to come up with something quick. We've not much time left before the airship either has to leave or it won't be able to.

Be calm, Agent Matheson, I've had to do some stubby pencil drill.

For what?

For whether the one source of massive heat we've got is up to the job.

What source? Matheson asked.

The crematorium, Richter answered. It's got its own fuel supply and oxygen source. It has to have. We can use it to increase the temperature of the lab.

You mean as in leave the door open and turn on the flame?

Precisely.

What if it has a fail safe so it won't fire up if the door is open?

Silly question, Agent Matheson. If it has a fail safe you break it.

The nausea and the stumble-causing disconnect between eyes and brain were still pretty bad. And moving quickly only made it worse. Twice on the way to Hamilton's position Hans had to stop to vomit. Once he nearly fell over. Even so, Hans eventually clattered up the twisting stairs to Hamilton's position. He was nearly shot for his trouble.

'Jesus Christ, Hans! For God's sake announce yourself.'

Exhaling forcefully—for, immediate stress-wise, the only thing worse than being shot is coming close to shooting a friend— Hamilton lowered his weapon.

'Sorry, John,' Hans gasped, putting a defensive hand out. 'I'm a little disoriented.'

'Never mind,' Hamilton conceded. 'What's going on back there?'

'The children are freed. I don't know if they're aboard the airship yet. The airship's sinking. We've not much time.'

At about the same time the janissary sergeant of the guard decided he should get back to the serious business of breaking down the gate. He opted to do it in the same way the colonel had, assigning men to keep the windows of the towers covered. The sound of the pounding down below quickly changed in quality, too—the earlier battering must have had some effect. The door was clearly weakening.

'I think it's about to give,' Hamilton said.

'Yes,' Hans agreed. 'And that's why you have to go back, to get Petra, if she's still alive. I can hold the fort here. As long as I'm lying down and not moving, I can shoot.'

Hamilton hesitated. 'What about Ling?' he asked, cocking his head slightly.

Hans sighed. 'Ling is important to me, yes. I might even be important to her. But it's mostly important that she be freed, if she can be freed, and have a decent life. This, you and your people can give her better than I can. And for Petra . . . you're her future. I'm only her past.'

Hamilton stood for a moment in indecision. He called for Matheson, 'Bernie, how much longer do we have?'

'Not much, John. And when you and Hans head to the airship, don't come by the lab; take the upper passages. It's going to be very warm down here.'

'Roger,' Hamilton answered. 'Do we have a few minutes anyway?'

'That much, sure.'

Hamilton reached out a fraternal hand to Hans' shoulder. 'There's some solid furniture down below. If you're going to stay here, let's make you a fighting position facing the gate that can take a hit.'

Nobody was hit racing through the cleared path in the minefields facing the castle's main gate. For this beneficence, Sig and the baseski both said a special prayer of thanks.

'Sergeant of the Guard!' the first sergeant bellowed as he passed through the checkpoint and took a crouch behind a concrete barrier.

'Over here, Top,' the sergeant answered from his position in the alcove. The sergeant had to shout to be heard over the pounding of the battering ram. 'We're almost through.'

Interlude

Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany,

10 July, 2022

The cellar was dark and dank and dreary. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and the pipes and draped along the walls. There was an old moldy mattress on the floor, Amal saw.

'By the time we're through with you, you'll be glad to don the veil, slut,' Zahid said, confidently, to Amal. The boy moved a small, silvery pocket knife in front of the terrified girl's eyes.

'Don't hurt me,' she pleaded. 'Please don't hurt me.'

'We're not going to hurt you much,' said Zahid. 'We're just going to cut you from your ear to your mouth.'

'That,' agreed Taymullah, 'or you can admit you're just a slut and let us all fuck you. Your choice.'

That was no better a choice than being cut. Again, tears pouring down her face, Amal sobbed, 'Please don't hurt me. I'll wear a veil. I promise.'

'Your word's no good, slut,' Zahid said. 'Only way we can be sure you'll follow the law is if we cut you. Then you'll be too ashamed to show your whore's face.'

'DON'T HURT ME!'

'We have no choice.'

'I'll do anything you want; just don't hurt me,' the girl begged, head hanging in hopeless and helpless shame.

Once more, Zahid flashed his knife by her eyes and then moved it as if to slash her cheek. He didn't cut her though. Instead, he brought the knife down to her shirt and began to cut it away.

The police car that took Gabi to the hospital didn't flash its lights or blast its siren. Instead, it went only as fast as the traffic would bear. It could have used its sirens and lights of course, but the woman sitting in back was so nearly hysterical that the two policemen up front thought that they'd only make things worse.

'What happened? What happened? What happened?' Gabi kept