Caliphate (50 page)

The fail safe proved to be a nonconcern. If the crematorium had such, it certainly didn't work. Matheson suspected that the burners worked only because they had no moving parts.

"Lee," Matheson asked, "are the kids loaded?"

"How the fuck do I know? My buoyancy is dropping so fast I can't even tell you what my weight is. Maybe they're on; maybe they're not."

"Roger. I'm on my way." Matheson hurried up the stone steps several flights before stumbling over a child who cried out.

"Shit. Lee, don't go anywhere. The kids are not, repeat not, loaded."

"Jesus H. Christ," said Lee.

"I'm getting them on their feet now. Just hold on."

"I'm trying to hold on, you dumb son of a bitch. I just can't guarantee I'll be . . . ah shit."

"What? What is it?" Matheson asked.

"Lost another gas cell. You've
got
to hurry."

"On your feet, children," Matheson shouted in Afrikaans, a language most of the boys and girls had at least some familiarity with. "Now up the steps."

"We tried,
baas
," one of the girls answered. "The way is blocked by the rest of us."

The agent thought about that for all of a second and a half before countermanding his previous order. "Lay down, kids. I'm going to have to walk over you."

Being walked all over was something, of course, that slave children were used to.

Petra walked as fast as she could towards the car. Unfortunately, with the constraints of the burka, she couldn't outpace the pursuing policeman.

Maybe I should just suck him off and send him on his way
, she thought.
That would be quickest and simplest. That's probably what Ling would do.

No,
argued another voice, though that voice was still her own.
You've spent your whole life until this evening submitting. Enough is enough. Girl, as your great-grandmother wrote in her journal, at the end there comes a time when you have to fight or it will be too late.

"Fine then," Petra whispered to herself, her fingers reaching down to caress the journal, tucked into a belt underneath her burka. "I'll fight."

She slowed her pace and began to glance from side to side, looking for a deserted alley. After half a minute she came upon one, off to her right, with no lights showing. She turned down it. Behind her, the policeman's footsteps picked up as he closed for the kill . . .

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.

Petra stood with her back to a wall. The alleyway was a dead end. A dozen feet before her, the policeman approached with a gleam in his eye that even the dim light could not conceal.

"I knew you would be waiting for me," the policeman said. "I could tell by the way you nodded."

"Yesss," Petra answered, her voice a throaty purr. "I knew you would follow."

Petra leaned her back against the wall, and spread her legs slightly apart in invitation. So excited and incited was the man that he began to fumble with his belt even as he walked forward.

When Petra judged he was close enough that even
she
could be certain not to miss, she raised the submachine gun, pointed it at his chest, and fired.

Matheson saw the janissary spin and fall, and the rifle he bore go flying. His night vision was enhanced as much by the chip in his head as the goggles on his face. With those, he turned his head to look across the ramp to where Retief stood back from the wall with his arm across the door that led to the children.

"Send 'em now, Retief," Matheson shouted. "Send 'em
fast
!"

"You must hurry, children; do you understand?" Retief asked of the group nearest him. "You must hurry and run and get aboard and then get out of the way. Don't look down. Don't fear the pitching and swaying of the ramp. Don't pay attention if anyone else is hurt or falls off.

"Are you ready?"

Somberly, the children nearest him nodded, or said, "Yes," or even shouted it.

"Then go, go, GO!"

Off they flew, the foremost, as fast as tiny legs would carry them. Ahead the ramp bucked and twisted. Even so they ran for it. At the edge of the ramp two of the former cargo slaves waited. These helped the children, largely by shoving, or picking them up, or even throwing them onto the ramp as circumstances dictated.

Matheson stood now, on the airship's end of the ramp, encouraging the children on with shouts and open arms. Mentally, he did his best to keep count as the children passed: "One eighty-six . . . one eighty- seven . . . " He still had his submachine gun in his hand. Which helped him not at all when one of the janissaries below, perhaps enraged at his colonel's death (for it
was
the
corbasi
whom the agent had shot down), stepped out into the open and fired.

Hamilton had arrived at the tail end of the mass of children just as the gaggle began to move forward. He couldn't have them lie down, as Matheson had, to allow himself to pass, not if they were to have a chance to escape. Thus, he had to wait until the line moved ahead and the last children exited the door before he was able to get onto the battlemented roof.

Which he did just in time to see Matheson cut down.

"Bastards," Hamilton said. "Fucking bastards. Retief, get yourself and the cargo boys aboard. Now."

Hamilton waited until they were moving across the ramp and then mounted it himself. He walked halfway out, his lower body covered by the ramp's low sidewalls and his upper torso by the body armor provided by Hans. There he stood, stock still, and waited for a janissary to show himself. When the janissary did, Hamilton whispered, "This is for Bernie, you bastard," and shot the man down.

Then Hamilton turned towards the hatchway and walked aboard.

As he entered the ship, he looked down at Matheson's body and knelt beside it. Retief was already retracting the ramp and closing the hatchway.

Quite to Hamilton's surprise, the black man opened his eyes and said, "That was all very touching, to be sure,
baas
, but I'm not quite dead yet. And, if you can manage to stop this red shit that's leaking out of me, I probably won't be."

"You're a bastard, Matheson, you know that?"

"I didn't know you cared."

The pilot heard in his ear, "Take off now." He didn't have to be told twice. Applying full power to his vertical thrusters, he began to move the ship up and out from the castle walls.

Where's Hans?
Ling asked, in his mind.

How the fuck do I know, woman. He's not my responsibility.

I asked you politely
, Ling said.
Now tell me where Hans is.

Goddammit, fuck off. I'm busy.

The pilot reached for the control to add gas to the central and main lifting cell. Rather, he
wanted
to do so but discovered that he couldn't move his arm.

For the last time, where's Hans?

"She
what
?" Hamilton asked incredulously.

"She wants to know what happened to Hans. Who the fuck is Hans?" the pilot asked in Ling's voice. "If I don't come up with a good answer, she's not going to let me fly this airship. She's got me frozen. Look, I've got barely the horses to get up to Switzerland. Will you please tell her."

Listening in on the circuit, Hans asked, "Ling . . . can you hear me?"

"She can hear you . . . if you're Hans," the pilot answered.

"Then listen carefully," the man said. "I want you to release the pilot. It's important to me."

"Okay . . . she's unfrozen me."

"Ling . . . honey," Hans' voice continued. "Someone had to stay behind. I chose me . . . "

"Aiaiaiai!" the pilot screamed, then said aloud, "Goddammit, woman, I
felt
that."

"Ling . . . I chose me for a lot of good reasons. I'm sorry . . . .more than I can say. They're getting ready to rush me now. I have to go. I love you."

The last Ling heard was the
pffft . . . pffft . . . pffft
of Hans' submachine gun.

Down below, below the airship and even below Hans, the crematorium was fed from two tanks, each containing a mix of LPG, liquid petroleum gas, and oxygen. These tanks, for ease of installation, had been placed under the floor of the lab. That floor was growing very, very hot.

In those tanks under the floor, the oxygen-LPG mix was likewise growing very, very hot. Indeed, it was beginning to boil. This boiling was forcing more and more of the gas out through the crematorium's nozzles, lowering the liquid volume in the tanks and increasing the pressure on those tanks.

For one minute give me control
, Ling demanded.

Too dangerous,
Lee answered.
Besides, I don't know how to cede partial control. I don't know how you were able to freeze my limbs and still let me talk.

Neither do I. So what? Give me control. Please,
she begged.
Weren't you ever in love?

That's a low blow . . . Oh, all RIGHT! I wish there were some fucking way to give you only vocal control. But if there is, I don't know it. And
do
try to keep your hands steady on the controls, eh?

Hans' hands and gaze were steady, steadier than anyone had a right to expect, given that the fire of his former soldiers was chipping away at the edges of the oaken table and wearing at its surface. Already bullets had made their way through, only to be stopped by his torso armor. Even if stopped, they hurt. Eventually—and probably very soon—a bullet would find its way to an uncovered spot. After that? Well . . .
After that I die.

They were in the foyer with him now, he knew. More than a dozen but less than a score.
And I don't have enough ammunition left to deal with that number if they all lined up and just let me shoot them.

Unconsciously, Hans reached for the dagger at his side and loosened the retaining strap. If he had to die—and he did, and was even "comfortable" with the idea—it wouldn't be without a weapon in his hand.

He heard in his earpiece, "Hans, this is Ling, not the pilot. He won't let me talk for long. But I wanted you to know that in all my life I never loved anyone but you and your sister. And you two I loved with all my heart. Goodbye."