Caliphate полностью

Bam . . . bam . . . bam, the ram battered at the gate. Hans heard a sound of wood cracking and splintering. Bam . . . bam . . . crrraackckck and the left-hand side of the gate popped open, followed by the right.

Hans didn't hesitate. As soon as the wooden gate was out of the way he opened fire, holding the trigger down until bolt locked to rear on an empty magazine. In the confined space of the alcove before the gate, perhaps no more than ten feet by twelve, Hans put just over one bullet into every two square feet. The half dozen janissaries holding the ram were cut down like harvested wheat. Except that wheat doesn't bleed or scream.

"Goddammit, Matheson!" the pilot screamed. "I'm losing lifting gas like you wouldn't fucking believe and if you don't get your ass up and I'm leaving without you!"

"Calm down, Lee, I'm on my way," the black answered, as he prepared to close the door from the lab to the staircase. Already, with every burner in the crematorium on full blast, the temperature in the lab was inimical to human life. How high it would get neither Matheson nor Richter could be certain.

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.

an-Nessang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)

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 . . .

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.