Caliphate

by Tom Kratman

  "I really don't understand why we just don't nuke the castle out of existence."

  "Couple of reasons. One of them is a good one, the other is even better. The good one is that England is a hostage. The Caliphate doesn't have much in the way of delivery systems, but they can range the British Isles. There are seventy million of our allies, citizens and subjects there. If we nuke the castle, they probably die."

  "Better seventy million than five billion or more."

  "True," Caruthers agreed. "That's where the better reason comes in. We have to know where research is being conducted, where backups might be, where strains of VA5H might be stored."

  "It used to be easier, I understand," Caruthers continued, "to keep track of goings on in the Caliphate. But then their cell phone system deteriorated to the point that they had to fall back on landlines, most of them underground. Those we can't track for beans."

  Caruthers' face grew contemplative. "You know," he said, "it would be worth it to let them use our satellite system just so we could listen in on the bastards . . . not that they'd be stupid enough to take us up on the offer if we made it."

  The range bench held an assortment of weapons, all of types typically found in the Caliphate. Some of those types were imported there from other places, typically South Africa and China; still others were locally manufactured. How OSI came upon them the instructor didn't offer and Hamilton didn't ask. Nor did it matter; if he were going to be armed—something almost expected for fully free men within the Caliphate—it would have to be with something that would excite no comment.

  Arranged from left to right on the bench were seven pistols, four submachine guns, three shotguns, six assault rifles, and two versions of the basic janissary armor piercing rifle.

  "We've got five days," the instructor said, "five days to teach you to shoot and maintain all of these."

  "Why so many versions?" Hamilton asked.

  "Because we've not a clue what you'll actually be able to get. We can't even guarantee you will be able to get one of these; there are other types to be found within the enemy's country."

  "Now wait a minute," Hamilton objected. "I'm going in as a slave dealer. The slaves will surely object to being slaves. It's only reasonable I'd carry arms with me from South Africa."

  The instructor hesitated for a moment before speaking. When he did speak it was to ask, "Didn't they tell you the typical ages of the cargo?"

  "You son of a bitch! You didn't tell me I was going to be transporting children!"

  "Calm down, John," Caruthers said. The controller looked even more bone weary than usual. "There was no need for you to know."

  And I'm going to have a few words with one large-mouthed instructor for telling you prematurely.

  "Kids?"

  "That's the usual cargo, yes."

  "Sweet Jesus. Kids?"

  "They don't take up as much space. They don't eat much. They're cheap. They're docile. They're easily converted to Islam once they're sold. Besides, the guy who runs the brothel in the larger castle prefers kids. That gives you an in to our Chinese chippie." Although when you find out the real destination of the kids you are going to puke.

  "This is it," Hamilton said. "I'll do this mission because I said I would. But after this, I'm putting in my papers. My obligation will be over by the time this is and after that I am out of here."

  There wasn't a building big enough, or expendable enough, to simulate actually blowing up the castle. Instead, demolitions refresher training concentrated more on the theoretical: dust initiators, expedient timing devices, local manufacture of high explosives, and such.

  "What good does it do to know how to make triacetone- triperoxide, when there isn't going to be any in the castle?" Hamilton asked. "What is the logic of using low explosives—or even high explosives—when they might do no more than release the agent?"

  "Mr. Caruthers insisted on a full refresher course, Mr. Hamilton," the explosives instructor, a Dr. Richter, said. "We follow orders. How you come up with the material, is up to you."

  "It's box of rocks, stupid. And this shit"—Hamilton's finger pointed at a small cone of what looked to be a very damp white powder— "doesn't release any heat. It couldn't destroy the virus if I used two hundred tons of it."

  "I need a nuke," Hamilton said. "Nothing else will work."

  "No nukes. I've explained why."

  "C'mon, Caruthers, you . . . or your bosses, are being ridiculous. Any attempt at destroying the VA5H without a nuke is just as likely to release it."

  "Any attempt at nuking it, if there is another supply somewhere, is just as likely to get it released as simply cracking the castle would."

  "Fuck."

  "Fuck," Caruthers agreed.

  "We need to talk to Mary."

  "Talk to me about transportation," Hamilton said. "Safe transportation. Talk to me about how long it would take to make a vaccine if we had a sample of the virus."

  "We could give you a general purpose containment unit, small enough to carry, cold enough to keep the virus inactive, and large enough to hold any likely container you might find the virus in," Mary answered. "But the risks . . . "

  "John," Caruthers said, "if you got caught and engaged . . . if the containment unit were breached . . . we're talking end of the world here."

  "We're talking end of the world anyway. This way we might have a chance of preventing that." Hamilton turned his attention back to Mary. "How long to manufacture a vaccine?"

  "Full court press? Even assuming it can be done . . . maybe six weeks. Maybe a little less. But what difference would that make? Meara, Sanders and Johnston could simply—well, not 'simply'; but still they could—modify the virus to some other configuration."

  Caruthers smiled cynically. "Mary, it isn't like John is going to leave them there alive. He'll either bring them back or . . . "

  Her eyes grew wide. After all, she knew one of them. But . . . "Oh. Yes, I suppose that makes sense."

  "No, Mr. Hamilton, not like that. Didn't you learn anything when you were among the heathen in the Philippines? You must remember to sit without pointing the soles of your feet at anyone more important than a servant."

  Wearily, Hamilton stood in front of the large tray of kibsa, a rice- and, in this case, lamb-based dish, and sat again, this time tucking his legs under him in such a way—and a damned uncomfortable way it was, too—without pointing the soles of his feet anywhere but behind him.

  "Much better. We'll practice that more later but for now let's try the kibsa while it's still hot."

  The instructor reached out one hand, saying, "There are a number of ways to do this, all more or less correct. We'll begin with the classic method, the one that prevails over most of the Arabian Peninsula." Palm down, using his right hand, the instructor bent his fingers and dug them into the mass of steaming rice. He then closed his fist, causing a wash of gooey, yogurt-based sauce to run through his fingers and out each side of the cup of his hand. He continued to press until the mass of rice and lamb was compressed into a small ball about and inch and a quarter in diameter. This he then popped into his mouth.

  "Your turn," he said to Hamilton, once he'd swallowed the ball.

  The instructor saw Hamilton reaching out with his left hand and, quick as a snake, grabbed a long pointer and used it to rap Hamilton's knuckles. "Never," he said, "never, reach for or take anything with your left hand."

  "Motherfucker!" Hamilton exclaimed, alternately rubbing and flopping his hand with a loosed wrist. "What the fuck was that for?"

  "You learned nothing in the Philippines?"

  Hamilton shrugged. "Look, we killed them when they fought and rounded them up and deported them when they didn't, or couldn't anymore. We did not socialize."

  "I see," said the instructor. He sighed. "Where to begin? Mr. Hamilton, the Arabian Peninsula is not a place much given to trees or any crops from which paper could be made. Leather was, in olden times—and again, today—too valuable to use wastefully. Even roc
ks were rare in most places."

  "So?"

  "What are you going to do after we eat this meal, oh, sometime over the next day or two?"

  "Sleep?"

  "Besides that?"

  "Ohhh."

  "Yes, Mr. Hamilton. The culture our enemies sprang from never really got used to the idea of toilet paper. They used their hands. Given that they ate with their hands, it only made sense—you'll agree—for them to use one for one thing, and one for the other."

  "Got it. Right hand only or you're shitting in the pot."

  "Not just shitting in the pot, Mr. Hamilton. Use your left hand for anything involving another person and you are sending him the mortal insult of shitting on him."

  "Shokran," Hamilton said.

  "Very good. Afwan."

  Hamilton ran doubting hands over another man's face. Not that the face wasn't attached to the front of his skull; it was. But that face was not his. The cheekbones were higher; the eyes had been reshaped; the nose was broadened and the ears subtly reoriented to stick out ever so slightly more. His eyes were green now—"The enemy has a thing for green eyes," Caruthers had said—and his chin more substantial.

  "Who the fuck am I?" Hamilton asked.

  "No one important," Caruthers answered, chuckling. Hamilton didn't look amused. "Oh, all right! You are Johann De Wet, scion of a not-very-important family from Cape Town. Though your name is Boer, and though you had a distant Boer ancestor of some importance, your ancestry is almost entirely English. You speak Afrikaans well enough, but with an accent. You elected to do military service, as all white South Africans must, prior to going to college. You rose to the rank of sergeant in the Logistics Corps, which sparked your interest in the transportation side of business. You are a graduate of the University of Cape Town where you majored in business administration, with a minor in international shipping."

  Hamilton raised one eyebrow. "It's probably a stupid question, but . . . uh . . . I assume there is documentation? An electronic and paper trail to back this up?"

  "All the important things, yes. The actual Johann De Wet died as a baby of pneumonia. Parents subsequently divorced and there were no other children." Caruthers laughed. "I imagine they'd both be very surprised to discover that their baby boy has returned from the grave."

  Caruthers continued, "Upon graduation, you were hired by Koop Human Resources, based in Natal, but immediately sent to be an assistant administrator of a slave breeding camp in the Congo which has since been closed. Thereafter, you were resident in a hospital for two years while recovering from the outbreak of Ebola III that closed the camp.

  "KHR, by the way, is a wholly owned subsidiary of OSI, though nobody knows that but us and South African Intelligence. And neither of us is saying. As I told you once, we can cooperate."

  "You mean the company has been in the slave trading business for years now?" Hamilton asked.

  "Leave off, Mister Hamilton!" After he said it, the man seemed almost to shrink. "It's a shitty world, John . . . and neither of us made it; we just have to live in it. Now if you'll allow me to continue, you will be working for one of our senior people over there. You don't need to know his real name but he goes by a local one . . ."

  Excursus

  Excerpts from: Empire Rising, Copyright © 2112, Baen Historical Press

  Introduction

  The United States finds itself now with an empire it does not want, that costs more than it brings in, and that requires the perversion of our values and the suppression of civil liberties we had enjoyed since the late eighteenth century and in some cases the early seventeenth, to the early twenty-first.

  How did we get this way? Why is it that only now that we are beginning to be able to discuss it openly? Can we ever get rid of it? Can we keep some parts and dispense with others?

  Can we even remain a nation . . .

  * * *

  Chapter II

  We have seen in the previous chapter how various security measures, some sensible and others silly, some intrusive and others not, had never really sat well with the American psyche. It is open to debate whether those measures, even if maintained, could have stopped the attacks that followed their dismantling. What is not open to debate is that the security measures adopted at the beginning of the century were dismantled, and that attacks followed.

  Seven bombs had been introduced into the then United States, and one into the United Kingdom. A further bomb was stopped by Israeli security forces as terrorists attempted to bring it in over the shore. Sadly, because it was stopped at sea, and the yacht carrying it sunk, the Israelis were unable to warn us, because they were ignorant themselves, for some days, of the nature of the yacht's cargo.

  Of the American bombs, three came through Mexico and three through what was then Canada. A seventh, and the largest, came by sea. The targeted cities were Los Angeles, Kansas City, Chicago, Boston, New York, Houston, and Washington, plus London in the United Kingdom. The Chicago, New York, Houston and Washington bombs failed to create a nuclear detonation. In two of these, Houston and Washington, it was determined that the bombs were simply defective in manufacture. They exploded, spread a fair amount of radioactive material about the targeted cities, but killed very few and did little lasting damage. Two others, Chicago and New York, had degraded over time due to poor maintenance, failing to explode at all. Notwithstanding, on September 11th, 2015, three American cities and approximately four million American citizens and residents ceased to exist, along with just under one million of the king's subjects, including King William, himself.

  Initially, no one took credit for the attacks. Then again, given the date, no one really had to. Both sides had taken to injuring each other on any given year's September 11th. It was almost a tradition.

  The provenance of the bombs was mixed. The two that had failed to detonate fully were found to be of North Korean origin. One that had detonated was proven to be Pakistani. Two that failed were of very old Russian manufacture. For two others that exploded, we do not and likely never shall know. It is possible that they were of Iranian manufacture.

  Only Russia, which had a much clearer idea of American retaliatory capabilities than most others, came forth and provided evidence of how their bombs had ended up in terrorist hands. Several dozen scientists, security personnel, and their families were subsequently shot as an act of good faith cum human sacrifice. In addition, Russia promised and gave substantial aid, especially in the form of oil and natural gas. Volunteers from there for clean up and recovery came by the thousands. Many times the numbers that came volunteered to, though no place could be found for them.

  Pakistan professed ignorance while North Korea simply glared defiance and threatened ever more severe attacks should we retaliate. China, allied to both of those, kept its own counsel.

  The entire world held its breath for weeks. Meanwhile, the United States did nothing but weep and dig in the rubble. Indeed, not all wept. There was a strong feeling in certain quarters that the bombings had been just. Professor Montgomery Chamberlain, of the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor summed up these views nicely when he pronounced the dead, "So many little Himmlers" and called for "one hundred more attacks, until the blood-sucking, Jew-controlled United States is humbled and brought to its knees."

  Neither of the major political parties in the United States lined up behind any program of major retaliation, though the President increased security along both the Canadian and Mexican borders . . .

  Chapter IV

  Within weeks of the attacks, and with no sign of significant retaliation in the offing, a new and highly populist party arose. Officially, it was known as the "Wake Up, America Party." Unofficially, it was often called "the Armageddon Party." It began small, with a speech by its founder, Pat Buckman, in Central Park in New York City. Half a million New Yorkers heard Buckman in person, and perhaps twice that on the TV. Tens of millions heard him across the country. Where the money came from for advanced advertising for the speech is not known
. Why the people came is obvious; but for a few defects and decays, they, too, would have been numbered among the dead.

  Buckman's message was simple and he wasn't shy about it. He began with the simple line, "Those motherfuckers are going to pay." Buckman didn't specify which group of motherfuckers he meant. As subsequent events were to show he had some very expansive ideas on the subject.

  Within months, sixty million people had signed on to the WUA program. Moreover, substantial numbers of Democrats and Republicans in the House and Senate likewise defected to Buckman's cause.

  In the United Kingdom, the new-crowned king, and king in more than name now, launched a very similar program on his own. Moreover, the new king unilaterally seceded from the European

  Union when that body attempted to interfere. The king's subjects met the news joyfully. They were Britons, after all, and had had just about enough . . .