"That's about enough!" said Bongo.
"Bongo, Caruthers never told me—" Hamilton began.
"Need to know," Bongo repeated. "Besides, did I never mention how fucking much I hate the nickname Bongo? Just because my friends call me that doesn't mean I like it."
"I think you can follow through," said Hans, which drew from Bongo a shrug.
Beside them, Ling shuddered, gasped and said, "I hate being teleoperated."
"I sympathize," answered Bongo. "Now give me a minute while I consult with higher." He turned away and walked closer to the lake.
While Bongo was consulting, Hamilton asked Ling, "How did your people know about him? I mean, me I can understand. I assumed my file was downloaded to you just as I was briefed on you. But him?"
If you answer, you will be punished.
She just shook her head. Hans, instead, answered, "It should be pretty obvious they keep close tabs on you people. As obvious as that you are infiltrated."
"I suppose. And it must be easier for them, with Chinese unremarkably common in our Empire, while whites in theirs are pretty rare." Hamilton laughed. "I wonder who isn't infiltrated."
Ling said, "The Swiss."
"Yesss," Hamilton agreed, slowly. "The Swiss."
"Ahhh," said Hans. "Indeed. The Swiss."
All three looked generally southwestward, and said, almost together, "The Swiss."
"We agree," Bongo said. "But, there are a couple of things you should know. One is that the Empire will not provide any external assistance. They have asked the Swiss to allow the temporary basing of a single battalion of Rangers and that has been denied. They've asked for permission to base a single airship. That, too, has been denied. For reasons I'll explain later, we're not going to get any air support. No nuclear strike unless we fail . . . in which case the strike will be general in the hope of utterly destroying any trace of the virus or, failing that, to so disorganize the Caliphate that it cannot deliver the virus to our shores, allies, or possessions."
"But I thought . . . I mean Caruthers said . . . "
"Baas," and this time Bongo did let the contempt he felt for the title show through, "the President has changed his mind. Rather, it seems the secretaries of Defense, State and Intelligence have gotten together and browbeaten him into changing his mind. To paraphrase, 'fuck the
Christians in the Caliphate and fuck England, too; we have to watch out for our own.'"
"Oh, and folks . . . one other thing: The President said if we haven't solved his problem in two weeks he's launching anyway. The subs are already moving into position."
"Holy shit," said Hamilton.
"Nothing holy about it."
Interlude
Grosslangheim, Federal Republic of Germany,
4 July, 2006
There wouldn't be any more fireworks exploding over Harvey Barracks in the future, Gabi knew. The Americans were pulling out towards the end of the year and, so it was assumed, never coming back. For this year though, from the side of a hill by the nearby town of Grosslangheim, she and Mahmoud and little Amal watched the display. Gabi thought the Americans had put some extra effort into the show, perhaps as a way of saying, "You're going to miss us."
No we won't, she thought.
Mahmoud was here only for a couple of weeks' vacation. He was an American now, as perhaps he'd been born to be, and worked like a slave. Not for him five or six weeks' annual vacation; American workers usually didn't even use the paltry couple of weeks their oppressors granted them. But also not for him taxes that took more than half his income. He worked more and harder; he earned more, and he got to keep a lot more of what he made.
"You would like Boston, Gabi," he said, "really you would. It's like here, most ways. You want multiculturalism? They've got it and it works . . . better, anyway. You want culture? They've got the greatest collection, per capita, of art, public works, parks, restaurants, amusements . . . sheer things-to-do . . . in the world. Nothing else I've seen or read of comes close." He smiled, a little ruefully. "Gabi, there's more of Egypt in their Museum of Fine Arts than there is in Egypt at al Mataf. Well, almost more and certainly better. And theater . . . ballet . . . symphonies . . . whatever you want. Massachusetts is a densely populated state, and it's still seventy percent forest."
Gabi was about to object, "Looted," when she realized two things. Most if not all Egyptian antiquities in Europe were looted, and the Americans, being latecomers to the game, had probably actually paid for theirs.
"Tell me about the Museum, Mahmoud," she said instead.
"I go there about every month, in part because it's grand in itself, and in part because it reminds me of you. I imagine you and the baby are there with me. It makes it better . . . a little."
Her heart, a part of it anyway, ached to go. That would never do.
"And where do they hold their lynchings in Boston?" she asked. "And by restaurants I assume you mean your choice of fast food. And how do you get to your museum, or the fast food places, with garbage piled up a meter deep in the roadways? And how many times a day do you have to duck gunfire?"
Mahmoud sighed and shook his head. He could see where this was going. He put one elbow on his knee and rested his chin upon the hand. For a while, he simply fumed in silence. Yet he'd chosen to be American, chosen to become a part of that team, just as Gabi had chosen to remain a part of her team. If Gabi could defend hers, unreasonably in his view, why should he not defend his?
He answered, "You know, it's funny. Europeans look down their noses at Americans, sneering at their ignorance and lack of culture. Yet the Euros are themselves more ignorant of America than Americans are of Europe. And but for American culture, what would Europe have that wasn't old and dead or dying? That, or a poor imitation of what the Americans have? And I'll be sure to note it for you, the next time I lack for something different to eat in Boston. Arab? They've got it. French? They've got it. German, Thai, Korean, Ethiopian, Italian, Vietnamese . . . whatever. They've got it. And a lot more than you do here."
Mahmoud pointed with his chin at the fireworks. He, too, was sure that, because the post of Harvey Barracks was closing, the Americans had put on more of a display than usual. "They're giving up on you, you know. They're leaving because Europe doesn't matter anymore. They don't need to control you. They don't need to fear you. They don't even have to worry about you dragging them into another war, as you've done twice. You know what those fireworks are saying, Gabi? They're saying, 'We're independent of you, as we have been since 1776 . . . and you don't matter anymore. We are the future. You are only the past.'"
"Arrogant bastards," Gabi sneered.
"No," Mahmoud disagreed. "Not arrogant. Arrogance exists when someone thinks they are better, more capable, or more important than they really are. Europe is like that. Europe really is arrogant. America is capable, is important, and is, frankly, better. It's the indispensable nation. No arrogance there, or at least not much."