"I was thinking timers on the cyanide but—"
"—but that means they have to be emplaced early. Can't you just imagine it: every room gets its own suspicious looking jar within a jar with a sign on it saying 'Warning: don't jostle. Cyanide within.' Hmmm . . . maybe we're going about it all wrong. Maybe the trick isn't to kill them inside the castle. Maybe the trick is to get them to go outside the castle and . . . oh, that won't work, will it?"
"No," Hans shook his head. "We still have to get the children out. Even if Ling under her controller can hold the thing steady against the wind, with a ramp from the ship to the battlements, she can't do it while two hundred men are shooting at her unarmored airship."
"I had another idea I've been considering . . . it's not a war-winner but it might help."
Hamilton raised one quizzical eyebrow.
"It depends on the fact that I'm new, fresh out of school, an honor graduate and therefore an unknown quantity but quite possibly a fanatic," Hans began. "I can get away with a lot of simple weirdness and harsh or unusually kind behavior for a while without exciting any more commentary than troops usually have for the new boss."
"What's that get you?"
"Well . . . suppose I start tiring the janissaries out so they sleep like rocks. That makes it easier to get the cyanide into their rooms without causing a fuss, right?"
"It would," Hamilton agreed.
"And suppose that within the overall program of tiring them out, there's a reward for the platoon that does the best . . . a reward of, say, a night at our favorite local brothel. That cuts out one guard platoon of four."
"Helps . . . but what about the noncoms?"
"Can't send troops to have fun without supervision," Hans said. "Got to be a regulation against it . . . somewhere."
Hamilton chuckled.
"What's so funny?"
"You remind me of my first commander when I was in the Army. He was a dick, too, but he usually had reasons for what he did, reasons he would almost never let you in on unless you had to know."
"Oh. Okay . . . so how does it work out if we do this?"
Hamilton thought about that. "All right . . . assume that two barracks and the noncom's rooms are empty, one from the duty platoon in the ready room and one at the brothel. One of us takes two rooms, the other takes one. We go in, open the jars, pour the acid and get the hell out, quick, closing the doors behind us. Then the one who took out only one room—you, I think—goes to the ready room. I go outside. Then . . . ah, vug." Hamilton paused. "We're still stuck. In communication or not, there's no good way for you to kill twenty- eight men single-handed, while I try to off another fourteen or fifteen one or two at a time. Someone, somewhere in there, is going to notice. Is there anyway to cut off communications between the perimeter guards and the ready room?"
"No . . . it's wireless. Even the cameras are wireless," Hans said.
"Shit. This is a job for a company, better still a battalion, of Rangers in Exo suits . . . not for two men."
"That's not true," Hans said. "Your Ranger company, or battalion, would be so noticeable that there would be a division here guarding the place."
"Yeah," Hamilton conceded. "Maybe so. Shit. Oh, well, it's not like we could get that company or battalion if we asked. And we're still fucked."
"Hard. No grease," agreed Hans. "I'm out of ideas."
There was something Hans had said earlier nagging at Hamilton's mind. Something about . . .
"I know how, maybe. It's a long shot but it might work. It's not going to be subtle, mind you. And it will still require some timing . . . and that you send a platoon plus to the brothel."
"Now didn't you say that the perimeter mines are command armed and optionally command detonated?"
The next day Hans directed Bernie in how to drive the other three conspirators to a secluded valley he'd found, about three miles to the east of Honsvang and slightly to the south. Hans met them there in a janissary issue truck. He'd brought along the weapons and enough ammunition for a fair degree of familiarization practice. The valley was too close to civilization, still, to fire without the silencers.
Looking at the pistol Hans had bought for her, Ling demurred. "My controller will know how to use the weapon," she said. "And far better than you could teach me. After all, China made it."
"It still needs to be test-fired," Bernie said.
"Not really," said Hans. "I did that at the weapons house where I bought them. It was funny, too, the way the owner's assistant looked at me when I insisted."
"Why funny?" asked Hamilton.
"People here . . . most Moslems, anyway, don't test much. Or maintain much. Or train much. If Allah wants something to work, it will. If he doesn't, it won't. And nothing any human being does or fails to do will make the slightest difference."
"That's bizarre," Hamilton said.
"Yes," Hans agreed, nodding seriously. "Most of the people aren't even aware that they think like that, they just act that way naturally. It's one reason why the janissaries are so important to the Caliphate. We weren't brought up to think that way and by the time they gather us it's too late for us to change. So we do test and we do maintain and we do act as if God helps those who help themselves, impious though the thought may be.
"Anyway, Ling, if you don't want to shoot you can load magazines."
Matheson and Hamilton loaded their own, while Hamilton and Hans loaded half a dozen submachine gun magazines for Petra. She was not a natural, a half dozen magazines were not enough.
After Matheson was satisfied that he had the measure of his pistol, he moved off to one side and broke it down to clean and oil it. Meanwhile, Hans and Hamilton took turns working with Petra while Ling kept reloading. After perhaps a thousand rounds, they'd gotten Petra to the point where she could hit a man-sized target at twenty- five meters, with at least one round of a three-round burst, about six times in ten. At that level she stuck, though, so much so that neither thought there would be much benefit in keeping at it.
"And besides," said Hans, "the sun is going down soon. It may be that no one can hear us shooting; but they may still see the muzzle flash if we keep it up."
"Right," Bernie agreed.
"He's . . . going to . . . fucking . . . kill . . . us," grunted one janissary to another as Hans led all but one platoon of the company through the ninth mile of a twelve-mile run. The troops' feet and knees shrieked in protest. Air heated by exertion formed little frosted cones in front of their faces. It was too dark to see that, of course.
The run had led over hill and dale, which is to say up sheer-sided mountain and down again, for over an hour so far. From the open area in front of Castle Honsvang, he'd led them down to and around the town, then up to Castle Noisvastei and back down again, over the bridge to the town of af-Füss, to Walnhov, and with many a twist and turn thrown in for good measure. And the young commander showed no signs of flagging, still.
Behind the formation, cursing the fate that had delivered him into the hands of an outright lunatic of an odabasi, the baseski, or first sergeant, pushed from behind to ensure that none of the older or weaker men fell out. Hans had left the idiot bayraktar behind, responsible for security in his absence.