* * *
By the time the Condor received the signal it was several miles away from and above the pilot. It sent a further signal to the ring and the wire atop itself, which caused both to detach. Simultaneously it initiated a timer in the balloon that would cause the hydrogen to burn some hours later, after it had drifted well away from the release point and line of flight.
Freed of the balloon, the Condor initially dropped. Its wings, however, were wide and its chord nearly perfect for gliding. They immediately bit into the air, obtaining lift as the bird glided forward. Later, the pilot would use the engine to rise again, before he resumed the very fuel efficient gliding that was really the Condor's main means of propulsion.
* * *
Back in the hangar, the pilot breathed a sigh of relief. It had happened, during development and testing, that the balloon release mechanism had failed. Thank God it worked properly this time.
Some distance from the conex wherein the pilot sat, Carrera and Fernandez stood and watched the package being armed and loaded into the second Condor by Fernandez's people. Fernandez noted, Patricio's face is just a stone mask, like he's shut himself down inside. I cannot even imagine what he's feeling. Freedom, finally, from the burden of avenging his family? Wondering what to do with the rest of his life? Or perhaps he's thinking that he has no more reason to live after this. Suicide? Fernandez reconsidered that last. No . . . he has a new family and he loves them. That much at least, I am confident of; he will live for them. Which is important, as la Patria will need him soon.
32/9/469 AC, Pier Seventeen, Port Xamar, BdL Qamra
It was almost midnight, with only Hecate—and she in her first quarter—showing. The boat was darkened to normal observation, though Chu knew that he was under satellite observation by the FSN, if anyone happened to be looking. Fosa had wanted them to observe the fleet, if only to get early warning of any attack. He could hardly tell them to look the other way now, even though he had stressed to Chu that he wanted this cargo moved as secretly as possible.
Chu was almost unsurprised when a four wheel drive vehicle, escorted by two others bearing military police, showed up at the pier and Duque Carrera stepped out, accompanied by several others. One of those other was, apparently, a child. Oh, yes, that would explain the need for secrecy, he thought.
Marta had the wheel, though the boat was tied up and stationary. Chu had been training her as a backup. The girl seemed to have an affinity for boats, perhaps because life ashore had been so seedy and degrading for her. Since the loss of Jaquelina, the larger woman had taken little interest in anything else.
Leaving her with the con, Chu hurried to the brow to greet his guest.
He saluted, of course, which salute Carrera returned. Yet Carrera didn't salute either the small standard fluttering at the stern not the bridge. Landlubbers, Chu thought, with a mental harrumph. They know nothing of naval protocol. Then again, since he owns this boat, the fleet, the entire legion, I suppose I'd best just shut up about it.
"Captain," Carrera greeted at he stepped over the gangplank onto the deck.
"Duque," Chu answered, with a head nod. At least he knows the proper form or address. "A cabin had been prepared below. We're past dinner but I've had the cook put a meal in your cabin." Which is my cabin, actually, but let's not go there. "If you would like a drink, there's scotch in a drawer in the desk. I can arrange a woman . . . "
"That won't be necessary; the woman, I mean. I appreciate the scotch, too, but I've bought my own. My son will stay with me. Billet the others. And then just take me to the von Mises, Captain."
33/9/469 AC, Hildegard von Mises
He looks much the worse for wear, thought Carrera, looking at the emaciated body of Mustafa ibn Mohamed ibn Salah, min Sa'ana. On him, it's plain on the outside. With me? It's all on the inside.
Mustafa's beard, once long and flowing and rich in dignity, was shaved off. This was only fitting as he was soon to be changed into a woman. His hands were bandaged and bound. Had he not been given a robe, there would have been visible burn marks on his torso. Both of his feet looked deformed now; the guards had had to carry him into the interview room. He had his arms wrapped about his torso, holding broken ribs as if terrified of any movement. This, too, was understandable. Skevington's Daughter, among her other talents, also broke ribs. Even had none of this been so, still Mustafa would not have smiled. He'd been to the dentist once too often for that.
For all that, he's still in better mental shape than Robinson or Arbeit, Carrera thought. Those two have totally collapsed.
"You gave up everything you knew you had to give, I think, old friend," Carrera said to him. His voice was gentle, as if he were somehow detached from his surroundings, even as if he were somehow detached from life. "Still, I wonder what more you might give up."
At a nod from Carrera, the two screens, neither of them Kurosawas, sprang to life. The screen on the left showed little but a rapidly passing desert below, with the occasional camel or goat visible only as a greenish pixilation of a slightly different shade from the sand below. The other screen likewise showed a night scene, taken from above. The latter scene, however, was much more brightly lit, the features much more easily distinguished. It showed a walled compound, minaret rising above the wall, and armed guards patrolling it. The images on the screens were being recorded, as was the scene on the von Mises of Carrera chatting with Mustafa.
"Recognize it?" Carrera asked.
"Go to Hell, pig," Mustafa responded through drilled and temporarily patched teeth. One of the guards pulled the former prince of the Ikhwan to his feet but his hair. Two brutally quick punches to the kidney left the ex-terrorist sobbing on the floor.
It must take tremendous courage, courage passing that of men, to still remain defiant after all he's been through. I could admire him were circumstances otherwise.
"I really do insist that you look at the screen," Carrera said. "I don't want to have to have your eyelids sewn open." A shift of Carrera's chin caused the same guard who had kidney punched Mustafa to haul him back onto his chair, again by his hair. "Now watch. This is important . . . to you. Do you recognize the view on the right?"
Mustafa looked, this time; anything to avoid another set of blows to his already abused kidneys. The surrounding wall . . . the minaret . . . the small mosque below . . . that's my family compound in Hajar!
"Why are you showing me this?" Mustafa asked.
"You do recognize it then?"
"Yes . . . yes, of course I do. I grew up there."
"Indeed," Carrera agreed. "Did you know that nearly every child, grandchild, and great grandchild of your father is likewise growing up there? Did you know that all your brothers and cousins, all their husbands and wives, are likewise in that compound? Oh, sure . . . maybe a few distant relatives might be elsewhere. But I am pretty confident"—his tone held the very platonic essence of confidence as he said it—"that at least ninety-eight percent of your blood relatives are there in that compound. We spent . . . I spent much effort at making life impossible for them anywhere else."