Ten minutes later, Leo opened his eyes. Picked up another computer core.

“You want to talk?” said Rakkim.

Leo moved his jaw a few times. Probably grinding his teeth while he was…gone.

“Is it working?” Rakkim shook him. “Leo?”

Leo stared at him.

“Leo! Are you in?”

Leo slowly nodded. “Tenth…tenth-gen security hash logarithm, but I am in…in like sin,” he whispered. “Massive gamma radiation…far beyond anything the Tether program anticipated,” he said, voice trailing off. He was in there somewhere, but not anyplace Rakkim could reach.

Rakkim watched him go through five more of the cores, no longer responding to questions from Rakkim or Baby. Not responding to anything outside the interface. It was getting dark now, the ear-link chatter more frequent.

“Go on, Rikki,” said Baby. “I can tell when a man’s restless. Can’t blame you either. Leo’s a sweet boy and all, but I sure don’t see him doing any honest work.”

Rakkim got up and bent down beside Moseby, placed a hand on his cheek. “Hey, John, how are you doing?”

Moseby didn’t respond but his breathing held steady and his skin was warmer.

“Go shoot somebody, handsome, I got things under control here,” said Baby. “Go. I been taking care of sick men my whole life.”

Rakkim said good-bye to Leo, but got no response.

Bartholomew finished his morning prayers, carefully rolled his prayer rug, and placed it in his cubby. His position had been slightly off during his devotions, his spine not perfectly straight. He begged Allah to forgive such sloppiness. The most minute error could have catastrophic consequences, that was both his professional and personal creed.

Through the window of his office, he could see Frank, his personal secretary, waiting patiently for him to compose himself before knocking. A slender, beardless modern with a too-ready laugh, Frank had been a difficult hire. Most of the other inspectors refused to work with moderns, viewing that as un-Islamic and unclean. Let him go to work making pornography or serving beer in the Zone, his colleague Nicolas had said after they finished the interview. It had been two years since Bartholomew hired the modern. Two years and Nicolas still refused to go to mosque with him, but Bartholomew knew what he was doing.

When an opening in the elite security detail was announced, Bartholomew was the one who got the promotion. He was not so arrogant as to believe his new duties were solely the result of his superior test scores and performance evaluations, though he ranked in the upper 1 percent of certified aircraft inspectors. The president surrounded himself with moderate Muslims, moderates not just in dress or demeanor, but in behavior as well. Hiring Frank was considered a clear sign of Bartholomew’s charity and tolerance; he was just the sort of professional the presidential staff trusted and wished to encourage.

Bartholomew checked his reflection in the glass. He smoothed his hair. Picked a minute spot of lint off the lapel of his black suit. The bows in his knotted shoelaces were the exact same size and length. He finally beckoned to Frank, acknowledged the gratitude in the modern’s eager face.

Come the change Bartholomew would have the apostate beheaded.

The Colonel’s base camp was perched on a scraggly, rocky plateau midway up the mountain. It should have been easy to defend except there were too many access points from the valley below-two-lane logging roads from the north, a series of gravel paths from the south, and dozens of trails cut through the surrounding trees along the western perimeter. While a mechanized force would be limited to attacking from the north, lightly armed men like Crews’s End-Timers could assault the camp from the south and east as well. Holding the high ground was still an advantage, but if the End-Timers were willing to ignore their mounting casualties and keep coming…

Rakkim imagined skeleton men drifting through the woods as he passed lines of empty tents, hurrying to where he had parked his car after coming back from Stuckey’s last night. Four-wheel-drive trucks with heavy machine guns mounted on back roared past, some so close he had to dive for cover. By the time he got to the motor pool he was covered in dust and the sun was setting. In New Detroit and Philadelphia, the muezzin would be calling the faithful to prayer, the man’s strong voice undulating in the crisp air. Instead of bowing to pray, Rakkim was nodding to a young soldier guarding the vehicles. He slid under his car and pulled his rifle from a hidden compartment. Grabbed a handful of ammo clips too, and stuffed them in his pocket. He probably wouldn’t have gone to mosque anyway.

Scout team D…still hasn’t checked in.

Disperse…ammo, said the Colonel…don’t want…lucky round…set it off.

Rakkim cradled the weapon, a sleek sniper rifle made by a gunsmith in Greenville, the next town over-simple, rugged, and accurate. “You seen the Colonel?” Rakkim asked the soldier.

The soldier pointed.

Rakkim found the Colonel and Gravenholtz striding down a gravel path, the Colonel pointing out gun emplacements and natural cover to the redhead.

Gravenholtz eyed Rakkim’s rifle. “This ain’t your fight.”

“Fight?” Rakkim fell in beside them. “I thought we were hunting turkeys for Thanksgiving dinner.”

In twilight now, the Colonel seemed determined to walk the whole line, stopping every few minutes to talk to the men, reminding them to stay alert and not waste ammunition, and promising that God was watching over them. The same suggestions and assurances that good commanders had offered their men since time began.

…oil pressure still not where it should be, and the rotors are noisy.

The Colonel pressed his ear link. “I don’t care what the oil pressure is, Royce, you get that damned bird airborne.”

Tiger 6, still no word from scout team D.

Gravenholtz threw a light punch at Rakkim’s jaw, but he caught the redhead’s fist and pushed it aside. “Maybe when this is over, you and me can have some fun,” said Gravenholtz, embarrassed at being thrown off balance. “Ex-Fedayeen, you must have some skills. Unless they kicked you out for cowardice or queerity.”

“Queerity?” Rakkim laughed. “You making up words now, Lester?”

“This isn’t the time for school-yard nonsense,” chided the Colonel. “Lester, make sure your men have secured the northern access points. I want them dug in along the logging roads in case-”

“My boys don’t take to scraping in the dirt, sir.” Gravenholtz sucked at a tooth.

“That’s an order, Lester,” said the Colonel.

Gravenholtz tugged at a lock of red hair. Glowered at Rakkim. “How about you and me make a date for when the fireworks are over.”

“No queerity, Lester,” said Rakkim. “You’d be marching crooked for a month.”

Gravenholtz stalked off.

“I wish you wouldn’t provoke him,” said the Colonel. “I’ve got enough trouble keeping him in line. His men are even worse-they’ve been through hell and back so often they think they’re fireproof. No fear. No discipline. If we get through this night, I’m going to disband them, send them back to whatever swamp they call home.”

“They may not go without-”

“Baby?” The Colonel turned away from Rakkim. “You doing okay?”

Don’t you worry about me. I’m just tending to John Moseby and watching Leo play with his toys.

“Love you, Baby.” The Colonel turned to Rakkim. “I’m going to the western perimeter; you’re welcome to come.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” said Rakkim.

“I’d like to hear more about Redbeard,” said the Colonel as they strolled along, the Colonel realizing that the troops were watching him for any sign of panic. “Did he really die of a heart attack, or was he helped along by his enemies?”

“It was a heart attack. If he had been murdered, he wouldn’t have any enemies left. I would have seen to that.”