Caliphate Read online

  Caliphate

  Tom Kratman

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  PART I

  Chapter One

  Grolanhei, Province of Affrankon, 12 Safar, 1527 AH (23 March, 2103)

  Imperial Military Academy, West Point, New York, 26 March, 2106

  Grolanhei, Province of Affrankon, 2 Shawwal, 1530 AH (1 October, 2106)

  Interlude

  Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany, 9 April, 2003

  Chapter Two

  Interlude

  Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany, 16 April, 2003

  Chapter Three

  Interlude

  Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany, 11 January, 2004

  Chapter Four

  Interlude

  Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany, 16 January, 2004

  Chapter Five

  Interlude

  Erfurt, Federal Republic of Germany, 1 February, 2005

  Chapter Six

  Interlude

  Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany, 13 February, 2005

  Church of St. Vinzenz, Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Georgia, 5 March, 2005

  Chapter Seven

  Interlude

  Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany, 7 April, 2005

  Chapter Eight

  Interlude

  Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany, 1 October, 2005

  Chapter Nine

  Excursus

  PART II

  Chapter Ten

  Cape Town, South Africa, 14 October, 2113

  KHR House, Swartland, Western Cape Province, Boer Republic of South Africa, 14 October, 2113

  Slave Pen Number Five, KHR House Holding Facility, Cape Town, South Africa, 17 October, 2113

  Slave Pen Number Five, KHR House Holding Facility, Cape Town, South Africa, 19 October, 2113

  Interlude

  Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany, 11 November, 2005

  Chapter Eleven

  Interlude

  Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany, 30 June, 2006

  Chapter Twelve

  Interlude

  Grosslangheim, Federal Republic of Germany, 4 July, 2006

  Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany, 6 September, 2007

  Chapter Thirteen

  Interlude

  Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany, 1 December, 2011

  Chapter Fourteen

  Interlude

  Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany, 11 September, 2015

  Chapter Fifteen

  Interlude

  Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany, 11 September, 2016

  9 November, 2016

  1 September, 2019

  Chapter Sixteen

  Interlude

  Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany, 17 October, 2021

  Chapter Seventeen

  Interlude

  Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany, 10 July, 2022

  Chapter Eighteen

  Interlude

  Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany,

  Chapter Nineteen

  Interlude

  Grosslangheim, Federal Republic of Germany, 1 October, 2022

  American Consulate, Zurich, Switzerland, 5 March, 2024

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  GLOSSARY

  Acknowledgments

  CALIPHATE

  Tom Kratman

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/ by permission of the author and copyright holder.

  Copyright © 2008 by Tom Kratman

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4165-5545-5

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4165-5545-2

  Cover art by Kurt Miller

  First printing, April 2008

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Kratman, Tom.

  Caliphate / Tom Kratman.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-5545-2

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-5545-5

  1. Prostitutes—Germany—Fiction. 2.

  Islam—Europe—Fiction. 3. Germany—Fiction. 4.

  Europe—Fiction. 5. Totalitarianism—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3611.R375C35 2008

  813'.6—dc22

  2008002986

  Printed in the United States of America

  Baen Books by Tom Kratman

  A State of Disobedience

  A Desert Called Peace

  Carnifex

  Caliphate

  with John Ringo:

  Watch on the Rhine

  Yellow Eyes

  Dedication

  For the defiant Oriana Fallaci, for the brave Bat Yeor,

  and for the insightful Claire Berlinski.

  Prologue

  Hidden in the grass, the hare froze as the shadow passed over it. Even with its little brain, still it knew that the shadow was not just some passing puff of cloud. It was too small, too quick, too purposeful. And, too, something in the half-seen glimpse of the dark outline undulating over the uneven ground told of a raptor soaring above.

  The hare was a naturally shy and timid creature, rarely venturing out into the meadows and pastures that covered the land. But this was spring. Instinct told the animal to find a mate. Instinct ruled. It could hardly help itself from gamboling about in search of a female.

  It had found one, too, or thought it had. When he'd approached, though, the female had slapped him repeatedly to drive him away. Either she didn't want him for a mate or she wasn't quite ready yet. No matter to the hare, it would hang around until the female was in a more accommodating and receptive frame of mind. He could still smell her; she wasn't far. Time, it had seemed, was on his side.

  But there was that shadow overhead.

  The raptor's eyes were large and keen. With them she saw her lifetime mate, even at his scouting distance. Though she was the better hunter, still the pair took turns, scouting and driving, diving and killing. Now it was the mate's turn to scout.

  From her high post she thought she'd seen prey, some smallish brown animal. A hare, she thought. Good eating . . . and the young hunger.

  She'd turned in her flight then and lost sight of the thing. It couldn't have gone far though. There . . . Yes, there, it probably was, down there in the patch of grass. It was rare to find grass so thick now, what with the depredations of the goats. The raptor thought only of the advantages to hunting that lack of cover provided. It never considered what would happen when there was no grass anymore, nor anything else for the prey to eat. In this, at least, the raptor and its master—the man below on horseback with the outstretched arm and the thick, heavy glove—were in agreement: Let the future take care of itself; live for today.

  The raptor—it was a golden eagle—gave a cry. Eeek . . . eeek . . . eeek. This told her mate all he needed to know.

  The hare heard the cry and began to tremble with fright. Should it move from its hide and open itself up to attack from above? Should it stay there and risk being isolated, uncovered and eaten? And then there was the female to think about. Where was she? The male thought it could still smell her. Was she, too, hiding
and trembling?

  The male hare wasn't concerned with protecting the female. It would have gladly offered her up to the raptors' feast if only it had known how. Yes, the urge to mate was strong. But the urge to live was stronger still and another mate could probably be found. It would probably have offered up its own offspring rather than face the ripping talons and tearing beak.

  The female gave another cry, subtly different from the first. She saw, with satisfaction, her mate swoop down with a terrorizing cry of his own. Aha . . . there's the prey! She swooped, exulting in her own ferocity.

  How the contemptible thing tries to avoid me, to save its miserable life. No use, little one, for the God of Eagles has placed you here for me.

  The eagle's feathers strained as they bent under the braking maneuver. Then came the satisfying strike of talons, the delightful spray of blood and the high pitched scream, so like a baby of one of the bipeds that dominated the ground here and guarded the goats that consumed the grass.

  The female called to her mate. Eeek . . . ee-ee-eeek. Come and feast, my love.

  * * *

  Slowly the trembling subsided. The hare wasted no tears for the one that might have been its mate. Though the female was dead, the male would live, for the nonce. It would feed, even as the raptors fed on the corpse of the female.

  How much better then, a man than a hare?

  PART I

  Chapter One

  Where now is the ancient wealth and dignity of the Romans? The Romans of old were most powerful; now we are without strength. They were feared; now it is we who are fearful. The barbarians paid them tribute; now we are the tributaries of the barbarians. Our enemies make us pay for the very light of day and our right to life has to be bought. Oh, what miseries are ours! To what a state we have descended! We even have to thank the barbarians for the right to buy ourselves off them. What could be more humiliating and miserable?

  —Salvian of Marseilles, 5th Century AD

  Grolanhei, Province of Affrankon, 12 Safar, 1527 AH

  (23 March, 2103)

  "Wonderful strike!" applauded the man on horseback, slapping the stock of the rifle in the saddle holster at the horse's right. Mohammad was his name, though, as Mohammad was the most common name in Europe, this was less than significant, individually. "Wonderful strike, Rashid," he repeated. A third man, Bashir, agreed.

  Bashir's rifle was in his arms. It was hardly necessary. The Nazrani were like rabbits and no man needed a rifle to ward off rabbits. Even so, the presence of the weapon, and its display, was a badge of the superiority of the faithful and the inferiority—the helpless inferiority—of the infidel. Virtually all of the masters carried them almost all the time they were in public. There was quite a lively trade in personal arms, too. Nearly every town with any numbers of the faithful had a shop full of shotguns, rifles, and even automatic weapons for sale.

  Rashid, their companion, just nodded. Like Mohammad and Bashir, Rashid also sat astride a horse, in his case a magnificent white animal. In truth, Rashid's attention was not on the birds, nor even on their prey. Rather, he watched the little hamlet of Grolanhei, part of his personal domain as one of the tax gatherers for the emirate of Kitznen.

  Grolanhei did not have an arms dealer.

  All my little helpless rabbits, Rashid thought. All you disgusting filthy Nazrani are my prey.

  As light skinned and blue eyed as the wretched heretics that peopled the town, still Rashid more resembled his hawks than he did them. His eyes were bright, keen and avaricious; his nose a beak jutting from his face. Inside, too, he resembled a hawk, all fierce and selfish appetite, all blood-lust and drive to dominate.

  Every year, at tax time, Rashid made sure to collect a few children in lieu of the taxes he deliberately set too high. He received a direct bounty from the bundejaysh, the army, for the boys he collected for the Corps of Janissaries. The girls went on the market to whosoever might want a female child for service. Sometimes that service was domestic. Other girls, especially the prettiest ones, could be sold for other purposes.

  But the bastard Nazrani hide their women and girls now, Rashid mentally cursed. It's become altogether too difficult to tell which of their little bitches might fetch a decent price. Shameful for them to pervert the law like that. Bastards.

  "Stop being such a girl, Petra," the young boy said to his sister as the two watched the bird of prey swoop and strike.

  Petra bint Minden, aged six, had shuddered at the swooping hawk's cry. She shuddered again, shielding her eyes with tiny hands, as the hare screamed out in pain and terror. Barely, she forced her fingers apart to see the eagle carry off its limp and bloody prey. Again she shuddered, pleased that she was not so small as to be the prey of a raptor.

  Petra felt her brother tug at her arm. His voice commanded, "Come on. The masters are coming. And we're almost late for school."

  Turning away from the pasture where the eagle had struck, Petra followed after her brother on little legs. It was hard to keep up, what with the enveloping cloth sack the girl wore that covered her from head to heel. The covering was whole, though her mother had spent long hours patching and mending it. For it wasn't the law that required Petra to be so enclosed; she was too young for it to matter.

  Rather, she wore the burka at her mother's insistence. As the mother had said, "Some of the masters take a long view of things. You're a beautiful child, Petra, though you're too young to know what that means. Even so, no sense in letting them see you and put you on a list for when you've turned nine."

  Behind her, Petra heard a horse neigh, the sound echoed by several more of them. Turning quickly, she spied a group of three riding across the bare and open field. Two held their arms out, she saw, as another twirled something overhead. Two great hunting birds came to rest on the outstretched arms, one of them bearing the corpse of the hare. Petra knew they must be from the masters; Nazrani weren't allowed to ride horseback.

  "Come along, Petra," insisted her older brother, Hans. Hans was nine, big for his age and strong. He was her protector and the hero of Petra's existence. Like his sister, the boy was blond with bright blue eyes. Folk of the town were already whispering that he was sure to be gathered for the janissaries within a few years. Unlike their father, Hans was too young to have the bowed back of the dhimmi, those who submitted by treaty to the rule of the masters, their taxes, and their laws.

  There were several orta of janissaries in the old al Harv barracks set roughly between the town of Grolanhei and the larger one of Kitznen. They sometimes came to the smaller town to drink forbidden beer or make use of the town's dozen or so whores. (For the janissaries were well disciplined and rarely indulged in rape.) Petra found their black uniforms with silver insignia strangely compelling.

  "Come along," Hans commanded again, grabbing her by her arm and pulling her back to the town that edged the open field. "We don't want them to notice us."

  Bad things, so it was whispered, sometimes happened to blond and blue-eyed children who attracted the notice of the masters. Petra shuddered again and followed her brother, stopping only once more to turn and peer at the magnificent horsemen.

  * * *

  The way to school, up the cobblestoned Haupstrasse, led past a fountain and a crumbling monument, a painted wall, which listed the names of the town's war dead going back centuries. No names had been added to the monument in over one hundred and fifty years. Few of those old names were visible now. The picture, painted on a wall over the town fountain, was of an angel lifting a fallen soldier to Heaven. It was part of the back of the Catholic church. As such, under the rules of protection imposed by the masters, the treaty of dhimmitude, neither it, nor the church, could be repaired.

  It didn't really matter anyway. Petra couldn't read yet, though Hans was trying to teach her, no matter that the law forbade it. Left to the masters she would never learn to read. She was, after all, a mere female. In their view, her ultimate value was in her body, in the pleasure it might someday bring to a man,
in the household work she would do, and in the children she would bear. For all practical purposes, she—like virtually all the females of the Caliphate, to include the Moslem ones—was considered to be not much more than a donkey who could speak and bear children.

  Instead, her school taught her only basic theology—to include, by law, a theology not her own—and homemaking, as well as the rules under which she must live out her life. That last was a part of that theology not her own.

  As she had nearly every day since she had learned to walk, Petra looked without understanding at the wretched and abandoned memorial, then turned and continued on her way. She expressly did not look across the street from the monument to the crude wooden gallows where the remains of two teenaged boys swung in the breeze by ropes around their stretched necks. The boys were dressed in girls' clothing, minus the hijab.