History repeats itself, David mused. If this had happened in Ceuta, what was the rest of the world like? The plague unleashed by Toba Protocol—the eventuality he had spent the last ten years trying to prevent—had come to pass. He had failed. How many were dead? Almost against his will, his mind focused on one: Kate. Had she gotten out in Gibraltar? If so, where was she? Southern Spain? Here in Morocco? She was a needle in a haystack, but, assuming he survived the looming behemoth ahead, he would burn it down to find her. He would have to wait for his opening, a chance to escape. From the back of the jeep, he watched the last of the burned stretch of the city pass by.
The convoy slowed at the iron gate at the center of the giant wall. Two black flags hung on each side. As the gate parted to let the jeeps pass, a gust of wind caught the flags and they unfurled: [II]. Immari International. The high white wall reached at least thirty feet into the air, and here and there it was charred with long stains of black, no doubt the scars from where the enemy on horseback had lain siege. The black-striped wall and gate looked almost like a zebra, opening its mouth to swallow the convoy. The flags waved like ears, flinching at the wind. Into the belly of the beast, David thought as they passed under the wall and the gate closed quickly behind them.
The eight soldiers that had apprehended him in the mountains had bound his hands and tied them to his belt. He had ridden silently in the back seat of the jeep, enduring the bumpy, sometimes brutal journey from the mountains. He had gone through several escape scenarios, but each had ended with him leaping from the jeep, breaking a high number of bones and winding up in no shape to fight.
Now he squirmed in the seat and turned left and right, surveying the interior of the base, searching for an escape opening. Inside the high walls, Immari soldiers were rushing to resupply the towers that dotted the walls. The scale took David aback. How many troops were there? Thousands at least, working along the wall that faced inland. Others no doubt manned the other walls that faced the sea. Beyond the wall, past the towers and wide supply roads, rows of houses spread out along the street. They looked mostly unoccupied, but occasionally a soldier would step into or out of one.
Three rows of tilled soil ran along each side of the road. Every twenty feet or so, a wooden pole, like a shortened telephone pole, rose out of the ground. Each held two lumpy sacks, spaced several feet apart. David thought at first that they were giant wasps’ nests.
Ahead, another high whitewashed wall loomed, almost exactly like the outer wall, and that told David what this was: a kill zone. If the Immari’s enemy—whoever the raiders on horseback were—ever breached the outer wall, they would shred them in this area in between. The tilled soil along the dirt road no doubt hid mines, and David assumed the sacks hanging from the poles were filled with spent shell casings, scrap metal, nails, and other debris that, when exploded, would rip apart anyone caught between the walls.
The ancient fortress had other modern upgrades. Each of the guard towers held massive guns. David didn’t recognize the model. Something new? The tops of many houses were gone, and David figured they hid anti-aircraft batteries inside, sitting atop hydraulic lifts, ready to rise up and shoot down any incoming enemy aircraft. He doubted the horse raiders had any though.
Again the soldiers worked the radio, and the iron gate at the inner wall parted. This wall was less charred than the outer, but several zebra stripes still reached from its top and bottom. As he passed under the inner gate, David felt his chances of escape grow smaller. “Hit the closest guard and run” wouldn’t cut it here. He had to focus.
Inside the inner gate, houses and shops lined another street, this one untouched by mines and improvised explosives. It looked more like a quaint ancient village. There were people in plain clothes here as well as more soldiers. This was clearly the main residential section of the base.
Beyond the second row of homes and shops, another wall rose, this one stone and much older. Another gate parted. The city was almost like one of those Russian matryoshka dolls with other dolls nested inside it.
Ceuta had probably been built like other villages along the Mediterranean. Thousands of years ago, the inhabitants of this place had no doubt built a small settlement on the shore. That settlement had prospered as a trading post. Prosperity had brought settlers and the less scrupulous opportunists: pirates and thieves. The ensuing commerce and crime had seen the first city walls built, and over the centuries the city had expanded, each time erecting a new outer city wall to protect its new citizens.
The buildings were much older here, and there was no one in plain clothes, only soldiers and seemingly endless stacks of artillery, munitions, and other equipment. The Immari were preparing for war, and this was clearly a major launching center. This was also the city’s citadel. He would be judged here.
David turned to the soldier sitting in the jeep beside him. “Corporal, I know you’re following orders, but you need to release me. You’re making a very big mistake. Take me past the city gate and set me out. No one will be the wiser, and you might avoid a court-martial for interfering with a top-secret mission.”
The young man eyed David, hesitated, then looked away quickly. “No can do, Colonel. Standing orders are to capture or kill anyone beyond the wall.”