"You think the Chinese will move in, sir?" Chen asked in a paper-thin attempt to deflect the old man's attention.

"I don't know what the Chinese will do, Lieutenant. But I'll prepare for the worst, and dare the good Lord to disappoint me," he said.

A fraction of a second later a pure, obsidian blackness swallowed them whole.

Captain Harry Windsor was growing used to the relatively spacious surroundings of the submarine. She was a monster, stealthy and huge, kitted out to operate far from home, and for months at a time. Indeed, her clean fusion drive meant that were it not for the need to re-arm the torpedo bays and refill the galley, the Havoc could stay out indefinitely. The Aussies told him there had been even more room before a refit had crammed a bunch of cruise missiles into their video lounge.

Oh well, he thought. Things have gone pear-shaped all over.

He was just happy to have enough space to work through an abbreviated series of kata before a scrub-down and a feed. He could hear St. Clair rustling around behind him, making a god-awful racket, looking for Christ knows what.

Temper, temper. He was beginning to sound more like his grandfather-a famously cranky old bugger, as he recalled fondly.

Resettling his thoughts, he worked through a full suite of atemi waza, striking techniques from the Danzan jujitsu ryu. After a quarter hour during which the world contracted to the small circle in which he moved, he forced one last, great breath out from deep within his hara, bowed to the memory of his sensei and the spirits of the ryu, and cast around for Viv, who had disappeared.

Harry squeezed himself into the cramped unisex shower, washed quickly, and changed into a T-shirt and sweats. It would be a few more hours before the night's exercise began, and there was no point sitting around in his kit. He made his way through to the mess and found Sergeant St. Clair taunting an Australian submariner. They were discussing the chances of the locals rescuing the final cricket test of the 2021 series under the dome in Sydney. How sweet it is, thought Harry, to finally have a first eleven worth following after decades of humiliation. And that England's cricket revival should actually come Downunder… well, that was the sweetest victory of all.

"Guvnor, this idiot is offering two to one against our boys in Sydney," cried St. Clair. "True, it's only Australian money, but I think we're morally bound to relieve him of it anyway."

The Australian, an engineer at the end of his watch, grinned at Windsor like a hungry shark. "If your lordship would care to back his loyal subjects?"

God, but they do take the piss, Harry thought, as the lights dipped and the cook began cursing at his microwave oven. A short time later the lights returned to normal.

"Right, then," said Harry Windsor, old boy of Eton, captain of His Majesty's Special Air Service Regiment, and third in line to the British throne. "Let's see the color of your money, mate."

The engineer waved over a female petty officer to hold the bets. Carrying a mug of tea, she gave the young warrior prince twenty-five thousand watts of her smile as she bore down on him.

But before she could witness the bet, or make a move on His Studliness, the infinite dark consumed them all.

"Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!"

Adil hammered out the ancient phrase, part supplication and part plea for the mercy of Almighty God, as he lay prostrate in the dust.

All around him the scrub was alive with screeching, panicking animals desperately attempting to flee the giant, swirling tsunami of light. It had filled the sky, perhaps the whole world, for just a second, but the afterimage would remain with Adil until he was old and wizened. Village children would gather at his feet decades from now, begging to be told the story of how Allah himself had cast the crusaders down into Hell.

He fumbled for the canvas pack that held the laser transmitter, still imploring God's mercy. His hands trembled so much he dropped the small device four times before regaining some measure of control over his actions.

As his senses returned to him, he begged God not to punish His unworthy servant for ever doubting the wisdom of pegging him out on the side of a barren hill. What a foolish, pitiable creature he must have seemed, whining to himself about the injustice of his assignment, when all the time he was fated to bear witness to… to…

What?

Adil paused. What was that thing? A crusader weapon, perhaps?

His heart lurched and he dropped the transmitter, scrabbling in the bag for his powered binoculars. He threw them up to his face so quickly he nearly broke his own nose. He held his breath for ten, fifteen, twenty seconds as he scoured the horizon. Strange, there was no heat haze now, to shroud the fleet. And his German-made field glasses were first class, with excellent G-shock dampeners that quickly compensated for the tremors that continued shaking his whole frame.

The Americans, all of the infidels, were gone. Only one large, burning piece of wreckage remained. The bow of a ship by its appearance. The crusaders had been vanquished by a miracle! And he, a simple carpenter, had seen the very hand of God as it swept them into the seventh level of Hell. He let out his pent-up breath in a rush.

He returned to his small pack and searched again for the transmitter to send word of his vision to Jakarta, when his training finally asserted itself. Down in the town of Dili, crusaders were spilling out on to the street like cockroaches. They, too, knew something cataclysmic had happened, and in the next few minutes they would fill the air with their electronic spiders. There was a good chance they would send armed men into the hills and fields, as well. They were thorough, the crusaders. He had to concede that about them.

Drawing in a few long, deep breaths, pausing to collect his thoughts and further settle his nerves, Adil decided he had best wait for a safer moment. Only a fool would draw a nest of angry wasps upon himself. He had valuable information now, something the Caliph would certainly want to hear in person.

Allah be praised, who would have imagined that he would find himself standing before the liberator of the Caliphate? Adil quickly gathered up the meager evidence of his stay and buried it all at the foot of the sandalwood tree where he had kept watch these last few days.

There was another cache of equipment hidden near Los Palos. He would make his way there, resuming the demeanor of a starving refugee, walking the land and looking for food, shelter, and sanctuary from the Rising Jihad. He smiled at that last thought as he straightened up, stretched, and moved off down the slope, glancing back over his shoulder every now and then, to the place of the blessed miracle.