Phoenix Rising: (5 page)

As he shot baskets, sixteen-year-old Troy Jackson bobbed and weaved about on the blacktop pad near the chain-link fence that surrounded the grounds of the Dothan High School. Faking around an imaginary defender, Troy went high for a perfect layup. Troy had been a pretty good basketball player in the pre-O time. He had played on the eighth grade team and the JV team. He would have moved up to varsity the next year, had the country not collapsed under Ohmshidi.

He had thought his dreams of playing basketball were over, but the movement that had started down in Gulf Shores, Alabama went on to free Mobile, and was gradually moving north so that it now incorporated Dothan as well as several other nearby towns, such as Newton, Enterprise, Ozark, and Troy, even as far north as Montgomery. It was beginning to look as if he might have a chance to play varsity basketball after all.

He had just rebounded a missed three-point attempt, when he saw a truck coming very slowly up the drive toward the school entrance. The driver, a swarthy man wearing an eye patch, looked like a pirate. Troy paid particular attention to the truck because few trucks came this way, and one didn't see a pirate every day.

Troy waved at the driver. Instead of returning the wave, however, the driver looked away. Shrugging it off, Troy returned to his game. With his back to the goal, he dribbled, then pivoted around for a jump shot, getting all net. He smiled at the shot and wished that his father, who had played for Auburn, had seen this one.

“Miss Margrabe! The truck!” a girl's voice shouted.

The girl's shout, and the sudden racing of the engine caused Troy's attention to be drawn back to the truck. He saw the truck moving swiftly across the grass, heading straight toward the fence that surrounded the school. There were several young students gathered just inside the fence and they turned to look, so surprised by the strange action of the truck that they were frozen into immobility.

Troy recognized the danger at once. Dropping to the ground he rolled into a tight ball with his arms folded over his head.

The truck-bomb detonated at the fence.

Troy felt the shock wave and the heat of the explosion. He was also bruised and cut by the detritus that fell on him, but he was not seriously injured. Eleven school children and one teacher, outside at the time and close to the fence, were not so lucky. They were killed, along with two others who died when the engine block of the truck crashed through the windshield of their car, just because they happened to be driving by on Highway 231 at exactly the wrong time. In addition to those killed, twenty-six children and three adults received injuries ranging in degree from Troy's minor cuts and bruises, to four who were listed as critical.

When Jake and Bob returned from their recruiting tour that same day, they landed at the Mobile airport, then flew by helicopter across the bay to Fort Morgan. Bob and Ellen hosted the others for dinner that night, and he and Jake told his guests about their visits with other patriot groups.

“Basically they have all agreed to join us,” Jake reported. “And what we have now is a military force awaiting only the command and structure that is necessary to bring them all together.”

“We have an air force, an army, and a navy,” Bob said.

“What is the size of our military?” Tom asked.

“We did some figuring on the plane on the way back,” Bob said. “It looks like when we get everyone on board, we'll have a combined force of a few thousand.”

“A few thousand? That's not a very large army,” Chris said.

“Don't look at it like that,” Jake said. “Look at the few thousand as a cadre around which we will build our military. Once we get things underway, I think we can use them as a magnet to attract others. I believe we will be able to develop a pretty sizeable military force rather quickly.”

“Yes,” Bob said. “And one of the advantages we have, over anything that the AIRE has . . . is that we actually have most of the military equipment. When the US totally collapsed, the military left behind the very latest in helicopters, Humvees, armored personnel carriers, trucks, jet fighters, bombers, even UAVs. We don't have a significant sea power yet, but we do have a navy base at Pensacola, we have a sheltered port at Mobile, and we have a ship building company in Pascagoula.”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “When you look it like that, I think we can hold our own if anything happens.”

 

 

After dinner they watched a newscast from CMN, the Columbia Muslim Network. The program began with a full screen shot of the new national flag. The words
CMN, America Enlightened Truth Television
were keyed onto the screen, replaced by the words
Obey Ohmshidi
, then a reverent voice over intoned the opening lines.

As the music played, the national flag of the AIRE fluttered in the background, but, superimposed over the letter O, was Ohmshidi's face. It remained prominent as the music began to play, the words sung by an all male chorus.

When the anthem ended, the scene returned to the studio where a young woman was sitting behind a news desk. She was wearing a burqa and her face was covered so that only her eyes could be seen.

The picture on the screen was replaced by a stylized portrait of Ohmshidi in a pensive pose, looking slightly up and to his left. The rendering was in red, beige, and blue, with the words Obey Ohmshidi underneath. The letter
O
in both words duplicated the new symbol.

Bob clicked off the TV. “I don't know who it was that killed that son of a bitch in Dallas, but here's to them,” he said.

“Yeah, we could use a few more like that,” Tom said.

“I expect we have more like that than anyone knows,” Chris said.

“I expect you are right,” Bob agreed.

“But how many do we have like that bastard who killed the school kids in Dothan? I never, ever thought I would see the time when an American would become a suicide bomber.”

“He wasn't an American,” Chris said. “He gave up that designation as soon as he signed on to this Moqaddas Sirata nonsense. And when you think about it, it isn't all that new. Even in the pre-O time we had them. It was my job to keep up with them. There's Colleen Rose, she calls herself “Jihad Jane,” Daniel Patrick Boyed, Adam Gadahn, Abdul Yasin, Anwar Al-Awlaki, Omar Hammami, he was from right here in Alabama, John Walker Lindh, and David Headley, all born in America. Oh, and how can we forget Major Yusef Mahaz? How he shot up a processing center at Fort Eustis.

“Mahaz doesn't count. That was workplace violence, don't you remember?” Tom asked sarcastically.

“Yeah, I remember,” Bob said with a mordant chuckle.

“The point I'm making is this,” Chris said. “What we're doing now is essentially the same thing that happened during the Civil War. We are trying to establish a new nation, carving a chunk out of what was the United States. And there's no way we are going to be able to do this peacefully. There is going to be fighting, and it will be American against American.”

“What do you think of that, Bob?” Jake asked. “Do you agree with Chris?”

“I'm afraid I do agree with him,” Bob said.

“What I'm worried about is, if it does come down to fighting, will our people fight against other Americans?” Jake asked. “That's going to be asking an awful lot from them.”

“Jake, Americans fought against Americans in the Civil War, and ‘brother against brother' wasn't just an expression. There really were cases of brother against brother, and son against father,” Bob said.

“But that didn't stop the killing, did it?” Tom asked.

“No. And as you know it was the most deadly conflict in our history. Estimates are that from 600,000 to 750,000 died in that war. Americans did a pretty good job of killing other Americans.”

Bob's comment was met with a stony silence.

American passports were no longer recognized and the government of AIRE had not yet issued passports. That was no problem for Sorroto who had a Swiss passport, and his own personal Boeing 787 aircraft with more than twice the range required to fly him from Springfield, Missouri to Hamburg.

He was in Hamburg to donate ten million euros to the “Sorroto School of Business.” However, he was also here to meet with Dmitry Golovin. Golovin was a Russian general with whom Sorroto had been in contact. Golovin had the authorization of his government to meet with Sorroto, because Sorroto had promised to give ten million euros, which came to 360 million rubles, to a children's hospital in Omsk, Russia.

Sorroto and Golovin walked out onto the patio outside the
Kuchenwerkstatt Gasthaus
and over to the far corner where their conversation was masked by the sound of traffic on the autobahn.

“I have five of them,” Golovin said.

“How large are they?”

“Three kilotons.”

“No, I mean how much do they weigh? I don't want them to be unwieldy.”

“They weigh 140 kilograms.”

“What is that in pounds?”

“It is about 300 pounds.”

“Then one person could not handle it.”

“It could easily be transported on a . . .” Golovin made a motion with his hands to indicate a two wheel loading dolly.

“Yes, a two wheeler, I understand. How much do you want for them?”

“Three billion rubles,” Golovin said.

“Three billion, that's 70 million Euros. That is a great deal of money.”

Golovin smiled. “What is it you businessmen say? It is a seller's market. Where else can you buy five nuclear weapons?”

Sorroto chuckled. “You have a point.”

“Where shall I deliver them?”

“Just hold them for now. I'll let you know when I want them, and how I want them delivered.”

Boris Petrov and Dmitry Golovin met in the Shokoladnica restaurant.

“There are so many people here,” Golovin said, “that I wonder if we should not have chosen a quieter place.”

“Nonsense,” Boris said. “This is the alpha and omega of chocolate, and their chocolate pancakes are the pride of Moscow. There is nothing unusual about us meeting here, and enjoying the pancakes. Were we to meet in a quiet tea room somewhere, suspicions might be aroused.”

The waiter delivered the chocolate delicacies to the two men, and they began to eat with obvious enjoyment. They talked as they ate, giving no indication to anyone else in the restaurant that their discussion covered anything other than their admiration of the cuisine.

“Three billion rubles,” Golovin said.

Boris smiled. “So he did not attempt to bargain?”

“He has more money than all the czars of Russia combined. It means nothing to him except as a means to an end,” Golovin said.

“Has he said why he wants the weapons?”

“He did not say, and I did not ask.”

“Perhaps he is acquiring them for that part of America that has broken away from the rest of the country,” Boris suggested.

Golovin shook his head. “No, I truly think he wants the weapons for himself. And such a man is truly dangerous.”

“If he is not dangerous to us, why should we care?”

“True, why should we care?”

“There is one man who is a danger to us,” Boris suggested.

“You are talking about Vladimir Shaporin,” Golovin said.

“Yes. Already he has gone to the Defense Minister with his claim that he is missing five warheads. I convinced the Defense Minister that all the warheads were accounted for, and he dismissed Shaporin. But Shaporin is not someone who can so easily be dismissed. You are going to have to take care of him, and, you must do so quickly.”

“You are right. Shaporin must be dealt with. I will see to it that it is done.”

Vladimir Shaporin parked his 2008 Lada Kalina in the parking lot of the senior officers BOQ. A single officer, Vladimir found it cheaper to live in the BOQ than to find an apartment downtown, and because Colonels were authorized a two room suite, his quarters weren't all that uncomfortable.

Vladimir was beginning to have second thoughts about having told his uncle of the missing warheads. He was certain that there were people, highly placed in the government, who knew about it—and for some reason were covering it up. He didn't suspect his uncle, but he may have put his uncle in danger by bringing him in on it.

Why was the government so reluctant to do anything about it? Were they embarrassed? Were they afraid of the negative publicity the Russian government would get if news of this got out?

Or—and this, he didn't even want to think—was the reason more sinister? Were certain officials within the Russian government actually complicit in the disappearance of the warheads?

That unpleasant thought was still on Vladimir's mind as he opened the door to his room. He was surprised to see that, although he had left a desk lamp on, it was dark. For a moment he thought perhaps the power was off, but then he realized that all the hall lamps were burning.

As soon as he stepped into the room, he caught the heavy, almost acrid odor of a Sobranie cigarette. Vladimir didn't smoke, but his deputy commander, Lieutenant Colonel Leonid Trutnev did, and Sobranie was his brand.

“Leonid?” Vladimir called into the darkness. “Leonid, are you in here? What are you doing in my room?”

A lamp was turned on and Vladimir saw Trutnev sitting in a chair by the desk.

“Leonid, what is the meaning of this? You have no right to—” he paused in mid-sentence when he realized that Trutnev was holding a pistol. “What? What are you doing?”

“You should have stayed out of it, Colonel,” Trutnev said. He shook his head. “Minister Basov told you to forget about it, but you didn't listen.”

“Leonid, you, a traitor?” Vladimir said. He shook his head. “I can't believe you are a traitor.”

“I'm not the traitor, Vladimir, you are,” Trutnev said. He pulled the trigger on the pistol and Vladimir saw a flash of light, even as he felt a deep, burning pain in his chest. He experienced a sense of light-headedness for a brief instant, then, nothing.

Leonid picked up the phone and made a call.

“It is done,” he said.

“Good. You are now the commanding officer of the Tenth Battalion of the Tamanskya Division.”

“Thank you, sir. You honor me.”

Jake, Bob, Tom and Chris were in what they were now calling the cabinet room of the old museum building at the fort. Even though everyone had moved their living quarters away from the fort, the museum building still functioned as the headquarters.

“We've gone about this sort of bass ackwards,” Bob said, “in that we have built an army before we built our nation. But these are unique circumstances, and it is my belief that we are going to have to have an established military almost immediately.”

“I agree,” Jake said. “I'm drawing up a military structure now, breaking it down into corps areas.”

“Have you given more thought to my suggestion of having one defense force, rather than an army, navy, and air force?” Bob asked.

“Yes, and I think that's the way to go,” Jake said. “Tom, Chris, what do you two think?”

“I suppose I could go along with that,” Tom said, “but you need some sub-division within that structure. Part of being a SEAL was the pride of unit. And if we become one conglomeration, we'll lose that pride.”

“I agree,” Jake said. “We'll marry the two concepts, we'll have a central command and control, but the units within will have their own identity.”

There was a knock on the door, and Willie Stark stepped in.

“Yes, Willie, what is it?” Bob asked.

Willie held up a few sheets of paper. “This is what our Web page is going to look like. I printed it out so you could see it before I put it on the Internet.”

“All right, let's take a look at it,” Bob said.

“That looks pretty good,” Jake said. “But how can we get people to come look at it?”

“Don't worry about that,” Willie said. “I have so many search engine optimizers that half of what anybody starts searching for will bring them to this site.”

“Including the bad guys?” Tom asked. “I mean, won't this tell them what we are doing?”

“They are going to know what we are doing anyway,” Bob said. “I say to hell with them, we'll just be in their face with it.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Yeah, I like that.”

“All right, Willie, go ahead and get this up as quickly as you can,” Bob said.

“Yes, sir,” Willie replied.

“Any other suggestions?” Bob asked after Willie left.

“Yes, I have one,” Chris said. “We are going to need more than an army. We're going to need something like the CIA.”

“I agree,” Jake said. “And since you brought it up, I assume that means that you are willing to serve in that capacity, and organize it.”

“Well, yes and no,” Chris replied.

“Why no?”

“I am willing to serve in that capacity,” Chris said. “But initially, I think we should have a one man bureau. And I'll be that one man.”

“I'd be willing to go along with that, Chris, except for one thing,” Bob said.

“What's that?”

“I've never been associated with such an organization, but I've certainly read about it—you know, James Bond and all that. And from what I've read, it's pretty dangerous. What if you get killed?”

“I'm glad you are so concerned about me,” Chris said with a smile.

Bob chuckled. “Don't get me wrong, I'm not particularly concerned about you. But if you get killed and there's nobody to take your place, where will that leave us?”

“I expect Tom has done about as many spook jobs as I have,” Chris said.

“Hardly,” Tom said, laughing. “You've been doing this for what? Forty years?”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Bob said. “Show a little respect for your elders here. I'm pretty sure I once flew Chris behind German lines. It was German lines, wasn't it, Chris?”

“I believe it was.”

“Yes, I started to say I flew you behind British lines, but as I think back on it now, I believe that was Nathan Hale.”

“Right. And we know how that one worked out,” Jake said.

“But I did give him that line he used.
I regret that I have but one life to give to my country
,” Bob said.

“You sure do have a way with words. No wonder you're a writer.”

“You old guys are crazy, you know that?” Tom said, laughing.

“That's all right. Being crazy is what keeps us sane.”