Authors: William W. Johnstone

Firebase Freedom (12 page)

BOOK: Firebase Freedom

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Chris smiled back at her. “You know what? I do too.” His right arm was on the back of the sofa. With his left hand, he brushed her hair back, then he put his thumb and forefinger at the tip of her chin and leaned toward her. She came to him with her lips already parted so that their second kiss picked up at exactly the place where the first had left off.

At last they came up for breath, and when she looked at him, her eyes were deep and diaphanous and he could see all the way to the bottom, to the Kathy that was inside . . . elementary, hopeful, and very vulnerable.

“Chris?” she said. Her voice sounded small, and far away. “I don't think Margaret would mind, now.”

Chris's heart raced and he had to take a gasping breath of air. He felt light-headed, then emboldened by the fact that she had just placed herself in his charge. Kathy rose at his bidding, then, without protest, let him lead her into his bedroom.

An airliner just taking off from Muslimabad International, perhaps heading for New York, or Mexico City, or London, roared overhead, but Chris and Kathy were oblivious to its passing. There were only the two of them, alone in their private cocoon.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

Weeks Bay, Alabama

At one time the campground had been known as Camp Beckwith, a camp and conference center of the Episcopal Diocese of the Central Gulf Coast, located on Weeks Bay in South Baldwin County, Alabama. It set on eighty-two acres of tall pines and landscaped open spaces and served guests of all denominations, races, and national origins. But Camp Beckwith was no more. In its place today was something called the YCEC 251. That stood for Youth Confinement and Enlightenment Center Number 251.

The eighty-two acres was surrounded by ten-foot-high chain-link fences, topped by razor wire. Concertina wire also formed a barrier before even reaching the fence. Every 250 yards around the compound, there was a manned guard tower with inward-facing machine guns. In addition, floodlights were placed at intervals along the fence, their brilliant beams illuminating the grounds at night, as bright as midday.

Eddie Manning was seated at his desk in the classroom. On the wall in front of the classroom was the stylized, blue, red, and beige portrait of Ohmshidi over the words “Obey Ohmshidi.”

Eddie looked through the widow as the girls were marched to their own classes. None of the girls were being taught to read, or do math. Their education was limited to household chores: laundry, dishes, scrubbing floors, and other such tasks.

Eddie had not seen Jane since they were brought to YCEC 251, or, just “the 251” as the boys were now calling the camp. Of course, he didn't really know whether he had seen her or not. Every girl, regardless of age, had been put in a full-body burqa so that nothing could be seen of them from head to toe. Since they all looked like walking pup tents, it was impossible for him to know which one was his sister. At no time since coming into the camp had he seen the face of any of the girl inmates.

“Students! They are students!” Imam Hudhafa corrected him, when he heard Eddie use the word inmates. “You are all students for the preservation of
Moqaddas Sirata
, and the glorification of our Great Leader, President Mehdi Ohmshidi.”

Eddie had just come into the morning class with the others, coming from morning prayer.

“And now, let us say together, the pledge of allegiance to the Great Leader,” Imam Hudhafa said.

Eddie stood with the others, and they recited together:

“Obey Ohmshidi
I pledge allegiance to Mehdi Ohmshidi,
Our Great Leader
Islam is our faith
Moqaddas Sirata
is our law
Jihad is our way
Dying as a martyr
Is our highest hope.”

Eddie mouthed the words along with everyone else in the class, but in his mind, he always replaced “dying as a martyr” with “getting out of here,” as his highest hope.

With the pledge stated, the class was told to sit, so their lessons could begin.

Imam Hudhafa was a Saudi who had come to the United States twenty years ago. When he learned of the three nuclear bombs that had been detonated by martyrs in Norfolk, Virginia, Baltimore, Maryland, and Boston, Massachusetts, he dropped to his knees, faced Mecca, and gave thanks and praise to Allah, that America was being subjugated by Islam.

Afterward, proudly wearing the dishdasha, he applied and was accepted as a teacher in the Youth Enlightenment Centers. It was his belief that with the youth lay a future in which all the world would be subjected to Islam. And not just the Christians, Jews, and Hindus, but misguided Muslims as well, for there were many Muslims who did not follow the precepts of
Moqaddas Sirata
, the Holy Path. Hudhafa considered it a sacred honor to be among those who had been chosen for this holy task.

“Remember,” Imam Hudhafa said, “as a martyr, you will be alive in Heaven. Martyred jihad fighters are the most honored people, after the Prophet, and, as suicide bombers, you will ascend to a paradise of luxury staffed by seventy-two virgins waiting to gratify the martyrs as you arrive.

“Ha, what do I want virgins for?” one seventeen-year-old joked right after they first arrived at the camp. “I don't want no virgins. Hell, I want someone who knows what it's all about. I'm still young, I need to learn from an experienced woman.”

The seventeen-year-old boy, whose name was Jarvis Morris, was deemed an apostate, then taken out to the middle of the camp and laid on the ground. Chains were attached to his arms and legs, then connected to four tractors. At a signal from the camp commandant, the four tractors started in opposite directions from each other, literally pulling him apart into four large pieces so that he was drawn and quartered, leaving a cross of blood and entrails. Every “student” of the camp, including the girls, was made to watch.

It was an object lesson that Eddie had taken to heart, so now, no matter how much he might despise the “re-education,” he was always very careful to check any remarks, or outward display of disapproval.

He sat in the classroom, keeping his face as impassive as possible, while the instructor continued with the day's lessons.

“And now, repeat after me, our sworn objective.
Moqaddas Sirata
is the ultimate goal for the entire world. We have to fight all the enemies of our religion so that one day, the whole world will be united and enlightened. Allah promises us heaven if we fight and even embrace death in this holy task.”

Eddie, and the other boys in his classroom, repeated the sworn objective.

Eddie had never been particularly religious, but had become so since coming to YCEC 251. He prayed every day, bowing and scraping, and facing Mecca as he was instructed. But regardless of what it looked like on the outside, on the inside his prayers were all Christian prayers.

Alexandria

From the
Moqaddas Sirata News Journal:

Two Janissary Officers Decorated for Meritorious Service

Husni Mawsil and Shurayh Amaar of the Arlington SPS Brigade were recently awarded the Crescent for Bravery Third Class. The two men, said by their commanders and peers to be outstanding officers of the Janissary, were the ones whose thorough police work was responsible for bringing the whore, Margaret Malcolm, to justice.

Observant readers may recognize the woman's name, for after a trial and conviction, she paid for her sin by being stoned until death. This is in accordance with Islamic law (Sharia), which requires that adulterers be put to death, since it was the example set by Muhammad. In practice, it is the women who are executed far more often, since they are presumed to bear the burden of sexual responsibility. Rape victims are also guilty of adultery under Sharia law if four male witnesses cannot be found to confirm the victim's claim.

The newspaper report told Chris who the two men were, and it didn't take long after that to discover where they lived. Mawsil's apartment was just two blocks from the apartment building where Chris lived, and Amaar was only two miles away. It figured they were fairly close, because they were the ones who happened onto the scene, right after Margaret had committed the “crime of adultery.”

It was three o'clock in the morning when Husni Mawsil was awakened by a pin prick in his arm. When his eyes opened, he saw a man sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” Mawsil asked.

“I picked the lock.”

Mawsil put his hand on the sore spot on his arm.

“In case you are wondering about that pin prick you felt, I just gave you an injection of Batrachotoxin. You'll be dead in less than a minute.”

Mawsil's eye's grew large in terror.

“And just so you know? Margaret Malcolm wasn't a whore.”

Chris pulled a flask of whiskey from his pocket and took a drink as he stared at the dying Mawsil. Mawsil tried to talk, but already his nervous system was shutting down and the only thing he could do is make a squeaking sound.

“Oh, by the way, I'm pretty sure there aren't going to be seventy-two virgins to welcome you,” Chris said. “Because in about thirty seconds now, you'll be in hell. Obey Ohmshidi, you son of a bitch.”

Mawsil's eyes opened wider, the only part of his body he could still move, and they reflected his terror. Chris took another swallow of his whiskey as he watched the life go out of those eyes.

Just after dawn, Shurayh Amaar came out of his apartment building and started toward his car. He had left it parked on the street, clearly marked as an SPS vehicle, and not only SPS, a vehicle that belonged to the elite Janissary Corps. It would be the height of foolishness for someone to bother it.

And yet, this morning, someone clearly had.

Amaar gasped as he approached the car. Painted on the side of the car were the words: “Take Back America!” An American flag fluttered from the radio antenna.

“Who did this?
Who did this?”
Amaar shouted.

Chris, who had been squatting down just on the opposite side of the car, stood up.

“I did it.”

“Why you . . .” Amaar shouted in anger as he reached for his pistol.

“With a draw like that, you wouldn't live a day in the Old West,” Chris said easily.

“We'll see about that, you son of a bitch!” Amaar shouted, pulling his pistol and bringing it to bear.

Not until then did Chris raise his own weapon, a Glock 19, with a suppressor. When he fired, it sounded no louder than a trigger being pulled on an empty chamber. His bullet hit Amaar in the middle of his forehead, and he fell back, his arms flung out to either side, the pistol lying loose in his right hand.

Chris pulled the whiskey flask from his pocket, took a mouthful, then spit it out on Amaar's body. Then he took a second drink, and turned to walk away.

Lower Alabama

Twenty-one days after they left St. Louis, Tom and Sheri Jack reached the Intracoastal Waterway in Southern Alabama. The bridge that led over the waterway to the island was down.

“Is there any other bridge across this water?” Sheri asked someone who was fishing.

“Nope.”

“Is there a way around it?”

“Nope. That's why they call it an island.”

“Come on,” Tom said. “We'll find a way across.”

“Have you got any money?” the fisherman asked.

“We have a little,” Tom said. “Why do you ask?”

“I've got a boat. I'll take both of you across.”

It cost twenty Moqaddas in AIRE currency to persuade the boat owner to take them across. Once they reached the other side, they stopped at what used to be a McDonald's. They could smell fish being cooked, and because they had last eaten yesterday morning when Tom killed a rabbit and cooked it in the woods, the aroma of fried fish made them both hungry. They parked their bikes and went inside.

A young black woman greeted them from behind the serving counter.

“I'm not sure how to pay for this,” Tom said. “I don't know what you are using for money.”

“Do you have any money?”

“All I have are Moqaddas. I have a feeling that isn't too welcome here.”

“We use it,” the woman said. “We don't like it, but we use it.”

“Then we'll have two orders of fish,” Tom said, smiling at the prospect.

When they took their food to the table, a man at the next table spoke to them.

“Just arrive on the island, did you?”

“How can you tell?”

The man chuckled. “I heard you ask what we use for money. My name is Heckemeyer. Tony Heckemeyer.”

“I'm Tom Jack, this is my wife, Sheri.”

“Where did you come from, Tom?”“St. Louis. But before the collapse of the military, I was in the Navy in Coronado. I must say, I was little surprised to hear that you are using AIRE money. I thought you folks were sort of off by yourselves down here.”

“We are, and for the time being we are using Moqaddas as a matter of exchange for expediency. Our island is pretty self-sufficient, but not entirely so. From time to time we have to go over onto the mainland to buy supplies, and whenever we do that, we have to use AIRE money.”

“How do you buy supplies without identity cards?”

“Some of us have ID cards,” Heckemeyer said. “It's not anything we are proud of, it's merely a matter of expediency.”

“I know what you mean. We have ID cards for the same reason. Tell me, what are people using to pay rent down here? Will Moqaddas work?”

BOOK: Firebase Freedom

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