Firebase Freedom (19 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Firebase Freedom
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“And you say you escaped?”
“Yes. That's where I borrowed these pants. Actually, I borrowed the whole uniform, but I threw away the shirt. Then I borrowed this car,” Eddie said, pointing to the vehicle they had come in.
The two guards laughed.
“You stole an SPS car?” one of them said. “Good for you, kid. I'll say this, you've got balls.” Then realizing that he said that in front of a young girl he put his hand to his mouth. “I'm sorry, Miss, excuse the language.”
“If that means Eddie has courage, then you are right,” Jane said.
“That's exactly what it means. All right, come on across the bridge, we'll figure out what to do with you.”
“What about the car?” the other guard said.
“What about it?”
“It's got SPS markings. You never can tell when it might come in handy.”
“Yeah, you're right. Okay, go get it, bring it in.”
“What do you want us to do?” Eddie asked.
“To tell the truth, kid, I don't have the slightest idea. But I guess the best thing would be to take you to the president, and let him figure it out.”
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE
“I had no idea that they were doing anything like that,” Bob Varney said when Eddie and Jane were taken to meet the island's president. “How long has it been going on?”
“We've been there for two months,” Eddie said. “The guards and teachers told us that this is going on all over the country.”
“Teachers? You mean it's a school?”
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “But they don't teach anything real there, like math or English or history or anything. It's just all stuff about Muslims, and how glorious it is to die for Islam.”
“And you say they came to take you out of your parents' home?” Jake Lantz asked. Bob had invited Jake to come listen to the story of the two young people.
“They didn't exactly come take us from our homes. Everyone was told that they had to bring their children, between six and seventeen, for registration. I know that our parents thought they would be getting ID cards for us, so they could buy more things,” Eddie said. “But it was a setup. As soon as all the parents of Mobile brought their kids to Ladd Stadium where we were supposed to be registered, the SPS put us all on buses and took us away.”
“Away to where?”
“Camp Beckwith. Or at least, what used to be called Camp Beckwith.”
“Oh, well, that's not so bad,” Bob Varney said.
“I'm Episcopalian, the camp is sponsored by the Gulf Coast Diocese. It's really quite a beautiful place.”
“Not so pretty when it's surrounded by strands of razor wire and patrolled by guards,” Eddie said. “It's like a concentration camp.”
“But they don't let us call it that,” Jane said, speaking up then. No longer in the burqa, Jane was now, quite happily, wearing a dress given her by one of the citizens of the island. “We're supposed to call it an educational camp.”
“Do they feed you in the camp? Do they torture you?”
“They feed us, and no, they don't torture us,” Eddie said. “But they do everything they can to make us conform. And it's worse for the girls than it is for the boys. At least the boys don't have to worry about getting raped.”
“Are you saying the guards are raping the young girls?”
“Jane, you want to tell them what happened to you?”
“Good Heavens,” Bob said. “Were you raped?”
“I would have been, if Eddie hadn't saved me,” Jane said.
“Where are your parents?”
“My mom and dad are in Mobile,” Eddie said. “Jane's mom is there as well. Her dad is dead. I was afraid to go there because I figured that would be the first place they looked. And, right now, I'm probably wanted for murder. I'm pretty sure I killed the son of a bitch who was about to rape Jane.”
“Son, if the son of a bitch needed killing, it's not murder,” Bob said. He smiled. “You and your friend are welcome additions to our group here.”
 
Bel Air, Maryland
 
When Chris and Kathy first arrived in town, they drove up and down every street, checking them all out to make certain which routes were least likely to be blocked by the police, and which ones did not wind up as dead ends.
The bank they chose was on Main Street, occupying the same building that had once been the People's Bank, but now billed itself as “Bank of the Faithful.” Kathy, who was wearing a
dishdasha
and
taqiyah
, as well as a false beard, was driving. She had to be dressed that way, because it was illegal for a woman to drive, and they didn't want to get stopped. She parked in the bank parking lot, in a spot nearest the bank.
Right across the street from the bank was a huge billboard with the now-ubiquitous “Obey Ohmshidi” portrait.
“Keep the engine running,” Chris said. Like Kathy, Chris was wearing the
dishdasha
and
taqiyah.
When Chris went into the bank there was one customer standing at the teller's window. Walking around the bank he checked all the offices and found that only one was occupied.
Chris stepped into the office, uninvited. “Are you the bank president?”
“I am, but I don't see anyone without an appointment,” he said.
“Oh, I think you'll see us.”
“Who is ‘us'?”
Chris raised his revolver and pointed it at the bank president. “Me, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Wesson.”
“What? Are you robbing the bank?”
“Robbing is such a harsh word. I prefer to think of it as a redistribution of wealth. After all, wasn't that what Ohmshidi promised us, when we were foolish enough to vote the son of a bitch into office?”
“You're out of your mind, you'll never get away with it.”
“Maybe not,” Chris replied with a smile. “But I do think it will be fun to try. Come out into the bank with me. I think having you along will facilitate things.”
“If you think I'm going to help you rob this bank, you're crazy,” the bank president said. “I'm not moving from this desk.”
“No problem, you can stay there until they come for your body. Because as I think about it, I don't really need you at all.”
Chris cocked his pistol and aimed it at the bank president's head.
“No! No, wait!” the bank president said, sticking both hands out in front of him, as if holding Chris away. “I'll come with you.”
Chris smiled. “Now, I do believe that's why you are the bank president. You do know how to make quick decisions when under pressure.”
The customer who had been at the teller's window was just leaving as Chris and the bank president came back into the lobby.
“Teller,” Chris said, throwing a cloth bag across the counter. “Would you be so kind as to fill that bag with money, then bring it to me?”
“What?”
“Please do as he says,” the bank president said.
“He is holding a gun on me.”
“But there are no guns. They've all been confiscated,” the teller insisted.
Chris smiled, and held the gun up for the teller to see. “You mean I was supposed to turn this gun in? Hmm, I didn't. Do you think that means I'm in trouble?”
“I . . . I . . . Mr. Jones . . .”
“It is Rashad,” the bank president corrected.
“Yes, Mr. Rashad, what should I do?”
“Do as I told you, man! Fill this gentleman's bag with money.”
“Ah, you called me a gentleman. How nice of you,” Chris said. He waved the gun toward the teller who was still just standing there. “Do hurry, won't you?”
“Yes, sir,” the teller replied, as, with shaking hands, he began emptying the cash drawer.
“How much is there?” Chris asked.
“There's about fifteen thousand dolla . . . uh, I mean Moqaddas here,” the teller said.
“Bless your heart, son, you are having a hard time getting into this American Islamic Republic thing too, aren't you? Fifteen thousand, huh? Well, I don't want to be greedy. That's plenty enough money for the moment. You two take care now, you hear?”
Clutching the bag of money, Chris went outside then hurried over to the car.
“Let's go,” he said.
They drove the car, a yellow Ford, less than four blocks from the bank, then turned down an alley. They stopped behind a drugstore and parked the car between a Dumpster and the back wall. From there they walked out to the parking lot and got into a dark green Toyota, Chris getting behind the wheel this time. When they pulled back out onto Main Street, they encountered two police cars speeding to the bank, with lights flashing and sirens honking.
They drove out of Bel Air without being stopped.
 
Glenview, Illinois
 
Mustafa al Shammari had gathered ten of his closest and most trusted friends to a meeting at his house.
“I've asked you here for a very special reason, and, having spoken to all of you one on one, I think you already have an idea of what this meeting is about. Before I go on, I want to say that what I am about to propose is very dangerous, and if even one among us is not ready to commit with heart and soul to what I am about to propose, it could mean death to all of us.”
Mustafa looked into the faces of everyone who had come to the meeting.
“If there be anyone among you who wishes to leave, do so now, for after this moment, we are all bound by blood.”
Although the others looked at each other, not one person left.
“Good. Gentleman, I am proposing that we form a group, which we will call American Scimitars.”
“That sounds pretty militant, Mustafa,” one of the others, Abdul, said.
“I intend for it to be militant. I don't intend to stand by and see the religion that I grew up with, the religion that I love and serve, be hijacked by Ohmshidi and the
Moqaddas Sirata
. They are not the true Muslim religion. They are apostates who pervert Islam.”
“If you are making them our enemy, we are taking on quite a task. The last estimate I read was that more than seventy percent of America has converted,” Abdul said.
“You and I both know those aren't legitimate conversions,” Mustafa said. “They have converted only to survive, for without a
Moqaddas Sirata
ID card, you can't even buy food.”
“Then who will our enemy be? Will they be the innocent who have been forced to convert in order to survive?”
“No,” Mustafa replied. “There are enough who are profiting by this evil that we will have a target-rich environment.”
“I'm ready,” Raboud said. “When do we go?”
“Tonight. There is a meeting in Waukegan. We'll pay them a visit.”
At the Waukegan Mosque of Holy Path, Imam Abdullah was speaking to his followers.
“There are still Christian churches and Jewish synagogues in Glenview, churches that, by their very existence, are an affront to our religion. I, here and now, issue a
fatwah
that all churches and synagogues be destroyed. And it is my suggestion that we strike some of the churches now, during Wednesday night prayer service, when the buildings are full of people, because only by inflicting the maximum damage to the apostates, will we be able to get our point across.”
“But, Imam, before the Holy Path of Ohmshidi, many of us were Christians and we worshiped in those same churches. We have friends there.”
“How can they be friends, if they have not converted?” Abdullah asked.
“The imam is right,” one of the others said. “It is our duty to convert all to the holy path, and to kill those who do not convert.”
 
 
Outside the mosque Mustafa and the others of the newly formed group, American Scimitars, waited quietly, with weapons in hand.
“Are we going to challenge them, Mustafa?” Raboud asked.
“No. Do you challenge a snake before you kill it? Or do you just kill it?”
“I understand.”
“I know I am asking much of you. But to those upon whom it falls to defend the faith, much must be asked.”
“I will serve the Prophet,” Raboud said.
 
 
Inside the mosque, Abdullah now had his followers whipped into a killing frenzy. “All right,” he said. “We start now. There are cans of gasoline and torches in the back of my pickup truck. We'll cover all the exits, set fire to the church, and shoot everyone who tries to escape the flames.”

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