Firebase Freedom (14 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Firebase Freedom
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“What do people do here to make a living? I mean, how will I pay my way?”
“You're too young to remember the hippie communes of the sixties, aren't you?”
“I've heard about them,” Tom said. He laughed.
“My dad said he joined one for a little while after he came back from Vietnam.”
“Well, that's sort of what we have here. Everybody pitches in to do what they can. We've got people who garden, people who fish and hunt, people who build. You'll find your niche.”
“I'm afraid I don't fit in to any of those niches.”
“You're goin' to be one of the fellas to go out to the gas rig, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
James chuckled. “All right, you do that for me, I'll take care of carpentry and the like for you.”
Tom smiled, and extended his hand. “You've got a deal.”
C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN
Atlanta, Georgia
 
Raj Hassan, who was Mehdi Ohmshidi's chief of staff, had taken over an entire hotel in Atlanta in order to give a party. Security was extremely tight and uniformed SPS officers were carefully monitoring all the vehicles arriving on the premises. Only those from the top echelon of the AIRE government had been invited, and even those who were granted entry from the street were limited from further access according to their pecking order among the guests. As a result, each arriving automobile, whether it was a chauffeur-driven stretch limousine, or an individually driven luxury sedan or sports car, had to negotiate a phalanx of SPS guards before reaching its final destination.
One vehicle that was allowed in from the street was a van, sporting a painted sign that read “Crystal Creations, by Andre.” When it arrived at the portico of the hotel, a security officer motioned for it to stop. The driver complied, then let his window down. His blond hair was perfectly coiffed, his narrow moustache was well trimmed, his fingernails neatly manicured, and a diamond earring glistened from the lobe of his right ear.
“Now, what is wrong?” he asked, irritably. “I was cleared to the portico. Oh, I suppose I should say Obey Ohmshidi.”
The guard looked at the clipboard he was holding, but didn't respond.
“Aren't you supposed to say that back to me?”
“Obey Ohmshidi,” the security officer said. “You're Andre?”
“No, I'm Rambo.”
“What?”
“Of course, I'm Andre, you silly goose.”
“Open up the back of the van,” the security officer replied.
“Is that really necessary? I assure you, sir, there is nothing back there but an exquisite ice sculpture of Venus de Milo,” the driver insisted, somewhat mincing his words.
“Open up,” the guard said again.
Andre got out and pranced to the back of the van to open the doors. He showed his chagrin by putting his hands on his hips, and tapping his foot.
“You are the third person to stop me. Should this lovely piece melt, I assure you, sir, that you and these other uniformed Spartans who are guarding this place shall answer to Mr. Hassan.”
The guard looked into the back of the truck, saw the ice sculpture, then snorted. “Damn, she ain't got no arms.”
“Oh, you are a cretin, aren't you?”
The guard closed the back doors. “Okay, drive on.”
“Thank you.”
As Andre pulled away, the guard raised his two-way radio. There was a pop of squelch as he pushed the talk button. “Marty, there's a van coming through with an ice sculpture or some damn thing. Let the faggot through without stopping him anymore. Otherwise he may hit you with his purse.”
“Copy,” Marty answered, chuckling over the rush of static.
With no further interference, Andre drove to the kitchen entrance of the hotel, then backed the van up to the loading dock. Hopping up onto the dock, he pushed the bell button alongside the door. While he waited, he checked his watch. The watch was digital, and counting down. The numbers read 06:27, meaning that he had six minutes and twenty-seven seconds remaining.
There was a rattle of a chain pulley as the door was raised. When the door opened, it revealed one of the hotel kitchen employees as well as a narrow-faced, hawk-nosed man with beady eyes and narrow lips. Even in a tuxedo, the beady-eyed one looked exactly like what he was, a goon for Raj Hassan. A slight bulge in his jacket disclosed that he was wearing a shoulder holster.
“I shall require a cart of some sort,” Andre said.
The kitchen employee nodded, then came back a moment later with a small, four-wheeled dolly. Andre pushed the dolly into the back of the van, carefully moved the ice sculpture onto the dolly, then placed a thermal blanket around it. He pushed the dolly out of the van and into the kitchen.
“Hold it,” the goon said, raising his hand. “What's that?”
“It's a thermal blanket to keep the ice from melting,” Andre explained, pulling the blanket aside enough for the goon to see.
“Okay. You can go.”
“Well, I should hope I can go,” Andre minced. “Heavens, give a brute like you some authority and it goes right to your head.”
Andre pushed the sculpture through the kitchen and into the large reception room. The reception room was already filling with guests, and as the thermal blanket was removed, revealing Venus de Milo, there were many “oohs” and “ahhs” of appreciation.
As he walked away from the display carrying the thermal blanket, Andre checked his watch again. He was now down to less than two minutes. When he reached the kitchen, he stepped into the walk-in freezer to store the blanket.
Once inside, though, he locked the door. Quickly, he began stripping out of the white pants and shirt he was wearing. After that he took off the blond toupee, stripped off the moustache, and removed the clip-on earring. Then he put on the tuxedo he had carried in, concealed in the thermal blanket. After the transformation, there was nothing left of the man who had passed himself off as Andre.
This was Michael Moran. No longer the effeminate and mincing ice sculptor, he now resembled the self-confident, solidly built, former police lieutenant and ex–Green Beret that he really was. Moran looked at his watch as it counted down to zero. At zero, he opened the door.
From all around the hotel, he could hear the sirens of approaching police cars, followed by the bark of machine-gun fire, then the announcement from an outside bullhorn.
“This is a police raid! Everyone stay where you are! No one will be allowed to leave the building!”
From inside the hotel there were shouts of anger and alarm.
“What is this?” Hassan asked a senior SPS officer. “Don't the local police know who I am?”
“I swear, I don't know anything about this!” the SPS officer replied earnestly. “I thought we had everything coordinated!”
“Do something. Find out what this is all about!”
“I'm checking on it,” the State Protective Service officer promised, pulling out his cell phone.
As the turmoil continued outside the hotel, Moran hurried up to the second floor. There, behind a closed door, was the hotel office, where two men were guarding a briefcase which contained nearly three million Moqaddas in the new AIRE currency. From his planning, Moran knew that the impending transfer of money was payoff money from drug dealers to Hassan.
Moran knocked on the door of the hotel office. The door opened slightly, and someone peered through the crack.
“Yeah?” the man inside said.
“Mr. Hassan is leaving. He wants you to take the money to him,” Moran answered.
The guard stepped back from the door, allowing Moran inside. Then he called to the other guard. “Len, Mr. Hassan is leaving. Bring the money.”
Len started to comply, then, perhaps realizing how much money he was responsible for, decided to double check. He began punching numbers into a cell phone.
The first guard had turned toward Len, which meant his back was to Moran. That was the opening Moran needed. He brought the knife-edge of his hand down hard, on the side of the man's neck, and he went down. Len looked up in surprise, then, dropping the cell phone, reached for his pistol. That action left him wide open, and, using the heel of his hand, Moran drove a smashing blow onto the point of Ernesto's chin. Like his partner, Len went down.
While they were still down, dazed, but not unconscious, Moran grabbed the briefcase and ran back out into the hall. Instead of turning toward the elevator or stairway, though, he went the other way, stepping into one of the housekeeping rooms. There, he slipped into the laundry chute, then fell two stories into the basement, landing in a large bin of sheets, pillowcases, and towels.
In the basement, Moran changed jackets, taking off the tux jacket and replacing it with a chauffeur's jacket he had planted there. After that, he climbed through the basement window, then walked easily to a stretch limousine.
As previously arranged with the driver of the limo, the key was in the jacket pocket. It was a proximity key, so all Moran had to do was open the car, get behind the steering wheel, and drive off.
 
 
“There's nobody out there! It's nothing but a bunch of loudspeakers!” one of the SPS men said, reporting back to Hassan.
“What?” Hassan asked. “Is this some kind of joke?”
At that moment there was a pop, like a muffled gunshot, in the reception room. There were more screams, then gasps of amazement, and finally, laughter. The laughter built until it was an avalanche of sound, filling the reception room.
“What is it? What's going on?” Hassan demanded. “Why is everyone laughing?”
Hassan hurried into the reception room, then saw what everyone else had seen.
The beautiful ice sculpture of Venus de Milo had split exactly in half, one side falling to the left, the other to the right. Everyone could now see that this hadn't been an ice sculpture at all, but was clear plastic, covered with a patina of ice.
There was, however, a piece of ice sculpture inside Venus de Milo. This particular sculpture was of a hand, with all the fingers closed except the middle finger. The middle finger was sticking obscenely into the air. Propped up at the base of the hand was a neatly printed sign.
TAKE BACK AMERICA
!
 
Muslimabad
 
Chris Carmack sat at a table in a sidewalk café, drinking coffee which he had, earlier, surreptitiously spiked with whiskey from the silver flask he was never without. As he was sitting there, a government car drove up and Judge Sulymam Ayambuie and three
Moqaddas Sirata
clerics got out. They left their car parked on the sidewalk, evidence of their power and position within the government.
Barely paying attention to the supplications of the other patrons of the café, the four men chose a table under the awning, forcing the two men and two women who were already at the table to leave.
“You!” Ayambuie shouted, pointing at a young woman. “Cover your face, or be caned!”
The bottom of the woman's face was covered, but that wasn't enough, and Chris could see the fear in her eyes as she pulled the veil up even higher.
Chris got up from the table and went over to the cash register to pay for his coffee. The new money, issued by the AIRE, did make business transitions easier than they had been after the collapse of the dollar, but it disgusted him to have to use the bills decorated with Ohmshidi's face.
As Chris left the outdoor café, he was counting his change when he tripped over a table leg and nearly fell, dropping his money onto the sidewalk.
“Watch where you are going, you clumsy oaf!” someone said.
“I'm sorry,” Chris said. Bending down he began gathering his coins until he saw one that had rolled under the edge of the car. He reached down to retrieve it, but as he did so, he placed a magnetic bomb underneath the car, and with a quick twist, armed it.
Getting up, he brushed himself off, then looked at the man sitting at the table over which he had tripped. It was this man who had called out to him.
“Allow me to buy you a fresh coffee, or a sweet roll,” he said.
“Just get away from me, infidel,” the customer said.
Chris nodded. “I'm sorry,” he said again.
Chris climbed on his bicycle, then rode away, but he went no more than a block. Then he turned the corner and looked back toward the car. He waited for half an hour until Judge Ayambuie and the other three clerics got into the car and started driving away. He watched the car and waited until it was clear of anyone else. Then he set off the remote.
He saw a huge ball of fire suddenly blossom around the car, followed a full second later by the solid thump of the explosion.
The man who had raped Margaret, the two SPS officers who had arrested her, rather than the rapist, and now the judge who had sentenced her to die by stoning, were all dead. It didn't bring Margaret back, but it sure gave Chris a sense of satisfaction as he rode away.

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