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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Firebase Freedom
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“God bless all who join our struggle for freedom. And I bid you all a good night.”
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SEVEN
Bob and Jake were both surprised by the number of military volunteers who showed up at the ball park the next day. Many were wearing bits and pieces of military uniforms, several were wearing the complete uniform, some were old enough that the uniform they wore had, on the right sleeve, the patches of MACV and USARV, units that were specific to Vietnam. Jake took a count and determined that there were at least seven hundred who had showed up. That was more people than they had weapons for, but they decided that they could acquire the weapons later, if need be.
After some organization, they broke the assembly down into army and navy, explaining to the air force and marine veterans that, for the time being they could only support an army and navy. The first job would be to organize them into functioning units, and to do that, he asked those who had been officers and noncommissioned officers to report to him.
“For now, I'm putting you men on your honor,” he said. “Don't be giving yourselves spot promotions. I need leaders, but more than that, I need honesty. If you represent yourself as something you aren't, we will find out about it, and once we find out, you'll no longer be of any use to us.”
“I was an NCO” one of the men said. “But I was only a buck sergeant, I don't know if that's high enough for you.
“For now, I would say that we could use the experiences of anyone who served as an NCO, E-5 and above,” Jake said.
The man smiled. “Then you've got me.”
His call for officers and noncommissioned officers produced a cadre of some thirty men, ranging in rank from full colonel down to buck sergeant.
“Damn,” Jake said quietly. “I'm just a major, two or three of these guys have me outranked.”
“No they don't,” Bob said. “I was a chief warrant officer, now I am the commander-in-chief, and that gives me the authority to appoint you, general.”
Jake laughed. “General Lantz. Yeah,” he said. “I like the sound of that.”
“Gentlemen,” Bob said, speaking to the assembled officers. “I am President Bob Varney. This is General Jake Lantz. I'm going to turn this over to him.”
“Hell, Major, you've come up in rank quite a bit since I saw you last,” Ed Tadlock said. “Look at you, you're a general now.”
“Ed!” Jake said, starting toward him with his hand extended. The two men shook hands. “Bob, I want you to meet another chief warrant officer. This is Ed Tadlock. We were together at Mother Rucker when everything collapsed.”
“I've been wanting to meet you,” Tadlock said. “You wrote
Barracks Ballads
, didn't you? About warrant officer pilots in Vietnam?”
“Yes.”
Tadlock laughed. “That's the funniest damn book I've ever read in my life. I was in Walter Reed where they were trying to get shrapnel out of my ass when someone gave me that book. I knew it had to be a warrant who wrote it.”
“I don't know that book,” Jake said.
“Trust me, Jake, you wouldn't like it. It tells the truth about how every commissioned officer needed a warrant to wipe his nose.”
“Well, that's better than having a warrant wipe my ass,” Bob said, and the others laughed.
“But, you've just been given a spot promotion, Ed. As of now, you are a lieutenant colonel.”
“What the hell makes you think that's a promotion?”
“You're just going to have to live with it,” Jake said, laughing. “I need all the help I can get.”
After the initial organization, Jake asked Tadlock to have dinner with him at a restaurant that was near the TV station. He remembered the last time he had seen Tadlock, it was just after General Von Cairns had committed suicide.
 
 
Chief Warrant Officer-3 Edward Tadlock was waiting just outside the door to the Post Headquarters building when Jake and Clay arrived in Jake's Jeep SUV.
“I waited out here,” Tadlock said. “I don't mind telling you, it's creepy as hell in there.”
“How do you know it was a suicide?” Jake asked. “Did he leave a note?”
“No, there was no note. But the pistol is still in his hand.”
“Let's have a look.”
The three men went back inside the building which, as Tadlock had said, was completely deserted.
“I'm taking off,” Tadlock said. “I'm going to Missouri. I own a small farm there, I'm going back to work it. My wife and kids are already there, waiting for me.”
“Do you have enough fuel to make it all the way to Missouri?”
“I'm driving a diesel, and running it on jet fuel. I bought thirty gallons extra from someone that I didn't ask any questions as to where he got it.”
“Well, good luck to you, Chief,” Jake said.
When they stepped into the general's office, he was still sitting in his swivel chair, facing the window that looked out over the parade ground.
“I left him just the way I found him,” Tadlock said.
Jake walked around to get a closer look at him. He shook his head. “Damn,” he said. “He was a good man. I hate to see this.”
“Ohmshidi killed him,” Tadlock said. “Yeah, von Cairns may have pulled the trigger, but Ohmshidi killed him.”
“I can't argue with that,” Jake said.
“So now the question is, what do we do with him?”
“Does he have any next of kin?” Clay asked.
“He's divorced, I know that,” Tadlock said.
“He has a daughter somewhere,” Jake said. “If we looked through all his things, we could probably find out where she is. But then what? The way things are now, what could she do with him?”
“We can't leave him here,” Tadlock said.
“Let's bury him out there on the parade ground, under the flagpole,” Clay suggested.
“Damn good idea, Sergeant Major, damn good idea,” Tadlock said.
2
 
 
“What happened to you?” Jake asked as the two men sat down to a meal of barbecue pork steak. “I thought you were farming in Missouri.”
“Yeah, I was. But there were too damn many of Ohmshidi's officials around then, telling me that I could do this, and I couldn't do that. So I just decided to leave. When I heard that Mobile had been freed, my wife, kid and I came down here. We've only been here a few days.”
“Well, I'm damn glad to have you here. I want you and your wife to come on out to Fort Morgan. After all, you're on my payroll now.”
“Payroll? Wait a minute, you mean I'm going to get paid for being in your army?”
“Yes, with Freedom Dollars. And don't worry about them, they are real currency.”
“Sounds good enough to me,” Tadlock said.
“Oh, what about my eighteen years? Does that count? Can I retire in two more years?”
“Ha. You can if you want to, and you'll get the same retirement pay Bob gets.”
“Why do I have the feeling that's nothing?”
“I don't know. Maybe because it is nothing,” Jake answered with a laugh.
“Do you ever think about the army? I mean the way it was in the before time.”
“I think about it all the time,” Jake said.
“I do too. I think about the general, and how Ohmshidi same as killed him. And I think about the way we buried him.”
“Yeah, I remember that as well.”
Clay went to the general's quarters to get his dress blue uniform and he and Jake dressed the general, to include all his medals. While they were doing that, Tadlock rounded up as many officers and men as he could, including seven men who would form a firing squadron to render last honors, and one bandsman who agreed to play taps.
Now the general lay in a main-rotor shipping case alongside a grave that three of the EM had dug. There were over fifty men and women present, in uniform, and in formation. The general was lowered into the grave, and Jake nodded at the firing team. The seven soldiers raised their rifles to their shoulders.
“Ready? Fire!”
The sound of the first volley echoed back from the buildings adjacent the parade ground.
“Ready? Fire!”
Rifle fire, which, during his life, the general had heard in anger, now sounded in his honor.
“Ready? Fire!”
The last volley was fired, and those who were rendering hand salutes, brought them down sharply.
The bandsman, a bespectacled specialist, raised a trumpet to his lips and with the first and third valves depressed, played Taps.
Jake thought of the many times he had heard this haunting bugle call, at night in the barracks while in basic training, and in OCS. He had also heard it played for too many of his friends, killed in combat or in aircraft accidents.
The young soldier played the call slowly and stately, holding the higher notes, gradually getting louder, then slowing the tempo as he reached the end; and holding the final, middle C longer than any other note before, he allowed it simply and sadly to . . . fade away.
3
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-EIGHT
Lancaster
 
“
Ja?
What do you want?” Solomon Lantz asked, when he answered the door. There were two men standing there, both wearing black uniforms. Behind the two men were two vehicles, a truck and a van.
“You are Solomon Lantz?”
“I am.”
“We are told that you have a relative living with you. An uncle by the name of Jacob Yoder.”
“
Onkel Jakob ist nicht hier,
” Solomon said.
“Where is he?”
“He has gone back to Illinois.”
“You are lying, Lantz. Now, aren't you ashamed of yourself? I thought Amish never lied.”
“What do you want with him?”
“Oh, so now you are changing your story. You are telling us that he is here, you just want to know what we want with him. Is that it?”
“I have not said that he is here.”
“Then, you won't mind if we have a look around your place. Actually, it doesn't matter whether you mind or not. We are going to have a look around.”
The speaker turned toward the truck, and ten men jumped down, all of them carrying submachine guns.
“Gregoire?” the officer who had been doing all the talking said. “Gregoire, if you are here, you had better come out. Otherwise we are going to kill this man and everyone in the house. Then we'll find you.”
There was no answer.
“I hope you are here, Gregoire,” the Janissary officer shouted. “Because I'm going to count to ten, and when I get to ten, I'm going to start killing. The only way you can stop it is by coming out. If you aren't here, and this is all just a terrible mistake, I'm still going to start killing when I reach ten.”
Again, there was nothing but silence.
“One . . . two . . .”
The counting continued until the officer reached seven.
“No, wait!” a voice called from within the barn. “We're coming out!”
Gregoire, now without the makeup that made him appear to be an old man, came out of the barn with his hands raised. Two others were with him, a man and a woman.
“Who are these two people?” the commandant of the Janissary team asked.
“Mark Riley and Jennie Lea,” Gregoire replied. “My producer and my makeup woman.”
The commandant nodded his head, and the other Janissaries began shooting. Both Mark Riley and Jennie Lea went down.
“No!” Gregoire shouted. “No, God in Heaven, why did you shoot them?”
“We had no orders to bring them in alive,” the commandant said. “To do so would just be an added burden.”
“You are mad!” Gregoire said. “You are stark, raving, mad!”
“Come with us now,” the commandant said. “Or we will kill more.”
“No, no, I'll go with you,” Gregoire said. “Please, I beg of you, don't shoot anyone else!”
Solomon Lantz watched as the men in uniform put Gregoire in the van. The others climbed back into the van and the truck, then the two vehicles sped off, raising a billowing cloud of dust as they left.
The man and woman who had been killed, Mark Riley and Jennie Lea, lay dead in the dirt between the barn and the house. Solomon would see to it that they were given a decent burial.
 
Cartersville, Georgia
 
Chris Carmack and Kathy York drove into town in a dark green 2011 Camry. Four miles south of town, at the junction of routes 61 and 113, they had hidden a silver 2007 Chrysler Town and Country minivan.
Now, on Main Street, they drove by the Bank of Submission, which, in the “before time” had been known as Regions Bank. They drove around the block, stopped, and switched drivers, so that now Kathy was driving.
“Park in the lot, and keep the right door open,” Chris said. He kissed Kathy, but the kiss stretched out a little longer than a quick buss.
“On the other hand,” he said. “We could move over there in the far corner and, uh, fool around a bit.”
“I'm supposed to be a man, remember? What if someone sees us?”
“Yeah, I guess you're right.
“On the other hand, if you want to take this up later,” she said with a little chuckle.
“That's a promise?”
“That's a promise.”
As Chris got out of the car to walk into the bank, Kathy slid down in the car so that anyone who just happened to glance in wouldn't have a close enough look to see through her disguise.
There were two customers in the bank, and Chris went over to the table and began filling out a check. He waited until both customers were gone, then he stepped up to the teller's window.
“I have a check here for several dollars, and I wonder if you could cash it,” he asked.
“Sir, we no longer deal in dollars.”
“Oh, yeah, what is it called now? Moqaddas? What a dumb-assed name for money. But money is money. I'll take it in Moqaddas.”
“How many Moqaddas?”
“I don't know. How many Moqaddas do you have?”
“What? Why would you ask such a thing?”
Chris pulled his pistol and pointed it at the teller. “Because I intend to take everything you have. I'm not greedy, just whatever you have in that drawer will be enough for me.”
The teller opened his drawer and started emptying it.
“Do you have a little bag, or a pouch of some sort?” Chris asked.
“I have a leather deposit pouch.”
“Yes, that would be very nice,” Chris said. “Thank you.”
The teller put the money in the pouch, then handed it across to Chris.
“Thank you very much. It's been quite a pleasure doing business with you today,” Chris said. He turned to leave, but halfway to the door, a bell rang.
“Robbery! The bank is being robbed!” the teller said.
Chris ran to the door, but when he tried to open it, he discovered that it had been locked by remote.
“Drop the money!” someone shouted, and looking toward the sound of the voice, he saw the bank security guard. The security guard was pointing a gun at Chris.
Chris knew that, even though the security guard was pointing the gun at him, he still had the advantage. From his years as a contract shooter for the FBI and CIA, he know the concept of reaction. If the guard did not shoot until he saw Chris making his move, it would be too late, because three-fourths of the time required to make a fast shot is in thinking about it.
Chris shot and the security guard reacted in shock when he was hit in the chest by the bullet from Chris's revolver. The security guard dropped his pistol and slapped his hand over the wound in his chest. Chris picked up a chair from behind an empty desk and used it to smash out the window in the front door. Then, he stepped through the opening the broken window provided, and sprinted quickly to the car. Kathy sped off as soon as Chris was in the car, even before he got the door closed.
Fifteen minutes later, they drove back into town, this time in the silver minivan, and stopped in front of a restaurant. Now, Kathy was wearing a burqa. They could hear sirens, and they saw several people standing out in front of the restaurant.
“What happened?” Chris asked, as he and Kathy stepped out of the car. “What's all the excitement about?”
“I'm not sure,” someone wearing a waiter's garb said. “Somebody said the bank was just robbed.”
“You don't say. You haven't closed the restaurant, have you? I mean, we can still get dinner?”
“Yes, come in. I'll seat you.”
“Very nice of you,” Chris said.
Chris and Kathy sat at a table in a restaurant that was less than three blocks from the bank they had robbed. Through the window they could see the police cars going to and fro, always importantly, always with the lights flashing and the siren going.
“As my grandmother would say, the police are running around like chickens with their heads cut off.”
“Oh,” Kathy said. “Given the way things are now, saying something has its head cut off isn't a good analogy.”
Chris chuckled. “You've got a point.”
After dinner, Chris and Kathy checked into a motel.
“Do you have proof of marriage?” the motel clerk said.
“Yes. Why, do you think we would live in sin?” Chris asked. He showed the motel clerk a marriage license he had bought, identifying them as Mr. and Mrs. Dan Morton.
“Very good, Mr. Morton, your room is 128, at the far end.”
Chris took the key, and fifteen minutes later, he and Kathy were in bed, watching the nightly news.
“All praise be to Allah, the merciful. Whomsoever Allah guides there is none to misguide, and whomsoever Allah misguides there is none to guide. You must live your life in accordance with the Moqaddas Sirata, the Holy Path. Those who do will be blessed. Those who do not will be damned.
“There was a bank robbery in Carterville this afternoon. Witnesses say that the bank robber got into a green Camry. It is believed that these are the same two men who have robbed five other banks in the last six weeks. One of the men is described as medium height, with dark hair and a dark beard. There is no description of the driver, who has never been seen outside the car.
“The amount of money taken was forty thousand Moqaddas.”
“What?” Chris shouted to the TV. Why, those lying bastards! There was less than ten thousand in that drawer.”
“Ha,” Kathy said. “It would appear that we weren't the only ones to rob the bank today.”
“Apparently we weren't,” Chris said. “And the hell of it is, the teller, and whoever else was involved, got away with more than we did.”
 
Muslimabad
 
Gregoire was brought in to the Oval Office, where he stood, his hands cuffed behind his back, in front of the Resolute Desk. Janissaries, in their black and silver uniforms, stood to either side of him. Ohmshidi was sitting with his feet propped up on the desk.
“Gregoire, as far as I know, you may be the only person ever brought into this office wearing handcuffs.”
“That may be so,” Gregoire replied. “But you are the first traitor ever to occupy this office.”
The Janissary to Gregoire's right gave him a sharp jab in the side, and Gregoire's knees buckled from the pain.
“I've invited you here so we could talk,” Ohmshidi said.
“I wouldn't exactly call this an invitation.”
The guard started to hit him again, but Ohmshidi stopped him with a lift of a hand. Ohmshidi chuckled.
“You're right. It wasn't exactly an invitation,” Ohmshidi said. “But you are here, nevertheless, so we may as well have a conversation.”
“All right.”
“Why have you been so opposed to me?” Ohmshidi said. “From the very beginning, from the first day I was elected, you have been a thorn in my side. Why?”
“Because from the time you started your campaign, with your promise to be a transformative president who would fundamentally change America, I considered you to be the greatest threat to our republic since the civil war,” Gregoire said. “But I was wrong.”
Ohmshidi smiled. “Ahh, so now that you are my prisoner, you are willing to admit that you were wrong?”
“Yes,” Gregoire said. “It turns out you were an even greater threat. We survived the Civil War. We didn't survive you.”
“You say you didn't survive, I say you evolved. The government I have put in place is the most efficient government ever on this continent. In less than one year we have come from a nation that was on its knees, to a vibrant, new nation, no longer the enemy of the world. My government has brought peace to this nation . . . peace through
Moqaddas Sirata
. . . the Holy Path.”
“If this nation was on its knees, it is because you took it to its knees,” Gregoire said. He shook his head. “The mystery to me is how the hell you ever got anyone to vote for you in the first place. You had absolutely no experience of any kind. You had never earned so much as one penny in the private sector. You held two elective positions, one as a state senator who cast no vote in two years, except present. Then you had another very unremarkable two years as a U.S. senator. Just how did you get elected?”

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