Phoenix Rising:

by William W. Johnstone

  “Take care,” Latham said as they started out. “And don’t forget to tell Alice that Jill sends her regards.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Chris waited until he returned to the car before he read the note.

  Your targets are Ahmed Mahaz and Merlin Lewis. Mahaz is the captain in charge of the local SPS company. You just met Merlin Lewis. He is the big man who owns the Coffee Cup. Don’t let Lewis’s friendly demeanor fool you. He is a snitch for the SPS, and is personally responsible for the deaths of at least one hundred citizens of Blytheville. Do not contact me again. Destroy this note as soon as you read it.

  Chris decided that Merlin Lewis would be his first target. He did nothing until dark, then he waited behind the café between the Dumpster and the brick wall of the building. When Lewis came out of the café that night, Chris raised a CO2 pellet pistol, aimed and pulled the trigger. The sound was no more than a quiet puff, but that was all that was needed to send a curare-tipped pellet into Lewis’s neck.

  Chris watched as Lewis reached up to grab his neck, then took two more steps before he fell. Then, using a pair of tweezers, he extracted the pellet from Lewis’s neck and dropped it into the trash Dumpster.

  Chris waited two more days before he went into the SPS headquarters building.

  “Yes, what do you want?” the desk sergeant asked.

  “I, uh, wonder if there is a reward if I report something,” Chris said.

  “What do you have to report?”

  “Is there a reward?”

  “That’s not for me to say. That’s for Captain Mahaz.”

  “May I speak to Captain Mahaz?”

  Chris well knew who Mahaz was. Unlike many of the SPS and Janissaries, Yusef Mahaz was not a recent convert to Islam. He had been a lifelong Muslim who had been given a commission in the pre-O army, precisely because he was a Muslim. It was believed, by the army, that Mahaz would be a good liaison officer for them. His duty assignment had been to teach the other soldiers about the Muslim culture to “engender an understanding” between the religions.

  But one day Major Mahaz showed up at a processing center in Fort Eustis where he began shooting. He killed thirteen and wounded twenty-nine others. Not until he ran out of ammunition did he stop shooting. Then he lay down his weapons and put up his hands, shouting Allah hu akbar as he was taken into custody. One of Ohmshidi’s first acts was to grant Mahaz a complete pardon.

  Chris waited for a moment, then the clerk came back. “The captain will see you,” he said.

  “What do you want?” Mahaz asked, sharply, when Chris stepped into his office.

  “A friend of mine, Merlin Lewis, told me that I should come see you,” Chris said.

  “How could Merlin Lewis tell you that? He is dead.”

  “Yes, I heard he had a heart attack out behind his place,” Chris said. “And that’s too bad, because he promised to introduce me to you. He said that you would pay money for information.”

  “Sometimes I will. It depends on the information.”

  “I know where a group of Christians will be having a worship service.”

  “Nonsense, all the churches have been closed,” Mahaz said.

  “Ah, but this isn’t in a church. It will be held in a tent in a field out of town.”

  “When and where is this to be held?” Mahaz asked.

  “Is this information worth money to you?”

  “One hundred Moqaddas,” Mahaz said.

  “Only one hundred? I was hoping for more than that.”

  “One hundred now, and if we find the Christians having a service in a tent, it will be worth four hundred more afterward.”

  Chris smiled, and nodded his head. “Yes, yes, five hundred Moqaddas. That is very good. Shall I come here for the money?”

  “Afterward,” Mahaz said.

  “Yes, afterward,” Chris agreed.

  “Now when and where is this to be held?”

  “Go west of town, to E. County Road, 180. You will see a tent, just to the left of the road. That’s where they will be. The service starts at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Mahaz nodded, then counted out the one hundred Moqaddas. “Come back tomorrow afternoon and I will give you the rest of the money.”

  “Thank you,” Chris said. “Thank you very much.”

  It took Chris the rest of the day to get everything set up. First he had to erect the tent, and because it was a relatively large tent, it was no easy job for one man. He had to do it by himself though, because he couldn’t take a chance on using anyone else. There would be no cars parked around the tent and he was a little concerned about that, but he realized that anyone who actually would attend such a service wouldn’t want their cars there so that they could be identified.

  When the tent was erected, he set the Claymore mines all the way around the perimeter of the tent, rigging all of them to be fired by a radio signal. The last thing he did was put a CD player in the tent, and set it so he could turn it on by radio signal. He returned early the next morning, and waited.

  At about eight fifteen a car and an army truck arrived. He saw Mahaz get out of the car, then twelve men, all dressed in the black and silver uniforms of the Janissaries, climbed down from the truck.

  Chris hit a button to start the CD playing.

  “I’m going to ask you, each and every one today, to give your life to Jesus! If you haven’t been baptized, we’ll go down to the ever-living water today so you can give your soul to the Lord. If you have been, then come on down and re-dedicate yourselves in front of all your brothers and your sisters.”

  The sound changed then to a hymn, being sung badly, and without music accompaniment.

  “Shall we gather at the river,

  where bright angel feet have trod,

  with its crystal tide forever

  flowing by the throne of God.”

  Mahaz held his finger to his lips, then signaled to the others to completely surround the tent. All the while they were getting ready, the singing from inside the tent continued.

  “Yes, we’ll gather at the river,

  the beautiful, the beautiful river;

  gather with the saints at the river

  that flows by the throne of God.”

  “Now!” Mahaz shouted, and he and the 12 black-clad men with him, begin firing into the tent, with their weapons on full automatic.

  Chris let them fire for fully ten seconds before pushing the button on his remote. The button triggered sixteen Claymore anti-personnel mines, critically arranged all the way around the circumference of the tent, to detonate as one. The sound was earsplitting, and thousands of steel balls tore through all four sides of the tent, slamming into the flesh of the twelve janissaries, ripping their bodies into bloody pulps. All twelve Janissaries, plus their leader, Mahaz, died instantly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was Tom Jack who introduced the idea of rescuing Dr. Urban. “I grew up in Sikeston,” Tom said. “Dr. Urban was my doctor.”

  “All right,” Jake agreed. “If you can come up with a plan that you think has a chance of working, I’ll authorize the mission.”

  “I would like Deon to go with me,” Tom said. “We work pretty well together.”

  “Everybody works well with Deon,” Jake said. “That’s why I chose him to be a part of my team when we first came down here. But it seems to me like this is likely to be a pretty high-risk mission, and right now, you and Deon are the only two snake-eaters I have, and I don’t want to risk you both on the same mission.

  “I tell you what, though. We’ve had some pretty good men sign up with us since we started building our military. Why don’t you see Willie, he’s got everyone’s background on the computer. I’m pretty sure the two of you could come up with a strike team.”

  “Thanks,” Tom said. “I’ll see what he has for me.”

  “Snake-eaters?” Barbara asked, after Tom left.

  Jake chuckled. “It’s a generic term for anyone trained
in special forces, whether army, navy, marines, or air force. As part of their survival training, they would catch, and eat, snakes.”

  “Oooh,” Barbara said, with a shudder. “Remind me never to go on a picnic with a snake-eater.”

  “I want to go,” Willie said.

  “Oh, Willie, I don’t think so,” Tom replied.

  “Why not? You think I like being nothing but a computer geek all the time. I am a soldier, I have had training, you know. It’s not like I’m some kid off the street just wanting a little adventure.”

  “Willie, if something happened to you, Jake would never forgive me. Hell, I wouldn’t forgive myself. Yes, you are a computer geek which, right now, makes you one of the most valuable members of this entire operation. Jake gave me authority to pick the team I want, and I’m not going to make a definitive statement that you can’t go, because I consider you too much of a friend to do that. But I hope you have enough common sense to withdraw the request.”

  Willie drummed on the desk for a moment, then let out a disgusted sigh. “All right,” he said. “All right, I withdraw the request. But I am telling you right now, I have no intention of being nothing but a computer geek for the rest of my life.”

  “Thank you, Willie. Now, I’m going to take nine men with me. I’m going to need two helicopter pilots, an NCO as my second-in-command, and eight men, former SEALS or special forces army, as my fighting men. And, I’ll want an Apache crew to provide cover for us. So what I want you to do is give me at least two men for each position, and let me study their background, then I’ll make the final selection.”

  “All right,” Willie agreed.

  Later that same day Willie brought a file folder to Tom, with several printed pages inside. There was one page for each man, as well as a photo.

  “These are men we can get hold of quickly,” Willie said. “Some are in Mobile, some are in Pensacola, and there are even a few who are in Gulf Shores. I don’t think you can go wrong no matter who you pick.”

  “Thanks, Willie.”

  “Oh, and I got something else you might find interesting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve got a complete layout of the prison where they are holding Dr. Urban.”

  “What?”

  Willie showed Tom another folder. “Yep. Dimensions, entrances, guard towers, it’s all there.”

  “Willie, you are a genius!” Tom said, smiling broadly as he took the folder. “Wait a minute, I know this place. This is the old Tanner Cotton Oil Mill. I thought you said it’s a prison.”

  “It is now,” Willie said. “They’ve converted it.”

  “Well, I’ll be. I’ve known this place for my entire life, but I never did see the inside. I guess I will now.”

  Using the layout of the prison, Tom developed a plan of attack. The plan called for a Blackhawk helicopter to put the assault team on the ground, and an Apache helicopter to provide fire support. That meant he would need at least four helicopter pilots, and he decided he would let Jake select them.

  The ground assault team would be his responsibility so he began looking through the list of names Willie had given him.

  The first name was James Algood. He read the information Willie had supplied for him.

  1. Algood, James. A sergeant first class before the collapse of the U.S. Army, Algood was a Special Forces soldier who, in Afghanistan, led the assault team that rescued three American soldiers who had been captured by the Taliban. For that action, Algood received the Distinguished Service Cross.

  2. Andrew Kearney, also a Special Forces soldier who has worked with Algood. Kearney, who was a staff sergeant before the collapse of the U.S. army, is the recipient of a Silver Star for gallantry in action in Afghanistan.

  3. Paul Cooper and David Lewis were both members of the Marine Corps Special Forces, both of whom received the Bronze Star with the “V” device for valor.

  The last three men Tom selected were Jubal Cates, Ken Gilmore, and Jerry Ferrell. Now all he needed was to get his assault team assembled, then run do a couple of dry runs of his plan.

  UAV Remote Flight Control, Fort Gordon, Georgia

  Major Joseph Rowe and Captain Hal Madison arrived for their duty tour at 0350, ten minutes before they were scheduled to relieve the team before them.

  “Two creams, one sugar, isn’t that right, Major?” Madison asked as he stopped by the coffee table.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Rowe replied.

  The two men they were about to relieve were in the “cockpit” of the MQ9 Reaper unmanned aerial vehicle. The cockpit of the aircraft was in a building at Fort Gordon, but the aircraft they were flying was actually 175 miles away, cruising at an altitude of 10,000 feet on a radial of 310 degrees, twenty-five miles southeast of Firebase Swift Strike.

  The pilot, Captain Bill Kirby, was flying the aircraft just as if he were actually onboard, with stick, rudder and throttle. The Mission Management Computers, consisting of two internal navigation and global positioning systems, were operating in conjunction with an embedded GPS receiver for enhanced navigation performance and faster satellite acquisition. All the flight data was being sent via a KU Band Satellite data link. Lieutenant Oscar Mack was also in the remote cockpit, sitting alongside Kirby. Madison was the “Sensor” officer and he was operating the ISS, or Integrated Sensor Suite, as well as the GMTI, or Ground Moving Target Indicator. Mack could, if required, employ an array of weaponry, from hellfire missiles, to smart bombs, to the extremely rapid firing M61A2 Vulcan Cannon.

  “Anything happening?” Rowe asked.

  “Not a damn thing,” Kirby replied. “All we’ve done for four hours is bore holes in the sky.”

  “What’s the fuel situation?”

  Kirby checked one of his instruments. “Hour sixteen of forty-two,” he said. “You’ll be in good shape.”

  Madison handed a cup of coffee to Rowe.

  “Thanks, Hal.”

  “What’s our armament mix, Oscar?” Madison asked the black sensor officer that he would be relieving.

  “Eight hellfire missiles, two Vulcan cannons with three thousand rounds.”

  “We’re monitoring Swift Strike again?” Rowe asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Damn,” Madison said. “Nothing ever happens there. You know what I’d like to do with this. I’d like to fly it over Washington, and stick a hellfire missile right up Ohmshidi’s ass.”

  “Whoa, that’s pretty damn violent, isn’t it, Hal?” Captain Kirby teased.

  “Yeah, and to think that I have to sit beside this violent man for the next four hours,” Major Rowe said.

  “The next four hours, right,” Kirby said. “Major Rowe, the ship is yours,” Kirby said, getting up so Rowe could take his place. “Soon as I fill out the flight log, I’m out of here.”

  “I’ve got it, Oscar,” Madison said, slipping in to the seat Lieutenant Mack just left.

  “Gentlemen, we leave it in your hands. Good hunting,” Kirby said.

  “Good hunting is right. I’m getting so bored sitting here doing nothing, if I see a good sized buck, I’m going to take him out,” Madison said.

  Five minutes later Kirby and Mack were gone leaving Rowe and Madison at the controls. Rowe slipped a CD into a player and they began listening to the music of Beethoven.

  “That’s nice,” Madison said.

  “Ha! I chose you because of your taste in music,” Rowe said. “If I had to sit alongside MacMurtry and listen to his shit-kicking music for four hours, I’d go crazy.”

  “That’s not the way to think about it, Major. You outrank MacMurtry, you wouldn’t have to listen to his music, he’d have to listen to yours.”

  “Yeah,” Rowe replied with a smile. “Yeah, that’s right, isn’t it?”

  0608 hours, Firebase Swift Strike, Lancaster County, South Carolina

  The first thing Captain J. C. Jones noticed when he awoke was that the generator wasn’t running. Not only could he not hear the steady drone of the 500K
W, he was also lying in a pool of sweat, because without the generator, there was no air conditioner.

  Jones sat up on his bunk, then swung his legs over. He had been a Sergeant First Class before the United States Army collapsed. Now, in the South Carolina Defense Corps, he was a captain, and the site commander of Firebase Swift Strike.

  “Dooley,” Jones said. “Wasn’t it your job to keep fuel in the generator last night?”

  “That’s right, it was, Captain, and I did it. Fact is, I refueled it at about four this morning. If it’s stopped, it isn’t because of a lack of fuel,” Corporal Dooley said.

  “Well, something is wrong with it,” Jones said. He pulled on his trousers, then put on his boots. “I need to take a leak anyway, I’ll take a look.”

  When Jones walked over to check on the generator he saw that the oil cap was off and that there was a great deal of dirt around the filter. In addition, the carburetor had been smashed. The generator had not just stopped, it had been sabotaged.

  “What the hell?” he said aloud. He picked up the pieces of the carburetor and held them in his hand. “Who the hell would do something like this? And why would they do it?”

  He glanced up into one of the nearest guard towers, intending to ask if the guard had seen anything.

  The tower was empty.

  At about the same time he saw that the tower was empty, he saw that, in addition to the generator being sabotaged, the uplink had been destroyed as well. He depended on the uplink for satellite communication. For all intent and purposes, they were cut off.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Jones asked.

  Looking toward the other guard towers, he saw that they were as empty as the first. He didn’t have to ask the question a second time. He knew what was going on. The compound was being set up for an attack.