Phoenix Rising:

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oh shit!” Jones shouted. “Get your weapons!” he shouted. “Head for the bunker!”

  Even as he was giving the orders, he was dashing back to the hut to grab his own M-4. “Everybody, grab a weapon! Get into the bunker!” he shouted.

  As the men started reaching for their clothes, Jones yelled at them. “You ain’t goin’ to a damn parade! You’re goin’ to war! Forget about getting dressed, just grab your piece and head for the bunker!”

  At that moment there was a loud explosion in the motor pool as a mortar round took out one of their vehicles.

  Firebase Swift Strike was on the South Carolina side of the North Carolina—South Carolina border, very near the tiny, and now all but deserted town of Betheny. North Carolina had not seceded, and was still a part of the America Islamic Republic of Enlightenment. The attack was coming from a large body of SPS men.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  UAV Remote Flight Control Facility, Fort Gordon

  Major Rowe and Captain Madison were two hours into their four-hour tour of duty. It was considered counterproductive for any crew to be on such intense duty for longer than four hours. At 0800 Zulu, another crew would take over to continue the twenty-four hour mission of the Unmanned Aerial Vehicle.

  “Hey, Hal, did you eat breakfast?” Major Rowe asked.

  “At four o’clock in the morning? No, I’ll eat when we get off.”

  “Where you goin’ to eat?”

  “I don’t know, I hadn’t thought about it that much. All I need is some bacon and eggs, maybe a biscuit or two,” Madison answered. “What about you?”

  “I’m going to the Good Egg,” Rowe said. “I’m big on breakfast. It’s my favorite meal, and they do know how to put on a breakfast. You want to come along?”

  “Sure, why not?” Madison answered. Suddenly he leaned forward in his seat.

  “Whoa, Major, check this out,” Madison said, pointing to his sensor array.

  “What do you have?”

  “I’m not sure, but it looks like a lot of activity around Firebase Swift Strike.”

  “Better get their six on the horn, let them know what we are seeing here,” Rowe said.

  Madison punched in some numbers on the secure satellite phone, but got no answer.

  “They aren’t responding,” he said after several tries.

  Rowe shook his head. “This isn’t looking good,” he said.

  “Think we should call QRT?” Madison asked.

  “I’ll call the Quick Response Team, but at this time on Sunday, all we’ll get is the Officer of the Day, and like as not the OD will be some doofus lieutenant,” Rowe said.

  Everything Madison saw on his sensor array indicated that an attack on Swift Strike had begun.

  “It’s too late anyway. They’re already hitting our guys!” Madison said.

  “Damn,” Rowe replied.

  “Joe, I can take them out,” Madison said. “Give me the word!”

  “I—I don’t know,” Rowe answered. “I think we need to contact QRT on this one.”

  “Come on, Joe, those are the good guys down there in that compound,” Madison said. “You know what happened at Camp Cassandra. That’s why they asked for us.”

  “You know the rules of engagement as well as I do,” Rowe said. “If this attack was within our borders we could act. But it’s in South Carolina and we are supposed to get permission from the South Carolina Defense Corps.”

  “Do you think the SCDC wouldn’t want us to act? We are officers, Joe. And we were officers in the pre-O time. We are trained to be able to make decisions when we have to.”

  “I’ll call QRT and see what I can do,” Rowe said, picking up the direct line.

  “They better be quick,” Madison said. “This is coming down now.”

  Firebase Swift Strike

  Automatic weapons fire coming from the SPS attackers bounced off the rocky ground and cut through the thin walls of the compound huts. Jones, and the eleven others of his firebase team had taken shelter in the bunker, but they were greatly outnumbered, and outgunned by the attackers. They were also unable to contact the outside for help.

  Bullets slammed into the sandbags and whizzed by overhead. In addition, RPG and mortar rounds were exploding all through the compound.

  “Final defensive fire!” Jones shouted, and the defenders quit trying to pick out individual targets, but instead concentrated a withering fire in pre-selected zones that would prevent anyone from getting through. The concept of ‘final defensive fire’ had been developed during WWII to combat the “banzai” charges and it was brutally effective—but only so long as the ammunition held out. And at this rate of fire, that would not be much longer.

  UAV Remote Flight Control, Fort Gordon

  “They’re attacking, Joe, they’re attacking!” Madison shouted.

  “Yeah, I see that.”

  “What do we do? Have we heard from QRT?”

  “The QRT OD hasn’t called back.”

  “What do we do?”

  “To hell with the OD and to hell the rules of engagement,” Major Rowe said. “Arm your weapons, Hal, I’m bringing it around.”

  “Yes, sir!” Madison answered happily.

  Firebase Swift Strike

  Neither the SPS attackers nor the South Carolinian defenders saw or heard the UAV overhead. The first indication anyone had that it was there was when the hellfire missiles started raining down on the attackers, slamming into them with deadly accuracy, taking out dozens with each blast. Then the South Carolinian defenders saw the ground being chewed up in front of them as the Vulcan cannon started firing, each round bursting into smaller, razor-sharp bits of shrapnel to rip through the flesh of the attackers.

  Within two passes of the UAV, the attack had been broken, and when Captain Jones moved his team, cautiously, out onto the battlefield, they saw legs, arms, heads, and the shredded torsos of scores of SPS fighters. Not one defender had been killed.

  “What the hell happened?” one of the men said.

  At that moment the UAV made another pass, this time making a wide turn.

  “You’ve heard of manna from heaven?” Jones asked. “This was hell from heaven.” Jones waved at the UAV.

  “What are you waving at, Cap’n? There ain’t nobody in any of the planes, is there?”

  “That doesn’t mean they can’t see us,” Jones replied.

  UAV Remote Flight Control, Fort Gordon

  “Ha,” Madison said. “They’re waving at us.”

  “I’ll wave back,” Rowe said, and he dipped the wings from side to side.

  The phone rang and Rowe picked it up. “UAV ops, Major Rowe.”

  “Major Rowe, this is Lieutenant Townsend, Quick Response Team. I still haven’t been able to get hold of Colonel Hicks, but as soon as I do I’ll get back to you with . . .”

  “Never mind, Lieutenant. We’ve already conducted the operation,” Rowe said.

  “Uh, yes sir,” Townsend said.

  “You give Colonel Hicks my regards now, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rowe hung up the phone. “Quick reaction team? Quick, my hind clavicle.”

  Firebase Swift Strike

  “I told you they’d see us!” Jones said happily and this time when he waved, all the others waved with him.

  “Don’t you feel a little dumb waving at a plane there ain’t nobody in?” one of the men asked.

  “They saved our lives,” Dooley said. “I’ll wave at it until my arm falls off.

  Muslimabad

  “What is going on?” Ohmshidi demanded angrily. “We have our people killed in Arkansas, and in South Carolina. You do know what can come from this, don’t you? Something like this can spread, and the next thing you know others will be trying it. We need to do something, and we need to do it quickly.”

  “I have something in mind, Glorious Leader,” Franken replied. “South Carolina has seceded and I . . .”

  “No state has seceded!” Ohmshidi s
aid angrily. “Secession is not legal. There are still fifty states in the American Islamic Republic of Enlightenment, and I will not hear of anyone saying that any state has seceded.”

  “You are absolutely right, Glorious Leader. What I meant to say is that there are some in South Carolina who have made the false and illegal claim that they have seceded. But, there are still many in South Carolina who are loyal to Moqaddas Sirata and I think there is where we can make a resolute demonstration that will be seen by anyone else who might have such treasonous ideas. I intend to conduct more military operations there.”

  “Yes. Do so.”

  Fort Morgan

  “I strongly recommend these two guys as pilots for your Blackhawk,” Jake said. “They were both Chief Warrant Officers, both of them received the DFC for their service in Iraq and in Afghanistan. Dan Lambdin and Bob “Clipper” Bivens. And for the Apache, Mike Lindell and Tom Hunsinger. I’ve served with all four of them, they are outstanding.”

  “Have you spoken to them?”

  “Yes, and they are chomping at the bit, but I told them that you would have the final word.”

  “Listen, if you recommend them, that’s good enough for me,” Tom said. “Where are they now? I’d like to set up a training mission as soon as I can.”

  “They’ll be here by midafternoon.”

  “Good. I plan to brief everyone tonight, and conduct the training operation just after midnight.”

  In 2006 as a sophomore running back for the Crimson Tide of Alabama, James Algood had made honorable mention all-American. Then, in the Cotton Bowl game against Texas Tech, Algood came out of the backfield to catch a pass that was thrown too high. Going up for it left him vulnerable, and he was hit hard by two Texas Tech linebackers, twisting his leg like a pretzel as they brought him down. Although he managed to hang on to the football, he felt an excruciating stab of pain when his knee went out.

  Algood was carried off the field in a stretcher and taken immediately to ER, where surgeons worked hard to prevent the injury from rendering him permanently crippled.

  “Algood, I can’t tell you how sorry I am this happened to you,” the coach said when he came to visit Algood a few days later. “You are one of the finest young men I have ever been around. And I’m not just talking football, I’m talking about your value as a human being.”

  Algood managed a chuckle. “Why do I think that sounds a little like a eulogy?”

  The coach ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “I won’t lie to you, son. I guess in a way it is.”

  Algood was silent for a long moment. “You’re saying I won’t play football anymore, aren’t you?”

  “That’s what the doctors are telling me,” the coach replied. “Unfortunately, that also means that your football scholarship is gone. But, if you want to stay in school, son, you let me know, because I promise you, I will find a way.”

  Algood thanked the coach and said he wanted to think about it. After the coach left, Algood cried into his pillow. As a young black man, it had seemed to him that there were only two paths open to him: a dead-end job working at the peanut oil mill, as had his father, or a life of crime, from petty to grand.

  The first in his family to graduate from high school, Algood had come to the University of Alabama for one reason, and that was to get a ticket into the NFL. Now that ticket was snatched away from him in one career-ending play.

  Algood completed that semester, then dropped out of school and joined the army. To his surprise and delight, the army had replaced football as his core and motivation. He went to Airborne training, Ranger training, and Special Forces training, and rose quickly through the ranks to become a Sergeant First Class. His proudest moment was standing at attention at a special awards ceremony at Fort Benning, where he was presented with the Distinguished Service Medal, a medal only one notch below the Medal of Honor.

  Again, fate conspired against him when the United States Army collapsed. But he was being given a third chance, having joined the army of United Free America. And in this army, he was a captain, chosen to be second in command of an assault team organized to rescue Dr. Urban.

  It was now 0230 and Algood and the others on the team were in a Blackhawk helicopter, its doors removed, beating through the dark toward a spot just north of Mobile, where they would conduct a training exercise. Tom Jack had chosen a barn just off Sewell Road because the approach to the barn, and the relative position of the barn, was very similar to the layout of the Tanner Cotton Oil Mill.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  South Carolina

  Fifteen two and one-half ton trucks, each truck carrying twenty men, and every third truck pulling a 155 howitzer came down Cashua Ferry Road. Just under two miles outside Darlington, they unlimbered the five field pieces and trained them toward the city of Darlington.

  Before President Ohmshidi’s incompetence and socialist programs brought about the collapse of the United States, the town of Darlington, South Carolina had been well known for the Darlington Motor Speedway. The races that once drew thousands of visitors to the town were no longer being held, and the track was now overgrown with weeds. Two young boys were at the track now, on bicycles.

  “Go!” one of them yelled, then, making the sound of a roaring race car engine, or at least approximating the sound to the degree they could, they started riding their bicycles as fast as they could around the track.

  Suddenly, no more than a hundred and fifty yards in front of them, there was a loud explosion, and heavy chunks of the track pavement were thrown up into the air. Both boys braked their bikes, skidding to a stop as there was a second explosion in what had been the press box.

  “Darrell! What’s happening?” the younger of the two boys asked.

  They heard three more explosions, coming from the middle of town.

  “I don’t know!” Darrell admitted. “Come on, Leo, let’s get out of here!”

  The two boys headed back toward the entrance to the speedway, pedaling as fast as they could.

  This time they heard a rushing sound and, looking up, saw something black hurtling through the sky above them, headed for the town. They watched it plummet to the earth, then erupt into another explosion.

  “Someone is shooting cannons at us!” Darrell said.

  There was another explosion in the road, right in front of them.

  “Leo, stop! Stop! We’ve got to hide in the ditch!” Darrell shouted, and the two boys abandoned their bicycles then ran to the edge of the road and jumped down into the ditch just as another shell landed, and exploded in the road.

  It had been almost fifty years since Dolan Kinder had heard the sound of an incoming artillery shell. Once when someone asked him what it sounded like, he described the sound as like a disconnected boxcar rolling down a railroad track. When he heard the sound from inside his small electric motor repair shop, he almost commented to a customer that it sounded just like incoming artillery. But before he could say the words, there was a loud explosion outside. That was followed almost immediately by the rushing sound of another incoming round.

  “What is that?” the customer asked, alarmed.

  “It’s artillery!” Kinder said. “God help us . . . someone is shooting at us!”

  “What?”

  “Out back!” Kinder said. “There’s a concrete stair well going down to the basement of the jewelry store across the alley!”

  There were two other explosions, one right on top of the other.

  “What are you talking about?” the puzzled customer asked.

  “Come with me, or stay here and get blown to kingdom come!” Kinder shouted, running toward the back door.

  Still another explosion, right outside the front door, was all the customer needed to prod him. Dropping the electric drill he had brought to be repaired, he ran toward the back door, then followed Kinder outside.

  “Down in there!” Kinder shouted, pointing across the alley from the back of his shop. What he pointed to was actually the outside e
ntrance to a basement, with steps that went down about ten feet. The walls of the excavation were lined with concrete.

  “Who is doing this?” the customer asked, even as there were two more explosions, one of the in the alley so close by that shrapnel whistled overhead and rattled against the side of the building, below which they were taking cover.

  There were two more explosions somewhat farther away.

  Out on the main streets of Darlington, away from where Dolan Kinder and his customer were taking shelter, there were burning cars and dozens of maimed and bloody bodies. Several of the buildings were burning.

  The explosions finally stopped, but it did not grow quiet. There could still be heard cries of pain and calls for help. Adding to these cries, was the crackling sound of fire, now sweeping from building to building.

  Two miles from town, Captain Yasir Wasim ordered the artillery to cease fire.

  “Lieutenant Jabar, you stay here with the artillery,” Wasim said. “We will go into town and mop up.”

  Wasim ordered all but the artillery crews to get back into the trucks, then, with him in the first truck, they drove into the burning town, getting there in less than three minutes. He parked the trucks just outside of town, then disembarked his soldiers. Dividing his men into ten groups of twenty, he sent them down the city streets.

  “Shoot everyone you see,” he said. “Men, women, children, and dogs.”

  “Everyone, Captain?” one of the men asked, not certain he had heard the order properly.

  “Everyone,” Wasim repeated. “We must teach these rebels a lesson. When they see what terrible retribution has been visited upon them, I think they will learn that any resistance against the forces of Moqaddas Sirata will be futile.”