As his Triumph climbs the Brooklyn Bridge Sam looks out towards Liberty Island. The jagged lines of the headless Statue of Liberty are sharply defined against the pale, night sky. A pair of explosive-laden helicopters crashed into her during the Fourth of July celebrations in 2016. The blasts broke off the head and raised arm. Sam would never forget how people danced and cheered around the world; how some celebrated, even at home. Neither could he forget the sight of Lady Liberty’s head lying on its side, eyes looking expectantly at the shore behind her. The government balked at the expense of repairing the statue. Some, including the Senator from New York, argued to scrap it altogether.
“What was the statue, anyway?” she asked on the floor of the Senate. “Was it not a monument to the delusion that had us, for so long, believing American was exceptional? Don’t we know better by now? Haven’t we learned that we are no better than anyone, no more exceptional than the Brits, the French, the Greeks or the Turks? Is this not the wise lesson of multiculturalism, that we are all equal and none of us exceptional?
“Let us not waste valuable time or scarce treasure in rebuilding a statue that idolizes a lie. Let us make the best of this small loss and use it as an opportunity to mature as a nation. Allow the idea of American exceptionalness to go the way of that other arrogant notion, Manifest Destiny. Let them both be forgotten, discarded into the same dustbin of history. If we can do that, no one will deny that America has finally arrived at the twenty-first century.
“But if you must have a monument,” she went on to say. “Let it be one raised in penance for the millions who came to these shores only to discover the American dream was a nightmare. If we can do that, we will finally be admitting to the world and to ourselves that we were wrong to ever think we were special or exceptional in any way.”
The severed head and the shattered torch arm were removed soon after the attack but Sam Ericson can still see Lady Liberty staring plaintively across the water at him. Ever since that fateful Fourth of July, Sam has stared back silently, by turns somber and sad. Tonight however, Sam Ericson smiles.
“Don’t you worry, girlfriend,” he says in the statues direction. “We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”
The wind off the river drops the temperature a good ten degrees. It doesn’t bother him. On the contrary, it is rather bracing. And then too, it is the excitement promised by the hours, days and years ahead that immune him to the late, December chill. As the Manhattan skyline looms closer, Sam narrows his mental focus to the duties that lay immediately ahead. First things first, he tells himself. Exiting the bridge, Sam flashes his headlight in a farewell signal to the sedan, which responds in kind with its tail lights. They continue west across the island of Manhattan. Sam takes the northbound loop to the FDR Drive. His mission is upriver. He eyes the United Nations tower in the shrinking distance.
“Thy will be done,” Sam prays softly.
Dearborn, Michigan
21:01:14
Augustine Koenig crosses his blue eyes, sticks his tongue out the side of his mouth and makes a choking noise as his wife Anya tightens the knot of his tie.
“You big baby,” she says, but loosens the tie a bit anyway.
Anya pats his lapel a couple of times and takes a step back to appraise her husband. He is five foot ten, with a compact, medium build of sharply detailed lines that his dress blues accentuate nicely. There are several white-tipped hairs in his short, blond crew cut. He is graying nicely at thirty-six years of age. He will look like his silver-haired father soon enough, she thinks. She looks forward to the transformation.
It’s been years since Anya has seen Augustine in uniform. She smiles approvingly, well pleased with her husband. She has, in fact, not seen him much in the four years since he left the Dearborn Michigan Police Department. He has been forced to travel around the country picking up construction work wherever he can, sending the money home to support his wife, three children and aging father. Being away from his family for months at a time is harder on Augustine than he allows himself to let on. Anya notes it however in how he holds her throughout the night when he is home and especially by how he dotes on the children every chance he gets.
Her husband also misses being a cop. It is only natural, Anya knows. He is from a family of cops. He would have entered the force right out of high school if it were not for the war. After his two tours in Iraq, Augustine came home, married Anya and followed his father, grandfather and great grandfather into the police department. However the country had changed while he was gone and few places in the States changed as radically as did their home city of Dearborn. While Augustine was fighting jihadists abroad, their comrades in the states were busily remaking his country and his city in particular.
It started out gradually enough during the war years. The media, at the government’s behest, produced educational and instructional programs to show Americans they had nothing to fear from Muslims and their ‘religion of peace.’ After the troops were pulled out of Mesopotamia, in apology for the ‘war crimes’ that the United States and Western Civilization committed against Islam, The Department of Peace decided to put America through a regimen of sensitivity training to ‘combat stereotypes and prejudices that might lead to further outbreaks of Islamophobia.’ The DOP’s Sensitivity Czar made the training mandatory throughout all government. Over the years the training became ever more ‘sensitive,’ extensive and demanding. Complaints of indoctrination were condemned as ‘Islamophobic’ and proffered as evidence of the need for yet more vigorous programs. In the fall of 2015, three years after Augustine graduated from the police academy; Detroit Michigan pushed the envelope and became America’s first sharia-compliant city. All the surrounding areas were brought under the Dearborn’s iron dome within a year. And now, four years later, there were another ten enclaves of Islamic law scattered across the country and a score more cities with sharia compliancy initiatives working their way through legislatures.
The family was loath to move but as the new laws were implemented they saw little choice left them but to join the ‘Christian flight’ out of town. It was easier said than done, however. The economy was depressed and money was short everywhere. Still, they were determined to leave rather than live in the second class, dhimmitude status that sharia law insisted non-Muslims endure under the rule of Islam. The family saved every cent they could spare. Four years later, they felt they had enough money to move south. They were all but set to leave until Augustine returned from the road last Easter with a proposition that convinced Anya and her father-in-law to stay in Dearborn a little longer.
Her husband explained that he ran into a Marine buddy while working in Florida. They traded stories of their lives since leaving the Corps and Augustine naturally complained about what had become of his city. His fellow Marine agreed that it was an outrage. However, he insisted it was not a situation that needed to be tolerated. The fellow Marine knew a man who had a plan to fix, not only Dearborn, but the entire nation. A couple of weeks later, Augustine met the ‘man with the plan.’ Her husband signed on immediately. Six weeks later he was home sharing what he learned with his wife and his father. After Augustine’s summation of the Colonel’s plan, Marcellus Koenig and his daughter-in-law Anya looked at each other for only the briefest of moments before turning back to their son and husband, announcing in unison:
“We’re in!”
They suffered life under sharia rule a little longer. The extra nine months were easier to take than the four years that preceded them, especially since they knew that everything was about to change.
The revolution is already under way. The Crusade is launched. Everybody in the Koenig home is in good spirits. They will soon have their city and their country back!
Sensing what she is thinking, Augustine takes Anya in his arms.
“Are you ready for this?”
She nods.
“Cause you know,” he says. “We don’t have to go through with it. We could convert. It might be easier on ev
eryone.”
“You think so?”
“Why sure,” says Augustine. “As a Muslim male I can marry up to another three women. Think of the help they could be around the house.”
“That is tempting,” Anya says.
“And if they don’t work out, all you have to do is say the word, hon. Say the word and I will drag the ones you don’t like into the back yard and stone them dead.”
“Very tempting,” Anya repeats. “But I could never convert. Burkas make me look fat.”
“Alright then,” says Augustine. “We’ll overthrow the government instead.”
“That’s a much better plan, honey.”
They kiss. Husband and wife wrap themselves in each other’s arms, losing themselves for too brief a moment in the warmth of each other’s bodies. When their lips part, he takes her head in his hands and gently thumbs the soft shells of her ears.
“I love you, Mrs. Koenig.”
She squeezes the hard coils of muscles in his forearms.
“I love you, Mr. Koenig.”
Augustine kisses her one more time.
“Let’s get this road on the show then,” he says and pulls his gun belt off their bed. When it is slung off his hips, Augustine opens their bedroom door and leads her downstairs. Their kids are waiting for them with his father, her uncle and aunt.
“Bundle up everyone,” Augustine announces. “It’s time to go.”
The adults help the three children on with their coats, hats and mittens. Augustine and Anya dress their eldest daughter, Elsa. The curly and blond haired seven-year old is blue and teary-eyed.
“What’s wrong, baby doll?” Anya asks her.
“I wish daddy was going to Mass with us,” Elsa says.
“We told you honey,” Anya says. “Daddy has something important to do.”
“What’s more important than Christmas?”
Augustine drops to one knee and kisses Elsa’s forehead.
“There’s nothing more important than Christmas,” he tells his daughter as he buttons her small pea coat. “That’s why there are three Masses for Christmas. This way everyone has a chance to celebrate the baby Jesus’ birthday, no matter what their schedule might be.” His thumb wipes a loose tear away. “I will catch the Christmas morning Mass with you, baby doll. I promise.”
“Okay,” Elsa says and throws her arms around Augustine’s neck.
“Daddy’s got to kick the devil’s butt first, right daddy?” Five year old Emil says as his grandfather zips him into his one-piece, Superman snow suit.
“That’s right, buddy,” Augustine agrees with a wink at his son. The father scoops his daughter up with one arm and gives his wife’s hand a squeeze with the other. He looks over to see his two year old, Emma bundled up and sleeping in her granduncle’s arms.
The women throw burkas on over their coats in case a morality enforcement patrol car drives by when they are outdoors. Marcellus leads the way out of the house and Anya, last one out, locks it up behind them. The air is cold and flurries are falling from a thickly clouded sky. Last week’s four inches of frozen, gray snow is getting powdered with a fresh layer of pristine flakes. Their neighbors’ windows are sealed and lightless behind security bars. The early evening is darker than usual without the street lamps lit overhead. Like many cashstrapped cities across the country, Detroit and the surrounding areas use rolling blackouts to save energy and money. The ‘temporary cost cutting measure’ was introduced in the summer of 2014 and has been running ever since, keeping neighborhoods in crime-ridden darkness throughout the year. The adults scan the street as they make their way to the twenty-nine foot RV parked in their driveway.
“Stay sharp kiddo,” father Marcellus advises Augustine as he has all his life.
“You too daddy-o,” Augustine replies as he has since he was thirteen.
Augustine puts Elsa down. The men hug and shake hands. Marcellus climbs aboard the RV.
“Take care of your momma for me,” Augustine tells his son Emil. He bends to kiss his boy.
“Aye, aye,” The boy says with a salute and then turns to let his grandfather help him climb the steps into the RV.
Augustine says goodbye to Anya’s aunt and uncle next. He takes his youngest daughter from them and hugs and kisses her while they climb aboard. He then hands Emma back to them.
Augustine picks Elsa up again and kisses her.
“I’ll see you in the morning little lady.”
“O.K. daddy,” Elsa says.
Father and daughter hug and kiss again.
Husband and wife are left on the street. Augustine closes the distance between them and lifts the burka’s hood off his wife’s head. He smiles into her large, green eyes.
“The next time we see each other, we’ll burn this thing together,” Augustine says.
“It’s a date, mate,” Anya answers.
They kiss again.
They pull apart when they hear a car round the corner. It is a Dearborn City Police Department squad car. Even from the distance of a half-block, Augustine can make out Doug Ditka behind the wheel. His large head is bopping to music. The car pulls to a stop and the driver-side window retracts into the door. ‘Rocking in a Winter Wonderland’ spills out the car.
‘Later on, we’ll conspire,
While we dream by the fire…’
“Hey, you two,” Ditka says, sticking his head out the window. “We have laws now against that sort of thing.”
“Not for long we don’t,” says Anya.
“The sooner you get your hands off my partner, the sooner we can do something about it, little lady,” says Ditka, stepping out of the squad car.
Doug Ditka is taller and broader than Augustine. He is six-foot-one with large, trunk-like limbs and a paunch that spills over his gun belt. Doug is dark eyed and dark haired. He is a two hundred and seventy pound bear of a man and the Koenig’s childhood friend. He ambles over to the couple and picks them up, one in each arm. He kisses Anya and then Augustine before letting them back down.
“Merry Christmas!” Ditka says. “Now we’re proper co-conspirators.”
“And a Merry Christmas to you too, DD,” Anya says.
“It will be indeed,” Ditka grins. “If I can get you two separated long enough. Goodness, gracious! You’d think you two were just married. My wife, she doesn’t hold me like that no more and we’re married one year less than y’all.”
“That’s because she can’t get her arms around you,” Anya says.
“That’s it,” Doug says. “I’m taking Auggie away before your headstrong, womanly ways can do anymore damage to this most delicate of men.”
“Fine,” Anya relents. “Take him. He’s all yours.”
She kisses her husband quickly and nudges him towards the squad car.
“Come on, partner,” Ditka says. “We got us some breaking and entry to do.”
Augustine watches his wife board the RV and then catches his father’s reflection in the large, driver’s side mirror. He gives him the thumbs up and his father returns the gesture. The RV pulls out of the driveway. In moments it disappears around the corner. He says a quick and silent prayer for their protection on the road. They are headed to celebrate midnight Mass in Cleveland. He will meet up with them there. Then they’re off to Florida. The Koenig family will not be returning to Dearborn for some months.
Augustine turns and gets in the ‘borrowed’ squad car with Ditka. Doug uses the driveway to make a three point turn and they ride off in the other direction. Koenig is quiet on the passenger side. Part of him is listening to Doug sing along to ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.’ Another part of him is watching his city roll past outside the window, lamenting how hard pressed he is to recognize his own home town. The skyline, the landmarks and the names of streets are all familiar but the feel is foreign. The alien sensation is more palpable than the darkness. He grew up on these streets and never would have imagined that he would feel like he was behind enemy lines while on them. And y
et Augustine Koenig does feel precisely that. His eyes might as well still be scouring the skylines of Fallujah, Baghdad and Mosul for snipers.
Dearborn had a sizable Muslim population for as long as Augustine could remember and they were never a problem. The Muslims were just one more group that contributed to the city’s ethnic diversity. They were even assimilating to American life on par with other groups. Doug, Anya and he had mixed with them while growing up. There was a pair of Egyptian brothers that Doug and he shot hoops with almost every weekend. The Alamoudi brothers were part of their childhood crew. They played on their flag football team. They smoked their first cigarettes together. They drank together behind their parents back, went to the same lakeside concerts and traded curse words in Arabic and Russian and German. Despite their religious differences, they never hurled anything at each other than the occasional snowball. Mosque on Fridays and Church on Sundays was the only difference in their young lives an outside observer might have noted.
The younger of the two Egyptians, Hatem was still in town. He was a young and well-respected doctor at the local hospital with three kids of his own by Augustine’s last reckoning. Koenig ran into Hatem Alamoudi outside the ER after dropping off a crazed and strung out meth-head who fell against his night stick a few times while trying to resist arrest.
The two men lit up with smiles at recognizing each other after years apart. They talked for several minutes, eventually pulling photos of their children from their wallets. Augustine showed him Elsa and Hatem showed Koenig pictures of his two sons and daughter. The old friends were admiring each other’s families when Augustine felt Hatem grow suddenly uneasy. It was subtle but he sensed it nonetheless. Koenig traced his friend’s gaze to the source of the discomfort, the approach of a robed figure.
“Good evening, Doctor Alamoudi,” the man in the cinched robe said. Augustine guessed that he was about the same age as Hatem and he, taller than both, dark-haired and sporting a short, spade-shaped beard. “Everything is O.K., I hope.” He added with smile to Koenig.
“Yes,” Hatem said. “Everything is good, very good. Officer Koenig and I were just catching up. We are old friends, Auggie and I. We grew up together.”
The House of War: Book One Of : THE OMEGA CRUSADE Page 15