Firebase Freedom

by William W. Johnstone

  “And now for the news. The chief justice of the so-called American Islamic Republic of Enlightenment, Sulymam Ayambuie, was killed when a bomb destroyed his car. Authorities are saying that it was a random terrorist attack conducted by traitors to the new state. But, there is an interesting parallel to a few other recent killings.

  “You may remember that on a previous broadcast, I told you about a young woman, Margaret Malcolm, who was raped in Arlington, Virginia, then taken to Washington, D.C., where she was brutally stoned to death. Yes, I call it Washington, because I refuse to refer to it by any other name.

  “Margaret was raped, but her rapist, a man named Billy Donner, wasn’t prosecuted. On the contrary, he became the witness for the prosecution, because the defendant in the case was not Billy Donner; it was, amazingly, Margaret Malcolm. Her crime was adultery. Now, I want you to think of that for a moment. Margaret Malcolm was raped, but she was tried for adultery. She was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to death. The execution was carried out by stoning.

  “There is a followup to that story. Since that happened, everyone involved in that case has died—or, I should say, has been killed. First, it was Billy Donner, found dead in the alley behind the convenience store where he worked. A few days later the two Janissaries who, rather than coming to Margaret’s aid, delivered her to court for her trial, were also found dead. And now, Justice Sulymam Ayambuie.

  “Do you want to know what I believe, ladies and gentlemen? I believe that justice has been served.

  “Now, we have pictures for you, of a successful strike against an AIRE detention center.”

  Over the next few minutes fuzzy video on the screen showed an attack against a jail in an unidentified location. There was a brief firefight between the attackers and the defenders, culminating in the release of several happy prisoners, both men and women. After that, the picture returned to Gregoire.

  “This wasn’t your ordinary detention center. The prisoners held there had been given their choice of public conversion to Moqaddas Sirata, or public execution. They are now safe with their families in one of the many pockets of freedom that are scattered around our country.

  “Now, I want all of you to think about the group of patriots I told you about at the beginning of this broadcast. They are brave men and women who have taken control of their own lives, and they are but one of many such groups around the nation.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, patriots all, I want you to consider doing the same thing. We have all tasted freedom in the past, and once you get a taste of freedom, you are loathe to give it up. I believe that the day will come, and soon, when there will be enough of us to coalesce into one powerful nation, a nation that will possess both the will and the means, to drive out our oppressors.

  “Thank you, good night, and God bless America.”

  “Tom, we’ll get you and Sheri set up in your cabin, then you can have dinner with us tonight,” Jake said after the telecast that evening.

  “I don’t know, what are you serving?”

  “Tom!” Sheri scolded.

  “Road kill,” Jake answered, without skipping a beat.

  “Sounds good, we’ll be there,” Tom said with a chuckle.

  After dinner Jake took Tom up onto the wall of the fort and pointed out to sea. From there, they could see nearly two dozen well-lit offshore rigs, some very close, some so far away as to be barely visible.

  “That’s the one we’re going to take first,” Jake said, pointing to the closest one. “That is AGCP 98-1, the one where Webb was working, and he assures us that he can have it up and functioning in less than twenty-four hours.”

  “How are we going to approach it?” Tom asked.

  “There’s a fisherman, Gary Bryant, who lives out here . . . in fact, he supplies us with most of our fish. He has a boat that he, Marcus, and James converted to run off wood gasification. He has done a lot of fishing very close in to the rigs, so they are used to seeing him. He’s agreed to sneak us out there.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Tom agreed. “How many on our strike team?”

  “There will be a total of six, counting you, me, and Gary. But Gary won’t do anything but drive the boat.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to meet the other team members,” Tom said.

  “No problem. Come on back down and I’ll introduce you.”

  Tom followed Jake back down from the wall, then over to where a small group of men stood.

  “Gentlemen, this is Tom Jack. Tom is a former SEAL who has volunteered to help us take the gas platform. Tom, this is our team, Deon Pratt, Willie Stark, and Marcus Warner. And this is Gary Bryant, he’ll be our boat captain.”

  Tom shook hands with the others, then they began making plans for the operation.

  As they were talking, a small toddler started toward Marcus Warner, holding his arms out to be picked up.

  “And who is this handsome little fellow?” Tom asked.

  “This is John Clay Warner,” Marcus said, picking the child up.

  “John Clay. That’s a good, solid-sounding name,” Tom said.

  “It comes from a couple of really good people, Sergeant Major Clay Matthews, and Sergeant John Deedle,” Marcus said.

  “They started out with us,” Deon explained. “But both were killed.”

  “It looks like you’ve found a good way to honor them,” Tom said.

  “Yes, and when John Clay grows up, I’m going to make certain that he knows the significance, and the honor of having the name he has.”

  “All right, gentlemen, if there are no questions, I suggest you all get a good night’s sleep,” Jake said. “Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”

  That night, after Tom and Sheri got into bed, Tom sensed a bit of uneasiness.

  “I know this cabin is pretty rough, but we won’t be here forever. We’ll find some place a little nicer than this. It’s just that I think we should be here now, as long as I’m going to be a part of Jake’s strike force.”

  “It’s not the cabin that’s bothering me,” Sheri said. “I’m okay no matter where we are, as long as we’re together. It’s tomorrow I’m worried about.”

  “Tomorrow? Why, what happens tomorrow?”

  “What happens tomorrow? Have you forgotten? You and some others are going on a crazy mission to take over an oil platform.”

  “It’s not oil, it’s gas.”

  “You know what I mean,” Sheri said in exasperation.

  Tom reached over to take Sheri’s hand. “Darlin’, the advantage is all ours. When you think about it, how many people can they have out there on that rig? And they won’t be expecting us. I wish you wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “I have to worry about it,” Sheri said. “You sure won’t.”

  “Well, if I’ve got you to worry, then I don’t have to, do I?”

  Sheri chuckled. “You make me so angry sometimes.”

  “That’s just to keep things fresh,” Tom teased. “Hell, if you never got mad at me, how boring would that be?”

  Sheri sighed. “There’s no arguing with you,” she said. “Just promise me that you will be careful tomorrow.”

  “I promise you, I’ll be careful.”

  When the sun came up the next morning, the fishing boat Red Eye was within one hundred yards of AGCP 98-1. The trawling net was deployed, and the Red Eye was slowly closing the distance between itself and the gas-drilling rig. To the casual observer it appeared that two of the Red Eye’s crewmen were on deck, tending to the net.

  But the two men on deck weren’t crewmen, and they weren’t tending to the net. Gary Bryant was on the flying bridge, Deon Pratt was on one side of the boat, and Tom Jack was on the other side. Jake Lantz, Willy Stark, and Marcus Warner were hiding in the boat’s cabin.

  High up on the deck of AGCP 98-1 there were nine State Protective Service men. Four were playing cards, three were kibitzing, and two were walking around the deck.

  “What’s that boat doing?” one of them asked, po
inting to the Red Eye.

  “Same thing he does ever’ day. He’s fishin’.”

  “Don’t seem like he’s ever come this close before.”

  “I’ve heard that the fish sort of like being around a rig like this. Maybe they’re just taking advantage of it.”

  “Wonder if he’s caught anything. I wouldn’t mind a little fried snapper.”

  “Yeah, well, it don’t matter none now, the boat’s goin’ away.”

  As the boat pulled away from AGCP 98-1, Jake, Tom, Deon, Willy and Marcus clung to the base of the rig. They started a climb to the top, a climb that would have been easy if they could have used the steps. But the steps were under continuous observation by those up on the deck, whereas the scaffolding could not be seen from above.

  It was a long way up, and the ascent wasn’t easy, as they had to depend upon braces and cross supports to pull their way up. It was particularly difficult for Jake, because he was afraid of heights.

  “How can that be?” he once asked a flight surgeon. “I’m not at all frightened by height when I am flying. But when I am on top of something high, I get almost woozy.”

  The flight surgeon explained that it was quite common for aviators to be afraid of heights.

  “You see, when you are flying you are in a totally different world . . . The aircraft is your world. Whereas when you are on top of some stable object, you have a spatial orientation toward the ground, and that spatial orientation is what makes you nervous.”

  Jake concentrated on looking up until, finally, all five of them were in position, just under the platform. Slowly, quietly, they moved from the supporting struts to a platform just below the work deck. There, the four men drew their weapons, and all looked toward Jake for guidance.

  Jake sent Tom to one side of the platform and Deon to the other side. There, they waited until the two men who were pacing around on the deck reached a point right above them. When they did, Tom and Deon reached up simultaneously, grabbed them, and jerked them over the side.

  Both men fell one hundred feet, face down, screaming all the way until they hit the water.

  “What the hell?” one of the card players shouted, standing up. “What happened?”

  Just below the deck Jake gave a signal, and the five of them rushed up the stairs and out onto the work deck.

  “Son of a bitch! Where’d you come from?”

  “Shoot ’em, shoot ’em!” One of the other security men shouted.

  “No! Give it up!” Jake countered.

  Jake’s offer had no effect, as all seven men went for their guns. What followed was a short, but very brutal gunfight. Soon all seven SPS men lay dead on the deck of the giant drilling rig.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Muslimabad

  Mohammad Akbar Rahimi was angry, and he summoned Mehdi Ohmshidi to his office so he could express his anger. He was sipping tea when Ohmshidi was shown into his office. He did not offer tea to the president.

  “You sent for me, O Merciful One?”

  Rahimi glared at Ohmshidi without responding. It wasn’t until then that Ohmshidi realized that Rahimi was waiting for him to pay the proper respects, and he wondered how far he should go. After all, he was the president for life. If he wanted to, he could have Rahimi arrested.

  But no, for now, Rahimi was useful, so Ohmshidi decided that, for the time being, he would play the obsequious one. Ohmshidi got down on his knees, bowed so low that his forehead touched the floor, and extended his hands, palm down, also touching the floor.

  “You may rise,” Rahimi said.

  Ohmshidi got up from the floor, and only after Rahimi’s invitation did he take a seat.

  “Where is this man George Gregoire?” Rahimi asked.

  “I don’t know, Imam,” Ohmshidi said. “We have tried to track him, but he moves about, and he broadcasts by Internet.”

  “He must be found, and killed,” Rahimi insisted. “It is people like him, revolutionaries, who are the greatest danger to our position. Offer a reward of one million Moqaddas for his capture. But I want him alive. We must make a public broadcast of his execution.”

  “Yes, Imam. I will make finding this infidel my top priority,” Ohmshidi said.

  Amish country, Pennsylvania

  Solomon Lantz’s buggy was but one of nearly two dozen horse-drawn vehicles going down a long, narrow dirt road that stretched out between flanking fields of corn. Ahead of Solomon, and slightly downhill, lay his farm. To the left was the house, a functional building two stories high, without cupolas or dormers, but with a chimney on each end. In the same compound was a large barn, and several other smaller buildings. There were also two silos. Behind the farm, and rising slightly, were more fields, then a great collection of trees.

  Because of their style of living, the Amish society had suffered the least from the total collapse of what had been the United States. So far, their communities had not been terribly bothered by the Moqaddas Sirata, primarily because they were self-contained, and absolutely nonconfrontational.

  Riding in the buggy with Solomon was an old man with a wrinkled face, a white beard, and white hair. Like Solomon and the other Amish men he was wearing plain clothes, and a small, black hat. But unlike the other men, neither his beard, hair, nor wrinkles were authentic. This was George Gregoire, who, with the artistry of his makeup assistant and the help of Solomon Lantz, was now hiding out in Amish country.

  Through his sources, Gregoire had learned that Jake Lantz, one of the founders and leaders of the new nation of United Free America, had been raised Amish. He had come to Amish country to see what he could learn about him from his father. Then, with Solomon’s cooperation, he decided to hide out here. Only Solomon and Gregoire’s technician and makeup woman knew who Gregoire was. To the other members of the community, he was Solomon’s uncle Jacob Yoder from the Amish community of Arthur, Illinois.

  Gregoire and Solomon had ridden together in total silence for the last thirty minutes.

  “Mr. Lantz,” Gregoire said. “Why is it that you are so quiet?”

  “There is a reason God gave us two ears and one mouth,” Solomon said. “It is because we should listen twice and speak once.”

  Gregoire laughed out loud. “I shall have to remember that,” he said.

  Ahead of them, the buggies came to a complete stop. Beyond the most distant buggy was a rise in the road, and they couldn’t see on the other side.

  “I think there is a roadblock,” Solomon said.

  “I should get off here. I’ve no wish to get you in trouble.”

  Solomon put his hand on Gregoire’s shoulder. “Nein, bleib, ist es in Ordnung.” Then, realizing that he had spoken in German, he translated. “No, stay, it will be all right.”

  When they reached the crest of the hill, they saw two cars with SPS markings, parked in such a way as to force any traffic through their check point. An SPS officer held up his hand to stop the buggy as they approached.

  “Ihren Namen?” the SPS man said.

  “Ich bin Solomon Lantz.”

  “Und Sie?” the guard said to Gregoire.

  “He is my uncle Jacob. Jacob Yoder.”

  “Why can’t he speak for himself?”

  Solomon pointed to his ears. “Er kann nicht horen. He is deaf.”

  The guard stared at Gregoire for a long moment, then stepped back and waved his hand.

  “Go on through,” he said.

  “Danke,” Solomon said, snapping the reins against the back of his horse. The buggy passed through the roadblock without further incident.

  “My son warned me that this would happen,” Solomon said as they drove off. “He came home to see his mother and me a year and a half ago, and he told me to be prepared. I paid no attention to him then. I should have, because he was right.”

  “Your son is a genuine American hero,” Gregoire said.

  “I think he would not be comfortable to have people call him a hero.”

  “Heroes, real heroes, never are c
omfortable with accolades,” Gregoire said.

  Late that afternoon, just before broadcast time, Gregoire was in Solomon’s barn. Here, he had secreted a satellite receiver which would allow him to access the Internet. Here, too, hidden among the bales of hay, was a camera, microphone, and a laptop computer. That was all he needed for broadcast.

  He had two assistants who, like him, were hiding out among the “plain people.” Mark Riley was his cameraman, and Jennie Lea was his makeup artist. He didn’t need any field reporters, because there were still citizens out there who were brave enough to cover events that were newsworthy and against the government, who would put video on the net, for Gregoire to use.

  “We’ve got some good stuff today, George,” Mark said. “Pictures of concentration camps for children.”

  “What? Concentration camps for children? Are you serious?” Gregoire was sitting in a chair as Jennie removed his “old man” makeup, to prepare him for his broadcast.

  “Yeah, wait until you see the pictures,” Mark said.

  Muslimabad

  “Great Leader, it is time for the Gregoire broadcast,” Hassan said, coming into the Oval Office.

  Although the broadcast was over the Internet, Ohmshidi had it linked to his TV, and he picked up the remote, turned on the TV, then leaned back with his feet propped up on the Resolute Desk to watch the broadcast.

  The first thing to come onto the screen were the letters “GGTV.”

  “We are the truth!” Gregoire’s voice shouted over the screen.

  When the intro was done, Gregoire appeared.

  “Hello, America.

  Today I want to show you something that will disturb you to your very core. No, that’s wrong, I don’t want to do this, but I feel I have to do it. Every American needs to know what is happening in this once great country.”