Chris and Kathy had come to Baltimore shortly after he killed Ayambuie. As far as he knew, he wasn’t a suspect for those murders, but caution seemed the best option. He brought Kathy with him because he didn’t want what happened to Margaret to happen to her.
There had been enough canned and packaged food abandoned when Baltimore was evacuated to feed the few thousand who eventually found their way back into the city, so for a while, people subsisted on a “take what you need when you need it” basis. But as the supplies began to dwindle, a commerce system developed where some would leave Baltimore to make purchases out of the city, then bring their purchases back for barter, or sale.
The others in the city sort of naturally fell into occupations they had held before. Carpenters made a good living in refurbishing the houses, mechanics did just as well by putting cars and trucks back into service. Since pork was outlawed throughout the rest of the AIRE, some enterprising men and women were raising pigs . . . and finding a surprisingly large market for pork, which was always marketed as “goat” to customers outside of Baltimore.
There were also the black marketers who bought gasoline within the official economy, then brought it into Baltimore to be used by those who were outside the mainstream of things.
For the first few days after he arrived in Baltimore, Chris was unsure as to just what he would do. He wasn’t a carpenter, or a mechanic. He didn’t have a feel for merchandising, and he certainly wasn’t a farmer. He was a man of action. But whereas the FBI and the CIA had paid him for his contract work, that kind of work was no longer available to him now.
Or was it?
There was no longer an agency around that would pay him for his rather unique work, but there was certainly no reason why he couldn’t go into business for himself.
Not as a contract killer, but as a thief. Because of the new currency, shipments of the Moqaddas bills were being sent everywhere, and those money transfers, as well as the Moqaddas Sirata–compliant banks which controlled all the transactions, were ripe for the picking.
Willie Sutton once answered the question, “Why do you rob banks,” by saying, “Because that’s where the money is.”
Chris chuckled as he thought about that. He had just hit upon how he was going to make a living.
He was going to rob banks.
With Jake Lantz
They left Gulf Shores in two vehicles, a Toyota minivan and a Ford two-ton pickup truck. James had put a false bottom in the bed of the truck, leaving just enough space between the false bottom and the real bottom to have a place to conceal the gold bars. For now, M-4 rifles were concealed in the false bottom. The truck was loaded with cut logs.
Mike Moran was driving the pickup, and Tom was with him. Deon was driving the minivan, and Jake was with him. There were saws and axes in the back of the minivan. Because I-65 was being patrolled, they went up the back roads: 59, then 21, finally joining I-65 at Montgomery. That was where they were stopped for the first time; but at least now, there was nothing to indicate they had come from the “land of the rebellion.”
They were stopped by highway patrolmen, which was good because the highway patrolmen weren’t as dogmatic as the SPS.
“Papers,” one of the patrolmen asked.
Jake took some encouragement from the fact that the patrolman had not greeted him with the “Obey Ohmshidi” salute.
“I’ve got the papers for the two of us in this car, and the two men in the pickup behind me. They’re workin’ for me.”
The patrolman took the papers from Jake’s hand.
“Kind of hot to be standin’ out here all day lookin’ at people’s papers, isn’t it?” Jake asked.
“Yeah,” the patrolman said.
Using Tom’s papers and ID, Bob had duplicated them on the computer so that all four had the “proper credentials.”
“St. Louis? All four of you are from St. Louis?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing down here?”
“We came down here to cut wood for the paper mill up in Wickliffe, KY.”
“This seems like a long way to come to get wood.”
“The wood is cheaper down here.”
The patrolman walked back to the truck and looked inside. It was filled with cut wood.
“All right, you can go,” he said.
They were stopped six more times before they reached Fort Campbell, and their story and papers held up every time.
Because they weren’t driving very fast, and because they were stopped so many times, they spent one night on the road, camping alongside their vehicles. They actually did go to Wickliffe, where they sold their logs.
“I’d like a paper that says you bought the wood from us,” Jake said. “I’ll need to show it to the police when we go back down to Alabama.”
“Alabama? Why did you bring the wood all the way up here to us? You’ve got dozens of paper mills in Alabama. Birmingham, Tuscaloosa, Huntsville—they would have all been closer.”
“I’ve got family in Paducah, thought this would pay for the trip up.”
“All right,” the manager of the paper mill said.
“Say, didn’t this used to be the New Page Corporation?”
“Yeah. But the government owns it now. You have a problem with that?”
“No, why should I? It’s no sweat off my balls,” Jake said. “Whether the government pays me, or New Page, it’s all the same.”
“I thought you might see it that way,” the manager said. He counted out one thousand Moqaddas, then gave Jake a paper validating the sale.
“Thanks,” Jake said. “This will pay for our trip.”
They reached Fort Campbell, or what had been Fort Campbell, later that day, driving down Highway 41 from Hopkinsville, past all the businesses that had, at one time, catered to the soldiers of the 101st Airmobile Division. The businesses, like the fort, were now closed. All the gates into the fort were blocked off, but they were able to get around the barriers at gate 5, then drove onto the main section of the base.
Coming onto an army base again was a nostalgic thing for Jake, who had spent his entire adult life in the army. But there was a sadness in seeing abandoned buildings, weeds growing in areas that were once kept neatly trimmed, and the rusting hulks of military trucks and hummers.
A long, brick wall which once proudly proclaimed Fort Campbell as the home of the 101st Screaming Eagles now had only a few letters remaining.
F t C MP L H E F EO1S E ING GLES
The empty flagpole was rusting and the lanyard was slapping against it.
“Stop the car,” Jake said, and Deon complied. Jake got out of the car and faced the flagpole. Deon, Tom, and Mike got out with him.
“Present arms!” Jake said, and all three men, former U.S. Military, snapped a salute. They held it for a long moment, then Jake said, “Order, arms!” And, with military precision, all four men brought the salute down.
“At ease,” Jake said.
“Were you ever stationed here, Major?” Deon asked. It had been a while since he had called Jake “major,” but it seemed appropriate for the moment.
“I was never stationed here, but I flew in and out of here a few times. What about you?”
“No, sir, I never was,” Deon replied.
“Me neither,” Mike said. “I was at Fort Bragg, but never here.”
“Bob was here,” Jake said.
Deon chuckled. “Yeah, in 1963. You know how long ago that was? That’s over half a century ago.”
“Don’t sell that old man short,” Jake said. “You haven’t forgotten that nifty bit of flying he did back when we first got to Fort Morgan, when there was a group of outlaws who blocked the road, have you? They were going to kill us and take what we had, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. I was riding door gun for that old man.”
“What are you talking about?” Tom asked.
Jake told the story, telling it so vividly that Tom and Mike, who had not been there, could
almost witness it.
“Is that a helicopter I hear?” John asked.
“It is, yes,” Jake said. “I hear it, but I don’t see it.”
“It’s close,” John said. “Look, they hear it too.” John pointed to the men who were standing by the barricade. They could be seen searching the sky and talking to each other, obviously looking for the helicopter.
Suddenly a Huey popped up just over the roof of the houses along the beach. “Damn! That’s our Huey!” John said. “Who the hell is flying it?”
Jake laughed. “It has to be Bob,” he said.
The helicopter did a quick pass by the barricade, and Jake saw an arrow streaming down.
“What the hell? He’s shooting arrows at them?”
There was a loud explosion where the arrow hit, the blast big enough to throw several of the refrigerators around.
Jake laughed out loud. “C-4!” he said. “They’ve put C-4 on the arrows!”
The helicopter made another pass. This time Jake and John could see tracer bullets coming from the cargo door. There was also a second arrow fired, and another explosion.
Some of the men at the refrigerator barricade started shooting back at the helicopter, but the M-240 in the cargo door of the Huey was too much for them, and those who weren’t killed began running. The Huey chased down the runners, and fired again, until the area was completely cleared of any would-be bandits.
“That old man can handle it, can’t he?” John said.
“Patriots one, this is Goodnature, do you copy?”
“Goodnature?” Jake replied.
“It was my call sign in Vietnam. I figured I may as well use it again,” Bob said.1
“It had probably been forty years, at least, since he’d flown, but he handled that Huey like he had just stepped out of it the day before,” Jake said, finishing the story.
“I’m not surprised at all,” Tom said. “I’ve learned to take the measure of a man pretty quickly, and Bob Varney rates high in my book.”
“This place is spooky,” Deon said.
A freshening breeze blew up, and bits of trash, itself an incongruous sight on a military base, whipped by.
“Listen,” Jake said. “Do you hear that? Sounds like a distant bugle.”
The others listened, and sure enough, they could hear a high-pitched hum. It was Mike who pointed out that it was the wind passing through a gutter.
“All right, Tom, take us to the gold,” Jake said, and the four men got back into the two vehicles, but this time Tom was driving the minivan, and Deon was following behind, in the truck.
They drove by the golf course, by the building that was, at one time, the Fort Campbell Officers’ Open Mess, then down a narrow blacktop road until they reached a fenced-in area.
UNAUTHORIZED PERSONS
NOT ALLOWED
BEYOND THIS POINT
The sign was still legible, though kudzu vine had nearly taken it over, as it had taken over the high chain-link fence itself. The gate was open and off the top hinge, so that it was hanging at an angle. When they drove through they saw several bunkers, the mounds overgrown with weeds.
Jake had been concerned as to how hard it would be to get into the bunker when they got there, but he saw that the doors to all the bunkers were missing.
“That’s good,” Jake said. “We won’t have any trouble getting in.”
“I’m sure all the bunkers have been gone through, and cleaned out of anything they might have held,” Tom said. “I just hope . . .”
Tom didn’t have to finish his comment, because Jake knew exactly what he was about to say.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I hope so as well.”
“There it is,” Tom said, pointing.
“You’re sure that’s the one? They all look alike to me.”
Tom chuckled. “I’m not likely to forget where I hid forty million dollars, now, am I?”
They stopped in front, then got out of the car. Deon and Mike got out of the truck.
“Deon, you and Mike get your weapons and stand by. I haven’t seen anyone, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“Roger that,” Deon said, and walking to the back of the truck, he opened the panel that let him reach between the floors, and pulled out a couple of M-4 rifles that had been secreted there.
“All right,” Tom said. “Let’s see if anyone has been here.”
To provide light, Tom took a Coleman lantern inside, lit it, and set it on the side of the bunker opposite the wall where he had hid the gold. He and Jake then took axes into the bunker. Tom blew on his hands, rubbed them together, and swung the first blow.
Outside Deon and Mike could hear the steady thump of the axes from within the bunker.
“Damn, I hope this isn’t all for nothing,” Deon said.
“Yeah, you and me . . . Hold it,” he said. He stuck his head in through the open door of the bunker. “Jake, someone’s comin’!”
Tom and Jake started back outside, but Jake stopped him. “Wait,” he said. “They’re going to want to know what we’re doing in here. Grab up some of that sheet lead we’ve pulled down, and take it outside.
Jake and Tom, each carrying a piece of sheet lead, stepped outside.
“Deon, Mike, get behind the bunker and keep them covered. I’ll try and talk us out of it. If things start to go south, open up.”
“Right,” Deon said, and he and Mike moved quickly to get behind the bunker, managing to get out of sight before the car arrived. When the car stopped, four men got out. Jake was relieved to see that they weren’t SPS, but were local police.
“What are you two doing here?” one of them asked.
“Obey Ohmshidi!” Jake said, and he and Tom gave the salute.
“Obey Ohmshidi,” the policeman said. “I’m going to ask you again. What are you doing here?”
“We’re stripping lead off the walls of the bunkers. We can get three Moqaddas per pound back in Nashville. And it doesn’t take that much lead to make money. I figure, if we strip down all these bunkers, we’ll likely come up with a thousand pounds. That’s three thousand Moqaddas!”
“What makes you think you can just come in here and start stealing this lead?”
“Imam Malik gave us permission,” Jake said.
The policeman had a look of confusion on his face. “Who is Imam Malik?”
“What? You don’t know who the blessed Imam Malik is? He has been appointed by the Great Leader as the caliph of all abandoned military bases. I can’t believe you don’t know who he is.” Jake pulled out his cell phone, punched in a few numbers, then held it to his ear. He waited for a moment, then began talking.
“Obey Ohmshidi, oh noble Caliph. The peace of Allah be upon you. This is your humble servant, Jake Lantz. We are removing the lead as you requested, Imam, but some men have stopped us. I don’t know, I’ll ask.”
“What is your authority for stopping us,” Jake asked. Then, before the policeman could answer, he put the phone back to his ear. “What’s that? You want to speak to their leader? I’ll ask.”
“Who is your leader? The Imam wants to talk to him.”
“I . . . uh . . . that’s all right,” the policeman said, holding up his hand. “You go right ahead.”
“Imam, they have said that we can continue to strip the lead. Oh, wait.”
“The imam wants to know if he has to personally give you the order.”
“No, no, that isn’t necessary,” the policeman said. “Tell the Imam, I wish Allah’s blessings upon him, I don’t wish to disturb someone as important as he is. We’ll be going now.”
“Obey Ohmshidi,” Jake repeated, saluting again. This time all four police responded with the salute. Then, they got back into the car and drove away.
“Ha!” Tom said as they watched the dust swirl up from behind the car as it headed, quickly, for the gate to the compound. “Who did you actually call?”
“Nobody,” Jake replied with a chuckle. “I just poked in a few
numbers. I didn’t hit ‘send.’”
“Remind me never to play poker with you. That’s as cool a bluff as I’ve ever seen run.”
Deon and Mike were laughing as well, when they came back around front.
“Okay, let’s get the gold,” he said.
It took another fifteen minutes of chopping before Tom let out a triumphant shout.
“There it is!” he said. “There’s the first gold bar!”
Less than one hour after they found the first gold bar, they had every bar out, and safely tucked away between the floors of the truck. It was late afternoon when they drove back out through gate 5, then turned south on 41 for the long drive back home. This time, though, their cargo wasn’t wood, it was gold. Tom and Deon were in the truck, Jake and Mike were following behind.
“I’ve been doing some figuring,” Mike said. “As near as I can figure, we have about fifty five million Euros here.”
“Fifty five million,” Jake said. He nodded. “I think we’ll be able to get our economy going with that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Fort Morgan
“For the time being, I don’t think we should let anyone beyond out little group here know about the gold,” Bob said when Jake and the others returned with the truck.
“Where will we keep it?” Deon asked.
“We’ll make a vault here, in the fort, and keep it there,” Bob said. “I’m sure James can build us a place for it.”
“What we have to do now, is establish an exchange system, and issue our own currency,” Jake said. “But I admit, I’m not sure how to go about that.”
“I don’t see it as any problem. We did it in the army with MPCs,” Bob said. “We could use that as our guide.”
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