Firebase Freedom

by William W. Johnstone

  The customer who had been at the teller’s window was just leaving as Chris and the bank president came back into the lobby.

  “Teller,” Chris said, throwing a cloth bag across the counter. “Would you be so kind as to fill that bag with money, then bring it to me?”

  “What?”

  “Please do as he says,” the bank president said.

  “He is holding a gun on me.”

  “But there are no guns. They’ve all been confiscated,” the teller insisted.

  Chris smiled, and held the gun up for the teller to see. “You mean I was supposed to turn this gun in? Hmm, I didn’t. Do you think that means I’m in trouble?”

  “I . . . I . . . Mr. Jones . . .”

  “It is Rashad,” the bank president corrected.

  “Yes, Mr. Rashad, what should I do?”

  “Do as I told you, man! Fill this gentleman’s bag with money.”

  “Ah, you called me a gentleman. How nice of you,” Chris said. He waved the gun toward the teller who was still just standing there. “Do hurry, won’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” the teller replied, as, with shaking hands, he began emptying the cash drawer.

  “How much is there?” Chris asked.

  “There’s about fifteen thousand dolla . . . uh, I mean Moqaddas here,” the teller said.

  “Bless your heart, son, you are having a hard time getting into this American Islamic Republic thing too, aren’t you? Fifteen thousand, huh? Well, I don’t want to be greedy. That’s plenty enough money for the moment. You two take care now, you hear?”

  Clutching the bag of money, Chris went outside then hurried over to the car.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  They drove the car, a yellow Ford, less than four blocks from the bank, then turned down an alley. They stopped behind a drugstore and parked the car between a Dumpster and the back wall. From there they walked out to the parking lot and got into a dark green Toyota, Chris getting behind the wheel this time. When they pulled back out onto Main Street, they encountered two police cars speeding to the bank, with lights flashing and sirens honking.

  They drove out of Bel Air without being stopped.

  Glenview, Illinois

  Mustafa al Shammari had gathered ten of his closest and most trusted friends to a meeting at his house.

  “I’ve asked you here for a very special reason, and, having spoken to all of you one on one, I think you already have an idea of what this meeting is about. Before I go on, I want to say that what I am about to propose is very dangerous, and if even one among us is not ready to commit with heart and soul to what I am about to propose, it could mean death to all of us.”

  Mustafa looked into the faces of everyone who had come to the meeting.

  “If there be anyone among you who wishes to leave, do so now, for after this moment, we are all bound by blood.”

  Although the others looked at each other, not one person left.

  “Good. Gentleman, I am proposing that we form a group, which we will call American Scimitars.”

  “That sounds pretty militant, Mustafa,” one of the others, Abdul, said.

  “I intend for it to be militant. I don’t intend to stand by and see the religion that I grew up with, the religion that I love and serve, be hijacked by Ohmshidi and the Moqaddas Sirata. They are not the true Muslim religion. They are apostates who pervert Islam.”

  “If you are making them our enemy, we are taking on quite a task. The last estimate I read was that more than seventy percent of America has converted,” Abdul said.

  “You and I both know those aren’t legitimate conversions,” Mustafa said. “They have converted only to survive, for without a Moqaddas Sirata ID card, you can’t even buy food.”

  “Then who will our enemy be? Will they be the innocent who have been forced to convert in order to survive?”

  “No,” Mustafa replied. “There are enough who are profiting by this evil that we will have a target-rich environment.”

  “I’m ready,” Raboud said. “When do we go?”

  “Tonight. There is a meeting in Waukegan. We’ll pay them a visit.”

  At the Waukegan Mosque of Holy Path, Imam Abdullah was speaking to his followers.

  “There are still Christian churches and Jewish synagogues in Glenview, churches that, by their very existence, are an affront to our religion. I, here and now, issue a fatwah that all churches and synagogues be destroyed. And it is my suggestion that we strike some of the churches now, during Wednesday night prayer service, when the buildings are full of people, because only by inflicting the maximum damage to the apostates, will we be able to get our point across.”

  “But, Imam, before the Holy Path of Ohmshidi, many of us were Christians and we worshiped in those same churches. We have friends there.”

  “How can they be friends, if they have not converted?” Abdullah asked.

  “The imam is right,” one of the others said. “It is our duty to convert all to the holy path, and to kill those who do not convert.”

  Outside the mosque Mustafa and the others of the newly formed group, American Scimitars, waited quietly, with weapons in hand.

  “Are we going to challenge them, Mustafa?” Raboud asked.

  “No. Do you challenge a snake before you kill it? Or do you just kill it?”

  “I understand.”

  “I know I am asking much of you. But to those upon whom it falls to defend the faith, much must be asked.”

  “I will serve the Prophet,” Raboud said.

  Inside the mosque, Abdullah now had his followers whipped into a killing frenzy. “All right,” he said. “We start now. There are cans of gasoline and torches in the back of my pickup truck. We’ll cover all the exits, set fire to the church, and shoot everyone who tries to escape the flames.”

  There were ten at the gathering, counting Imam Abdullah. When they all came out front of the mosque, they were confronted by Mustafa and four others, all of them armed. Abdullah’s men had no time to respond, for as soon as they all exited the mosque, Mustafa and his men opened fire.

  The shooting was loud and sustained as the five men under Mustafa continued shooting. Abdullah’s men jerked and jumped about as the bullets slammed into them.

  Those who lived in houses close to the mosque heard the shooting, loud and insistent, but none of them dared to look outside to see what was going on. Finally the last shot was fired, and the neighborhood grew quiet, save for the barking of a few dogs, and the crying of one or more very young children.

  In the Waukegan Baptist Church the worshipers who were attending Wednesday night prayer service were irritated and concerned by the gunfire that interrupted the preacher’s sermon. They tried to close their minds to it, telling themselves it had no bearing on their lives.

  What they didn’t realize is that the sound of shooting that they found irritating had, in all likelihood, just saved their lives.

  From the Moqaddas Sirata Enlightened Press:

  Bank Robberies

  Two infidel outlaws have carved out a swath of bank robberies from Muslimabad to Philadelphia. One is an excellent shot and has demonstrated that talent on numerous occasions. The other drives the getaway car. So far every bank robbery has been earmarked by the superior gunmanship of the one and the skillful driving of the other.

  Their identities are not known, though the SPS has promised to learn who they are, then to track them down and kill them on sight.

  Imam Abdullah and Faithful Murdered

  The peaceful town of Glenview, Illinois, a Chicago suburb, erupted with gunfire recently when the Imam and nine of his faithful followers were murdered. They had just completed a meeting on how to conduct an outreach program to minister to those who have not yet converted to Moqaddas Sirata. Their peaceful entreaties were met with callous brutality from a group of heretics who have yet to abandon their misguided Christian faith.

  This newspaper advocates the conversion, by force if necessary, of all who h
ave not yet seen the light.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Within two months after the first offshore rig was taken, every remaining rig off Alabama’s coastline had been captured by Jake Lantz and his strike team. As soon as a rig was freed, a work detail was put on board and shortly thereafter a steady supply of natural gas had the electricity flowing and water running all over the island. In addition, automobiles, trucks, and boats on the island were converted to run on CNG, compressed natural gas, so that transportation from one end of the island to the other was no longer a problem.

  Businesses all over the island were opening, and proudly posted signs reading:

  Freedom Dollars Accepted Here

  With fuel for their vehicles, Jake decided it was time to start expanding their base of operations beyond Pleasure Island. Jake, Tom, Deon, and Mike started north in a Dodge Ram extended cab on Highway 59 until they reached Interstate 10. There was very little traffic on I-10, though there were still abandoned cars and trucks along the route.

  This wasn’t just a random trip. Before leaving the island they had coordinated a meeting, by radio, with someone who identified himself as Charley Moore. By code, they chose a rendezvous point in Mobile.

  “Jake, what if this is a setup?” Tom asked as they drove through the tunnel.

  “Why do you ask? Do you have a gut feeling about it?”

  “Not particularly, but I’d hate like hell for us to just drive right into a trap.”

  “What’s your idea?”

  “Drop me off about two blocks before we get there. I’ll walk the rest of the way. If everything is all right, all I’ve done is miss a little conversation. If it is some sort of setup, I might be able to do something about it.”

  “All right. Sounds like a pretty good idea.”

  Jake stopped the truck and Tom got out, then started walking toward the rendezvous point. He saw an SPS car drive by, but the occupants of the car took no notice of him.

  When he reached the meeting point, he saw Jake, Deon, and Mike in conversation with another man.

  “Wait,” Charley Moore said as he saw Tom approaching.

  Jake looked around, then seeing that it was Tom, smiled. “It’s okay,” he said. “That’s Tom Jack, he’s one of us.”

  Moore nodded, and waited until Tom joined them. Introductions were made, then Moore continued. “We want to join you,” Moore said.

  “Who is we? And what do you mean, join us?”

  “We are the people of Mobile. We would like for you to take Mobile and all of Mobile County into United Free America.”

  “How many SPS are here?”

  “There are about forty of them,” Moore said. “And of course, there are the local police, very damn few of whom were policemen in the before time. I’d say there are really no more than two hundred people who sort of lord it over the rest of us.”

  “What about the average citizen of Mobile?”

  “Most of ’em have gone over, but it’s just for the ID card so they can get fuel, and have electricity and water. I doubt there’s one in a thousand that’s really converted.”

  “Do any of them have weapons?”

  “Very damn few,” Moore said. “You folks down there on the island didn’t have to go through it, but one of the very first things the new government did was gather up every gun they could find. There may have been a hundred or so who managed to hide their guns, but, for the most part, the population is completely unarmed.”

  “Yes, well, until we know where everyone stands, we are probably better off that way,” Jake said.

  “I can tell you where they stand. Once we get control back from the SPS and their constabulary, ninety-nine percent of the population will be with us.”

  “We will have to establish a military force immediately. I’m sure that AIRE will try and retake Mobile, but if we mount a strong enough defense to fight them off, they may leave us alone for a while.”

  “You know what? I think we could probably take everything south of I-10 from Pensacola to the Louisiana line. And maybe even push on across Louisiana to Texas,” Moore said.

  “I think you are right. But let’s take Mobile first. Then we’ll spread out.”

  “Roger.”

  The building at 850 Virginia Street had, at one time, housed the offices of the 1st Precinct of the Mobile police department. Today, it, and the other four precincts, had been taken over by the SPS, and all the original components of the station had been taken down. There was no Alabama state flag, nor was there a Stars and Stripes. Photographs of past chiefs and precinct captains had been removed, along with photographs of honored officers from the past. The flag that flew in front of the building was Ohmshidi’s personal banner. The sign that once read “Mobile Police Department” had been replaced by the words “State Protective Service.”

  Jake and Willie Stark, wearing work coveralls and carrying toolboxes, pulled up in front of the station and went in.

  “Here, what are you doing here?” one of the SPS men demanded.

  Willie showed the man a work request. “Your telephones are out.”

  “What do you mean, our phones are out?”

  “How long has it been since you received a call?”

  “I don’t know. But I can assure you . . .” the SPS man picked up the receiver. “Damn, no dial tone.”

  “Like I said, your phones are out.”

  “Well fix them.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Willie said. “Where’s your main junction box?”

  “How the hell do I know? You’re the telephone repairman.”

  “Never mind, I’ll find it.”

  Willie and Jake found the junction box, then Willie opened it, and started working with the wires. He worked for about half an hour, then one of the phones rang.

  “SPS one, Mobile,” one of the SPS officers said.

  “Yes, I know our phone has been out. But, evidently it is repaired now.”

  The SPS officer hung up, then looked over at Willie and Jake. “Looks like you got it fixed.”

  “I need you to sign the work order,” Willie said.

  “What for?”

  “If you don’t sign the work order, we don’t get paid.”

  “All right.” The officer signed the work order.

  Fifteen minutes later Jake and Willie were with the ten men they had put together to form the strike team.

  “Now, no matter who they dial, the call will come to this phone,” Willie said. “And no matter who tries to call them, the call will come to this phone.”

  “What if they use a cell phone?”

  “Same thing, I’ve got a translator outside that will pick up their signal and relay it to this phone.”

  “Good,” Jake said. “That keeps them isolated. We’ll take them down before anyone else in town knows what is going on.”

  Jake took an inventory of their equipment, saying out loud each item. “Two NFDD grenades, two M-249 machine guns, eight M-4 rifles, ten Glock 33, .357 pistols, two thousand rounds of 5.56 ammunition, one hundred rounds of .357.”

  “We’re going with the noise flash diversionary devices first?” Deon asked.

  “Yes. That should get them disoriented enough to give us an early advantage,” Jake replied. “Anyone have any questions?”

  No one responded.

  “All right, men, saddle up,” Jake said.

  “Jake, I suggest that you and the others get as close to the building as you can without being seen. I’ll go in through the front door, deploy the NFDDs, and as soon as they go off, the rest of you come in as fast as you can,” Tom said.

  “All right, but take Deon with you. That way you can get both of the devices deployed at the same time.”

  Deon nodded, then he and Tom stayed back while the men, one at a time, moved into positions behind a long row of shrubbery. When everyone was in position, Tom and Deon, each carrying a pistol in one hand and the NFDD in the other, walked right up to the front door, opened it, and to
ssed in the two noise flash grenades.

  “What the hell?” one of the SPS men shouted.

  The NFDDs went off immediately, making a huge noise and a bright flash of light, though as they weren’t shrapnel producing grenades, the assault team was able to follow up immediately. Willie and Marcus had their M-4s on full automatic. Jake and the others were firing single rounds, carefully selecting their targets.

  There were several SPS inside the building and they returned fire, though the shock and awe of the unexpected attack left them disoriented, and the return fire was ineffective. One by one the SPS men went down, while not one of Jake’s assault team was even hit.

  From behind a desk, less than twenty feet away, another SPS popped up, carrying an AK-47. As he raised it to his shoulders, but before he could shoot, Deon fired his pistol at the SPS. Jake saw a spray of blood coming from the officer’s neck, and, with a surprised look on his face, he dropped his weapon and clutched his throat.

  Deon shot again, this time hitting him in the chest, and the SPS officer went down.

  All firing stopped when there were no more targets. The entire operation was over within less than a minute. The room smelled of gun smoke and blood as at least twelve SPS men lay dead.

  “Check everyone out,” Jake ordered. “But be careful.”

  Jake’s men went from body to body confirming that all were dead.

  There were four more precinct stations in Mobile, and Jake and his assault team took them out one at a time. Prior to each attack Willie had managed to neutralize their communication so that never, at anytime, was a warning flashed ahead. By the end of the day, the city of Mobile was under the complete control of United Free America.

  When the citizens of Mobile turned on their television that night, they were surprised by what they saw. The broadcast started, not with praises to Allah, but with the Stars and Stripes, behind which was playing “The Star Spangled Banner.” When the music ended, and the flag was taken away, there was no bearded man wearing a dishdasha and taqiyah, nor was there some woman in a burqa. What they saw instead was a very pretty young woman in Western dress—and not just any Western dress. She was wearing a low-cut blouse which showed cleavage. Many recognized her as one of the regulars on the Fox News Channel, from before it was shut down, along with all the other national networks.