After America ww-2

by John Birmingham

  "In my smaller pack, over by the ugly coffee table," he answered as he methodically opened and closed a line of drawers in a blond wood sideboard on top of which sat an enormous flat panel television. "Hot damn! Check this out."

  Jules expected to find him holding up a new gun or perhaps even chicken in a can but was genuinely surprised to find him standing there patting what looked like a Viking helmet on his head.

  "Pretty sweet, huh? There's nothing a Rhino likes more than extra horns."

  She refused to bite. "Just try the kitchen drawers if you're looking for something to write with," she suggested. "Even the rich write notes to themselves." As she fetched the energy bars, Jules marveled that he called his ruck a small pack. It was large enough to serve her as a full-size backpack.

  The Rhino left the ridiculous helmet on his enormous head, where, unfortunately, it fit perfectly. He picked up his mug of chocolate as he walked past.

  "I've never asked you," said Jules. "Are you going to take an up-front fee from Rubin when we get back-"

  "If we get back," he corrected, finding a marker in the first drawer he tried.

  "Of course. How very Pollyanna of me. So if we get back. An up-front fee or the equity deal?"

  The Rhino stopped by the end of the island bench to sip his drink and consider her question. He actually scratched one of the giant protuberant cow's horns on his newfound head gear as he did so.

  "Well, I have done some thinking on that, Miss Jules, I must admit. The prospect of a straight-up payday does appeal. I could set myself up in fine style with a quarter million new bucks. Finding a boat's no problem at all, of course. There's plenty of them lying around with no owners to lay claim. But manning them, provisioning, fuel oil, it all adds up. A payday would be mighty useful."

  Julianne took a few experimental sips of her own drink. It wasn't too bad, and she was desperately hungry. "You couldn't be thinking of going back into the charter business, surely? There's no market for it."

  "No," he agreed as the rumble of an especially large explosion rolled over the building. "I was thinking more in terms of a small trader, you know, zipping around the islands, maybe even down south to some of the secured ports. Old Roberto is a murderous thug, but he does run a tight ship down there in the federation now, and he's looking to do business. Coffee. Cocoa…" He held up the steaming cup. "Even sugar from the Caribbean. They're all paying well now."

  "That's all?" she asked skeptically. "You wouldn't be tempted to run a little marching powder up the coast?"

  He looked truly offended at the suggestion.

  "Miss Jules, I was a career coast guard man! My whole life was about chasing bad guys, not being one."

  "Rhino. You're a smuggler now. A people smuggler for a year after the Wave. Contraband and zone runner ever since."

  He blew her off with a flip of one hand.

  "Bullshit. I might be bending the odd law here and there, but I'm doing what's right. Those rich assholes we got out of Acapulco, yeah, they were rich and kind of assholey, but that didn't mean they had to die there, and that's what would have happened. And Miguel and his family, they were good folks who just needed a break. We gave them one. As for Rubin, the man says he owns a chunk of that oil field off Sonoma. Says he has the papers to prove it. Half a dozen fucking foreign oil companies say he doesn't. You know what I think? I think he does and they're just trying to frighten him off the claim, keep it for themselves. So sure, I'm breaking the law going into a zone without the exact right papers and passes signed and stamped in triplicate, but goddamn, this is still the United States, and I will go where I please, and I will be ass fucked by rabid monkeys before I stand by and let a little guy get bullied out of what's his by a bunch of giant foreign oil firms."

  Jules was smirking by the time he'd finished his small speech, unsure whether he was kidding or if indeed he might have convinced himself of his own rectitude and heroic status. She moved around from behind the granite-topped island bench and into the living area to retrieve one of the energy bars.

  "So, seriously," she said. "Will you be taking the quarter million up front? Or a share of the Sonoma field? And before you answer, you should know I cannot take seriously anything you say while you are wearing that ridiculous helmet."

  24

  New York In another era, perhaps he would have held his council in a grand war tent, sitting on fine pillows and handwoven rugs. Instead, the emir made war from a third-floor office in an anonymous building in the midtown region of Manhattan. He was of course more familiar with this sort of environment than he was with grand war tents or the stony deserts in which the Prophet had pitched them when he first brought the word of God to the heathen tribesmen of Arabia, but he found it hard to romanticize the image of a holy war generaled from the entirely unromantic command post of some dead heathen's windowless office. Perhaps it would help if it were not all going so badly.

  The emir, surrounded by his most trusted lieutenants, leaned over the huge map of Manhattan that had been spread out on the dead man's cheap chipboard desk. From where he stood, with his knuckles resting on the New Jersey Turnpike and the upper reaches of Central Park, he could see a broken photo frame lying on the floor in the corner of the office. A pretty blond woman and two children dressed in cowboy outfits smiled out from behind the shattered glass, presumably the family of the man who had worked in this office.

  The photograph reminded the emir that this was not a simple blood feud with an old foe. It was certainly that, but even more it was now a struggle to claim a new homeland for those who had survived the Second Holocaust. Many of his warriors had brought their families with them not because they wanted to but because there was nowhere left for them in the old world. This was especially true of those who had been forced from Great Britain.

  Fortunately, their families seemed to be safe for the moment. He had worried privately that the Americans might bomb the makeshift villages they had established for the women and children, but for the moment they seemed to have gone undetected. It was, after all, a very large and empty land these days.

  As he examined the map again, he wasn't sure if they'd be safe much longer.

  "It may have been best had we waited and stuck to our original schedule," he thought out loud.

  "No," insisted Abu Dujana, the Indonesian, one of the few who had come without his kin. "It was a rare opportunity to cut off the head of the taipan, and you were right to strike when you did. We all agreed then, as we all agree now."

  Dujana looked at each man in turn, searching their eyes with his own for any sign of disagreement. But there was none. The emir had consulted with each of them and sought their counsel sincerely before making the decision to bring forward their attack when they learned that President Kipper would be in New York.

  "Are we not told by the Prophet himself to fight and kill the disbelievers wherever we find them?" Dujana asked. "To lie in wait and ambush them using every stratagem of war?" The four men around the table were all intimately familiar with the holy Koran. They nodded in agreement.

  The emir stood up straight, stretching his back and trying to get some distance from the immediate crisis so that he might have time to think, to see a way through. He was young for one to whom such a momentous undertaking had been fated and as fit as any man under his command, but he felt tired and worried. The problem was that unlike the Prophet he was not a military commander and had no pretensions to being one. That was why he surrounded himself with men like Dujana, famed for taking the battle against the Indonesian military dictatorship right up to the gates of the presidential palace. The emir was not burdened with false modesty. He knew that inspiring men, and even women when necessary, was a special talent gifted to him by God. However, to lead men in battle, particularly in an environment such as New York, required a very different set of skills, which he did not possess.

  Amin Bashir, like him a German but unlike him a man experienced in the extremes of urban warfare, pointed to an area of the
map at the southern end of Manhattan. Bashir had brought all of his family with him. Three of his five sons were fighting alongside him, and the emir knew he was willing to sacrifice them all if need be.

  "Such a somber mood does not well suit what we have achieved in this battle," Bashir said. "We do not serve God if we underestimate his enemies. Just like Mohammed and the first converts from Medina, we face a people given to war with a mighty prowess. But they are not invincible. Even before God laid them low they were not invincible. Right here, at this crucial juncture, their arrogance caused them to overreach, and many hundreds of their men were led into slaughter at the hands of mere janissaries. It might seem an evil thing that this Kipper still lives. But how can it be anything but the will of God?"

  The emir and his advisers mumbled assent. What Bashir had said was true, or at least not to be argued with. The emir could not help doubting himself, though. The casualties among the janissaries were very high, and although his own men had suffered commensurately, they were far fewer in number. It could not be long before the leaders of the bandit gangs with whom he had struck an alliance began to question the arrangement. After all, what did it profit a man to have a whole city at his feet if he had no means by which to plunder it? The submarines and warships of many countries already cut into profit margins by boarding or sinking a percentage of treasure ships as they crossed the Atlantic Ocean. Some of them were little better than pirates themselves in his opinion.

  "Amin is correct," he conceded. "It saddens me that Kipper survived our attack, but it is the will of Allah, and to wish it any other way is not just weakness, it is a sin."

  He stood back from the makeshift map table and smiled at his comrades, his friends. The office in which they were gathered was small and looked out on a much larger area in which stood nearly two dozen desks, at least half of them occupied by his officers as they worried away at the details of their particular responsibilities within the widening firestorm engulfing Manhattan. So hastily had they had to move after the Americans targeted the last command post that there had not even been time to properly clear away the remains of those who had died there when Allah's sword swept all life from this continent. The noxious remains had been piled up in a mountain of stiff, blackened clothing over in the far corner. A couple of janissaries had been employed for that work, a fatwa from the grand mufti having declared the remains of the so-called Disappeared to be unclean.

  "I am afraid I have sinned," the emir confessed, quickly raising his hands to forestall any disagreement. "I am sorry, but in trying to strike down Kipper I could not help but see myself holding the spear that pierced the heart of Gordon at Khartoum. A failure of humility on my part and a grave insult to Allah, blessed be his name. It may even be why this pig still lives and why the fight goes so hard."

  The other men looked on somberly, none of them rushing to disagree but all of them looking very uncomfortable.

  "Still, although we have not cut the head off the snake, we have stamped it beneath our boots and, I believe, injured it gravely. Kipper is much weaker now than he was this time last week. He is not a warrior. He does not rush to the fight as we do or even as his soldiers do. And yet he is drawn into this battle unwillingly, halfheartedly. We all know where that path leads."

  Abu Dujana folded his arms and took on a defiant air. "Our onslaught will not be a weak faltering affair," he said, quoting from the Prophet. "We shall fight as long as we live. We will fight until they turn to Islam. We will fight not caring whom we meet. We will fight whether we destroy ancient holdings or achieve hard-won gains. We will mutilate every opponent. We will drive them violently before us at the command of Allah and Islam. We will fight until our religion is established. And we will plunder them, for they must suffer disgrace."

  The emir nodded approvingly, although he did not necessarily see the need to quote chapter and verse at the great length to which Dujana was often given. A simple "Let's kick their fucking asses" would have sufficed. Dujana was a traditionalist, however.

  "And that is how it shall be," he said, smiling at the warrior from Indonesia. "Kipper's survival does not make the Americans stronger; it makes them weaker. He is a weak man without the stomach for war or the strong-arm with which to make it."

  As he spoke, the emir became more confident that what he said was actually true and not merely an empty platitude mouthed for the benefit of his followers. It was true that one could not ask for a better opponent than this president. Such reluctance to fight in a so-called commander in chief was a rare gift to his opponent. It must surely be the will of Allah.

  "The more we draw him in here, the more blood we let, the weaker he will become." He waved away the map of Manhattan lying before them as though it were of no concern at all. "Perhaps if he is weakened enough, this crazy man Blackstone will finally take his Texas Republic away from Seattle and tear this country asunder. That may well be our purpose here, my friends. If we are penitent, if we humble ourselves before God, he may well show us that his design did not end with us leading our armies to the gates of Seattle like Dujana led his men to the palace in Jakarta."

  His Indonesian comrade bowed humbly in acknowledgment of the compliment as the emir continued.

  "Such arrogance is hardly befitting servants of God. But if the Americans turn on each other as the desert Arabs turned on each other in the day of our Prophet, then our work will be done and we will yet bring peace to this land that once dared threaten the House of Peace."

  Dujana and Bashir nodded enthusiastically as though they were students who had suddenly come to understand a difficult mathematical theorem. The fourth man in the room, a great barrel-chested Turk by the name of Ahmet Ozal, folded his massive arms and nodded slowly but had a deep scowl on his face. It looked as though he were examining a deal in which he was almost certain to come off poorly. He had not spoken at all in the meeting, and the emir waited on his reply with some trepidation. Ozal commanded the largest contingent of fedayeen in the city, and his men were by far the best trained, equipped, and led. He was also the man the emir relied on to manage their relationship with the pirate gangs. Although he had pledged his allegiance to the cause and his obedience to the emir, his agreement was not a given. Ahmet Ozal was very much his own man, and he would choose to serve Allah in his own way. After an excruciating half minute, he nodded gravely and finally spoke.

  "You are very wise for one so young, Emir."

  A sly smile stole across his broad, brown face. "It must be the Turkish blood winning out over your German heritage," he said before clapping his hands loudly. "I agree. We must draw the Americans in here and defeat them on their own land, fighting for their own home. If we do that, we will break them here. We will break them everywhere. Then this will become our new home, and it will be a House of Peace."

  The emir smiled, unafraid to show that he was relieved he still had everyone with him. He might not be an expert on urban warfare, but he was an expert on dealing with people, and he knew it was as much a mistake to demand loyalty as it was to expect it unconditionally. He needed these men. Allah needed these men.

  "How goes it with the janissaries?" he asked the Turk. "They have suffered fearful losses and few gains, and unlike us they have no higher cause."

  Ahmet Ozal waved his hand dismissively.

  "For now they fight because the gains are enough. The leaders have been well rewarded with plunder from the other cities, and the fighters themselves are well supplied with strong drink and kif and of course the promise of loot, land, and slaves."

  The emir looked to Dujana, expecting him to protest the use of drink among the janissaries. It was a sticking point with the Indonesian, but for once he remained silent. Perhaps with the balance of the battle so delicately poised he was willing to contemplate a loosening of his rigid doctrinal standards for even a small tactical advantage. The bandits did fight with much greater ferocity and abandon when their minds were inflamed with drugs. The emir was not sure it made them a more effect
ive tool of war, but if it kept them running at the American lines, wearing down their numbers with the sheer relentlessness of their attacks, it could not be a bad thing. Especially not if it meant that when the time came to reconsider their truce with the bandit leaders, the janissaries were much weakened.

  He was about to bend himself to the task of disentangling the mess of differently colored squiggle lines and saif designations on the big map in front of him when a commotion in the outer office drew his attention. Two of the janissary guards were manhandling a small African boy toward the door. The emir did not recognize him, but he had the look of a street fighter about him, and from the filthy scarf around his neck he was obviously fedayeen, even if only a lowly spear carrier in one of the saif. The boy was struggling fiercely and seemed very distressed. Bashir and Dujana looked unconcerned, but Ahmet Ozal glowered furiously at the scene before turning his back on the map table and stalking out into the main room.

  "What the hell is going on here?" he roared. "This boy fights with one of my saif. Let him go now."

  The janissaries seemed unsure what to do. They obviously had a reason for detaining the boy, and they looked to the emir to resolve the dilemma. They were charged with securing this office, and the boy had no good reason that the emir could see for being in there. But Ozal was fiercely protective of his men, and they were fiercely loyal to him. The emir smiled as warmly as he could at the two guards while waving them away and indicating to the young one that he should come forward.

  "What is your name, boy? And whose saif do you fight with?"

  Ozal frowned and answered for him. "I do not know his name, Emir. But from his keffiyeh I'd say he fought with Mustafa Ali on Ellis Island."

  A hush fell across the room as the boy came forward. He looked frightened but also angry. When he spoke, it was in slow halting English rather than Arabic, which told the emir that he was probably a recent convert who was still learning the language of the fedayeen. The fact that he was fighting in Manhattan, however, marked him out as someone with some skill and experience of at least township war and possibly full-blown urban conflict. Possibly more so than the emir himself could boast.