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  The images on the screen were of a Youth Confinement and Enlightenment Center. After showing the barracks and the razor wire, the video switched to a figure in a burqa, whose age couldn’t be determined, since all that could be seen was the burqa. The girl was led up to a post that stood in the middle of the camp. She was secured to the post by handcuffs. Then a man, wielding a bullwhip, gave her twenty lashes.

  “We are told this is a twelve-year-old girl,” Gregoire’s voiceover explained. “You may wonder what heinous crime this young girl committed, that would subject her to such brutal punishment.”

  The picture came back to Gregoire who stood there for a long moment, just staring at the camera as his eyes glistened with tears.

  “Her crime,” he started, then his voice broke, and he had to start again. “Her crime was reading a novel.” Gregoire shook his head. “What have we become?” he asked, as he dabbed at his eyes. “What have we become?”

  “How did he get those pictures?” Ohmshidi asked.

  “I don’t know, Great Leader.”

  “I want you to find that man,” Ohmshidi ordered. “I don’t care what it takes, I want him found, and I want him brought to me.”

  “Yes, Great Leader,” Hassan replied. “I will give the order to National Leader Franken. I’m sure he will use the Janissaries for this.”

  Youth Confinement and Enlightenment Center 251

  Eddie Manning and his girlfriend, Jane, had been at YCEC 251 six weeks, but he still had not been able to locate her. He took some comfort in realizing that, while he couldn’t identify her because she was always totally covered from head to toe, she would be able to identify him.

  Of course, even if she could identify him, she couldn’t communicate with him, because they had been warned that communication of any kind between the boys and girls of the camp would result in punishment of the strictest kind. And of course they had already seen an example of punishment of the strictest kind, when Jarvis Morris’s body was pulled apart.

  Then one day as the girls were passing by, one of them stopped, and stared directly at Eddie. Neither she nor Eddie spoke a word, but Eddie knew that she had just made contact with him. He saw her waving her hand, slightly, and when he looked toward it, she had her hand formed into a fist except for the index and little fingers which were extended.

  Eddie smiled, because he knew that she had just told him how she would identify herself from now on.

  As Jane continued on toward the morning class, she was feeling good about the fact that she had finally been able to make contact with Eddie. She wished she could speak to him, but she was afraid that if they were caught speaking, Eddie might receive the same punishment they had given Jarvis Morris. She and several others, boys and girls, had thrown up in horror over the sight.

  This morning the lesson they would be learning was entitled: “A woman’s role in the Islam of Moqaddas Sirata.”

  The teacher, a tall, bearded man, began to speak. “The Prophet has commanded that any statement made by a female can only be considered valid if it is the testimony of two women. That is so as to be sure that they remember, because it takes the mind and memory of two women to be equal to the mind and memory of one man.

  “The Prophet has said, ‘The righteous among the women of Quraish are those who are kind to their young ones and who look after their husband’s property.’ When you are married, you will be the property of your husband.

  “You may legally belong to a man in one of two ways; by continuing marriage or temporary marriage. In the first, the duration of the marriage need not be specified; in the latter, it must be stipulated, for example, that it is for a period of an hour, a day, a month, a year, or more.”

  “Imam,” one of the girls asked. “What if the woman does not want to be married for an hour, but wants a husband for life?”

  “It is not the woman’s prerogative,” the imam replied. “For in each case, these arrangements are always made by the man, for the woman shall have no say in the matter.”

  “But Imam, if the woman is married but an hour, is she not committing the sin of adultery?”

  “Yes, for it is adulterous for a woman to have sex with a man if she is not married to him.”

  “But you said it would be a marriage of one hour.”

  “It is only called a marriage so that the man does not commit adultery. But it is a marriage for the man only, not for the woman. He is innocent of any sin, but the woman is not.”

  “That doesn’t seem right for the woman.”

  “It doesn’t matter, for women have no rights, only obligations.”

  The expression in the imam’s voice indicated that he was getting irritated by the repeated questions, and Jane wished that the girl who was asking the questions would stop.

  Mercifully, she did stop, and the imam continued with his lesson.

  “A man may marry a girl younger than nine years of age, even if the girl is still a baby being breast-fed. A man, however, is prohibited from having intercourse with a girl younger than nine, though other sexual acts such as foreplay, rubbing, kissing, and sodomy are allowed.”

  “Imam,” another of the girls asked. “What is the punishment for a man who has intercourse with a girl younger than nine?”

  “There is no punishment, for a man having intercourse with a girl younger than nine years of age has not committed a crime, but only an infraction. For that, he shall be verbally admonished.

  “While you are here, you may be approached by one of the men who are on the staff. If he wishes to take you as a wife, whether by continuing or temporary marriage, you must obey.”

  “But, Imam, what if we don’t wish to marry the man?” one of the older girls asked.

  The instructor shook his head. “It does not matter what you wish. You will have no say. You are to be totally subservient to the man.”

  “But you said that to do so, would mean that we are committing adultery,” the girl who had been questioning him earlier said.

  “That is true.”

  “But, if we commit adultery, won’t we be punished?”

  “Severely.”

  “So, we are damned if we do, and damned if we don’t,” one of the oldest girls said.

  The Imam looked at her with cold, hard, flinty eyes, then without saying a word he walked over to her and slapped her so hard that she was knocked out of the chair. The veil came off her face.

  “Cover your face, harlot!” the imam said, angrily.

  The girl was too shaken and frightened to cover her own face, so one of the other girls, who had been sitting close to her, put the veil back in place.

  “I will not tolerate swearing,” the imam said. “This harlot should praise Allah that I am in a benevolent mood. Had I not been, she would have been tied to the stake and beaten.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Pleasure Island

  By the time Mike Moran reached South Alabama, a pontoon bridge had been constructed across the canal, and over to the island. There was a huge sign just north of the canal, and Mike read it.

  STOP!!!

  If you have come to join us

  you will be required to pull

  your own weight. We can use

  carpenters, electricians, plumbers

  engine and vehicle mechanics,

  as well as farmers, doctors, nurses,

  and those with military experience.

  If you meet that criteria and seek

  freedom among us, you are welcome.

  If you have come to live off the toil of

  others, you are not welcome.

  —Robert Varney, President

  Mike had come to Gulf Shores because he knew about the movement here, having picked it up over shortwave radio broadcasts and Gregoire’s Internet television shows. He had ditched the stretch limousine soon after he stole the three million Moqaddas, but the car he was in now, a 2011 Volvo, ran on gasoline, not wood gasification, so that alone would be enough to garner the attention of o
thers as soon as he came on the island.

  Mike had spent some time on Pleasure Island back before the collapse of the United States, so he knew the place fairly well. Assuming that governing offices of the island would be in the old police station building, he went there.

  “No, if you are looking for Bob Varney, you are going to have to go all the way out to Fort Morgan. What used to be the fort museum is now the president’s office,” he was told.

  “How far is that?”

  “Twenty-three miles.”

  “I have enough fuel to drive out there, but won’t have enough to drive back. I don’t suppose there is any gasoline available on the island, is there?”

  “No, but if you have enough to get out there, either James or Marcus can convert your car to take natural gas. We’ve got a lot of that.”

  “Really?” Mike replied with a smile. “Damn, that’s great! I thought I was going to have to give up my car.”

  Mike knew exactly where the fort museum was, because the last time he had come down to the island, he and his wife had gone out to visit the fort. He recalled that visit now, remembering with sweet sadness the happier time, before Ohmshidi had brought about the collapse of the republic, and before his wife had been murdered.

  Mike blamed Ohmshidi for her death, even though neither he, nor any of his State Police goons, were directly involved. She had been killed because she was carrying a loaf of bread. The fact that the world had so collapsed around them that a woman could be killed for a loaf of bread was, Mike believed, the cause and effect of Ohmshidi’s disastrous policies. What Mike didn’t know was whether the destruction of the greatest nation in the history of humankind was the result of Ohmshidi’s incompetence, or if he had brought this about by some grand scheme.

  When Mike pulled his Volvo to a stop in front of what had been the office and museum of Fort Morgan, there was someone standing out front, watching him. The man out front was wearing a shoulder holster, and Mike recognized the pistol as a P-38, nine millimeter.

  “Can I help you, Mister?” the man asked.

  “I’m here to see President Varney.”

  “He’s inside.”

  Mike reached back into his car and pulled out a briefcase.

  “Hold it. What have you got in there?” the armed man called.

  Mike opened the briefcase, then turned it upside down over the hood of his car. What tumbled out from the case were several bound packets of Ohmshidi notes.

  “Holy crap! What is that?”

  “That, my friend, is three million Moqaddas in negotiable currency.”

  “What do you plan to do with it?”

  “I plan to give it to the treasury of the new nation of United Free America.”

  The armed man came over to Mike then and extended his hand. “The name is Marcus Warner. Welcome to United Free America.”

  “You want to help me put this back in the case?” Mike asked as he started scooping up the money.

  It took but a moment until all the money was back in the briefcase, then Marcus opened the door and led Mike inside.

  Bob was sitting at a desk, tapping on a computer keyboard.

  “Writin’ another story?” Marcus asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if you can pull yourself away from it for a minute or two, I think this fella—”

  Marcus realized then that he hadn’t gotten the name and he turned toward him.

  “Mike Moran.”

  “Mr. Moran, this is Bob Varney. He’s our president. Bob, I think Mr. Moran has something you will be interested in.”

  “All right,” Bob said, looking expectantly toward Mike.

  Again, Mike opened his valise and turned it upside down. This time the money tumbled down onto Bob’s desk.

  “There’s three million Moqaddas here,” Mike said. “Use it however you need it. I’ve come to join up.”

  Bob chuckled. “Well, I’d say you just bought your way into our little group.”

  “You know what we should do,” Bob said later, as he, Jake, Tom, and some of the others were talking. “We should gather up every Moqaddas on the island, then use it to buy gold. If we have gold to back it, we can issue our own currency.”

  “Damn,” Jake said. “That is a good idea.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Tom said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Instead of buying gold from Ohmshidi’s government, why don’t we just take it?”

  “Take it from whom?”

  “Take it from Ohmshidi.”

  “Hah. Yeah, right,” Jake said. “We just go to Fort Knox and take it. Do you have any idea how that gold is stored?”

  “Yes,” Tom replied. “It’s in a two-story building constructed of granite, steel, and concrete. Its exterior dimensions measure 105 feet by 121 feet. Its height is forty-two feet above ground level. Within the building is a two-level steel and concrete vault that is divided into compartments. The vault door weighs more than twenty tons. The vault casing is constructed of steel plates, steel I-beams, and steel cylinders laced with hoop bands and encased in concrete.”

  “What the hell?” Jake said. “How do you know all that?”

  “When everything started going south, I was detailed by the U.S. Navy to take a shipment of gold there.”

  “How much gold did you take?” Bob asked.

  “I took seventy-two bars.”

  “Whoa! Seventy-two bars? How much is that?”

  “Two thousand pounds”

  “Two thousand pounds, times sixteen ounces, that’s what? Thirty-two thousand ounces?”

  “No, it’s times twelve,” Tom said.

  “What do you mean, times twelve? There’s sixteen ounces in a pound.”

  “No, Tom’s right,” Bob said. “You measure precious metals in troy ounces, and that’s twelve ounces to the pound.”

  “All right, so it’s twenty-four thousand ounces. That’s still a hell of a lot of ounces. How much money is that?”

  “At the time I took the shipment, it was worth in the neighborhood of forty million.”

  Jake chuckled. “Yes, I’d say that forty million was a pretty damn good neighborhood. But the gold is up at Fort Knox in that building you just described, so I don’t see . . .”

  Tom smiled, and held up a finger. “Ah, but you see, the gold I’m talking about isn’t at Fort Knox.”

  “What? What do you mean, it isn’t? You just said that you took it there.”

  “No, I said I was detailed to take it there. But before I even left San Diego, I saw the writing on the wall. I knew the country was going to hell in a basket, and I thought it might be nice to know how to get my hands on forty million dollars at some future time. So I didn’t take it to Knox. I took it to Fort Campbell.”

  “Fort Campbell? What’s at Fort Campbell?” Jake asked.

  “Damn!” Bob said. “I know what’s there. At least, I know what was there in 1963, when I was stationed there. There was a secret Navy weapons storage facility there . . . just south of the officers’ club.”

  “You mean when there were still officers’ clubs,” Jake said. “They closed all the O clubs, even before Ohmshidi was elected.”

  Tom smiled. “I know the building he’s talking about though. It’s still there, even though it was no longer an officers’ club. And you’ve got it. The gold is at that Navy facility in an empty weapons bunker.”

  “What makes you think it’s still there?” Bob asked.

  “Well, of course I don’t know for sure, but I would be willing to bet it is. I pulled out a board at the top of the wall and dropped the bullion bars down in between the wall and the lead sheet that lines the bunker, and I replaced the board. It’s not likely anyone would just stumble across it, unless they pulled the bunker apart. And there’s no reason for anyone to do that. Except for the gold, there’s absolutely nothing of value in any of the bunkers.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t do that alone,” Jake said. “What about the men who w
ere with you? What makes you think they didn’t go back for it?”

  “There were only two with me that day, and they’re both dead,” Tom said. “One of them was killed in a car wreck. The other committed suicide.”

  “Why haven’t you gone back for it?” Bob asked.

  “It’s not that easy for one person to get rid of a bullion bar. That’s 27.5 pounds, which was worth about half a million dollars when we moved it. Then, right after the country collapsed, gold wasn’t worth much. If you recall, for a while there, we were strictly on the barter system. To be honest with you, I don’t know how much it would be worth for us to have it now.”

  “If we had gold here, we could issue our own currency, backed by the gold,” Bob said. “And that gold would secure our currency in foreign exchange, and that would make our money viable. We wouldn’t have to depend on Moqaddas anymore.”

  “Well then,” Tom said, smiling, and rubbing his hands together. “What do you say we go get it?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Baltimore

  Baltimore had been leveled by the nuclear bomb and was pretty much a wasteland, totally flattened for a distance of a mile in every direction from where the blast was detonated. The damage was severe for up to two miles away, and there was considerable damage for as far as five miles away.

  Many of those who survived the initial blast subsequently died of radiation sickness, and those who were not, evacuated. As a result, there were many homes, otherwise totally intact, that were empty in the city.

  There was no governmental control of Baltimore, because the SPS and other government officials feared the radiation, even though the amount of radiation had now dropped to below the danger level. That meant that the empty homes were quickly filling with those who were avoiding the government, from those who were here as an act of conscience, to the petty thief, to the murderer.

  Technically, Chris assumed that he was in the latter category. He had just killed six people, including Justice Ayambuie and the two clerics who were with him in the car. But he didn’t consider that murder, any more than he considered the “with extreme prejudice” jobs he had taken for the FBI or the CIA in the “before time” to have been murder.