Firebase Freedom Page 4

  Jews

  Are the Disciples of

  Satan

  St. Louis, Missouri

  It very quickly became known that Reed Franken was the national leader of the SPS, because his pictures became as ubiquitous as those of Ohmshidi. And because the official policy of the Moqaddas Sirata forbade pictures, the fact that Ohmshidi and Franken were the only two photos on public display made them the two most recognized people in the entire nation.

  There was a billboard on Lindbergh Boulevard, which had a picture of Franken, standing with his right arm folded across his chest, his hand clenched into a fist, staring out at the traffic which, because fuel was becoming increasingly available, was beginning to flow again, though not nearly with the intensity of the “before time.”

  The words, in big black letters alongside Franken’s picture, read:

  BE A GOOD CITIZEN

  REPORT YOUR NEIGHBORS

  WHO DO NOT FOLLOW

  THE PATH OF MOQADDAS SIRATA

  LET THIS BE YOUR GREETING

  OBEY OHMSHIDI

  Soon after Franken reconstituted the SPS, he sent his men out across the nation, confiscating guns, Bibles, and the Torah. They also began killing dogs, and enforcing the new law that required greetings be exchanged by making a fist of your right hand, holding it over your heart, and saying; “Obey Ohmshidi.”

  There were some who welcomed the invasion of the SPS because for the first few months after the total collapse, a wave of lawlessness had swept through the nation terrorizing the people. The SPS provided an element of security, albeit a security that deprived people of individual freedoms. Still, for the most part, it was within a person’s power to avoid the wrath of the SPS, simply by following the rules, no matter how personally repugnant those rules might be.

  The SPS men were immediately recognizable because of the forest green uniforms, and the gold SPS letters on their collar, the S’s resembling two lightning bolts, separated by the letter P that looked like a hatchet. They wore the insignia of rank on the epaulets, and a red armband which had Ohmshidi’s personal symbol, the letter “O.” They greeted each other by making a fist of their right hand and clasping across their chest, while saying, “Obey Ohmshidi.” What’s more, they insisted that all citizens adopt that as a greeting.

  The SPS seemed most zealous in enforcing the Religious Liberation Act which, contrary to its name, did not offer religious liberty, but outlawed all religion except for the Moqaddas Sirata of Islam.

  In what everyone was now calling “the before time,” Tom Jack had been a lieutenant commander in the U.S. Navy, a SEAL who had been involved in many combat operations. When the U.S. military disbanded, Tom, and tens of thousands of other career soldiers, sailors, and airmen, were forced out of service. Returning to his home town of St. Louis, he had earned a living by providing security for people, protecting them against roving bands of thieves. He also fished in the Mississippi, Missouri, and Merrimac rivers, and hunted deer and rabbit out in St. Louis County. And because in the beginning money was worthless, Tom supported himself and his wife, Sheri, on the barter system.

  New money had now been introduced and it was gradually beginning to be a viable instrument of trade; though for gasoline, electricity, and water, money wasn’t enough. An identity card was also necessary, and in order to obtain the card one had to swear personal allegiance to Ohmshidi—and that, Tom wouldn’t do. Inevitably a black market developed, and it was through the black market that Tom was able to provide the necessities of life, though he hated assigning any value to a currency that had Ohmshidi’s face on every denomination.

  In addition, Tom’s private security service was becoming more difficult to maintain, as the SPS was not only providing its own brand of security, but also closing down any private company they felt was in competition with them, including detective agencies, bodyguards, and security companies.

  Despite the Religious Liberation Act, many churches across the country continued to conduct regular services, doing so in open and defiant violation of that law. One such church was a Catholic church in St. Louis, and the announcement board in front of it read:

  Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.

  The fact that there was no longer a constitution, or a congress, did nothing to lessen the impact of the statement, and on this particular Sunday morning, the priest, in liturgical garb, was standing in front of the church, welcoming the few parishioners who were brave enough to attend the service.

  Tom and Sheri Jack were not parishioners, but by coincidence they were at this particular moment standing on the corner in front of the church, waiting at a bus stop.

  Suddenly two motorcycles turned off the road and up onto the sidewalk.

  “What are those crazy people doing up on the sidewalk?” Sheri asked. “That’s not very smart.”

  The bikers were wearing the forest green uniforms of the State Protective Service.

  “Look at their uniforms. They’re SPS, that should answer your question,” Tom replied. “Nobody has ever accused any SPS person of being smart.”

  Suddenly the two riders opened their throttles to full and came roaring up the sidewalk toward the church.

  “Tom!” Sheri shouted.

  Tom grabbed Sheri and pulled her out into the street just in time to avoid being hit by the roaring motorcycles. They watched as the motorcycles headed for the church, then they heard the sound of gunfire, even above the noise of the engines.

  Not only did the priest go down, but so did several of the parishioners who were standing nearby. The motorcyclists went to the far end of the block, then turned around and started back.

  “They’re coming back!” someone shouted.

  Tom pulled a pistol from his pocket and aimed at the first biker, giving him a slight lead. Neither of the bikers realized they were in danger as they came back for a second pass. Tom pulled the trigger and the first rider lost control of his bike when he was hit. His bike fell over and the second biker, with no time to react, slammed into the first. The two bikes slid along the sidewalk, sending up a shower of sparks until they came to a stop, the two riders nothing but bloody pulps.

  It was at that very moment that the bus approached, and Tom and Sheri boarded.

  “What happened?” the driver asked.

  “Motorcycle wreck,” Tom replied.

  “Hmmph. You’ll never get me on one of those things.” The driver closed the door and Tom and Sheri took their seats.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Firebase Freedom

  Although they still had the helicopter, fuel was now so short that neither Jake nor Bob, the only two pilots, were flying. In the eighteen months they had been here, though, Marcus still kept it in perfect flying condition, helped by both Willy and Deon. In the meantime they continued to make improvements inside the fort, which now had a large and productive garden with tomatoes, beans, peppers, cucumbers, lettuce, potatoes, cabbage, and carrots. Since they first arrived, they had managed to acquire some goats, which provided milk and goat cheese. Having made connections with others on the island, there was, through a system of barter and use of the Moqaddas money, a type of economy established, so that Pleasure Island, if not prospering, was surviving quite well.

  It was night, and Jake was sitting on top of the south wall of the fort, looking out over the water. Karin came to join him, and sitting beside him, handed him a glass of lemonade.

  “I thought you might like this,” she said.

  “Thanks. But you know what I’d really like.”

  “I know. You want a root beer.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know if anyone is even making root beer anymore. It kills me to think that I may never have another one.”

  “Ahh, you were too hooked on those things anyway,” Karin said. “It’ll do you good to go cold turkey.”

  “Whoa, cold turkey? We’re not talking about drug withdrawal here.”

  “Why n
ot? It’s the same principle.”

  Jake chuckled, then took a swallow of his lemonade. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” Lifting the glass, he pointed toward lights, out at sea. “I look at all those offshore rigs, and I wonder about them. Are they pumping oil? Oil and gas have started moving up on the mainland now.”

  “Yes, but it’s not that available, it cost a ton of money, and you have to show an ID card. Do you want to get an ID card, swearing that you have converted?”

  “No, but some of the people down here on the island have. I don’t blame them, though. If we had no access of any kind, we wouldn’t have any sugar, or coffee, or half a dozen other things that we aren’t able to do for ourselves.”

  “That’s true. But can you imagine what the people on the mainland are having to go through, even for the simplest necessities of life? Destroy pictures, and kill their dogs.”

  “Ha, Bob wouldn’t kill Charley if you pointed a gun at him and demanded it,” Jake said.

  “I was talking to Ellen Varney. Did you know this is the second dog they’ve named Charley? She says that Bob told her that if England could have eight kings named Henry, he could have two dogs names Charley.”

  “Bob is an interesting man,” Jake said. “He told me a good story about the Battle of Mobile Bay. Except for four, all the Union ships involved were wooden ships, but they were protected by chain mail hanging over the sides, and the shot and shell from the fort just bounced off of them. One of them, the Brooklyn, was struck seventy times, and didn’t sink.”

  “He knows a lot of history, doesn’t he?”

  “Ha! It’s because he’s so damn old that he’s lived through it. Do you know he can remember, as a boy, knowing someone who actually fought in the Civil War? And he served in the army with someone who was the last World War I veteran to be on active duty. If we ever get bored, all we have to do is let him tell stories. Don’t forget, that’s what he did for a living.”

  “How is he coming along with the Declaration of Independence he’s writing?” Karin asked.

  “I don’t know, he hasn’t let me see it yet. But I expect it’ll be just about what we want, and need.”

  “Declaration of Independence. That’s quite a thing. Do you really think we’ll ever actually be an independent country?”

  “Yes. How viable we will be as a country, I don’t know. But that isn’t our primary goal. Our primary goal is to throw Ohmshidi and those towel-headed sons of bitches the hell out of here, and take back America.”

  “You actually have confidence that we can do that?”

  “I do. I mean, that’s the whole point of this, isn’t it? To take our country back?”

  “How are we ever going to do that, Jake? You know as well as I do that Ohmshidi has access to every nuclear weapon this country had. I mean, if we started making too big of a problem for him, he could take care of us with just one nuke.”

  “You think we should just give up because he has nukes?”

  “I think we should be realistic about our chances.”

  “What if someone had said that to George Washington? I mean, when you think about it, what chance did the Colonies have against England, in 1776?”

  “Yeah? Well, England had to send troops 3,500 miles, and they didn’t have a nuclear bomb,” Karin said.

  Jake took another swallow of his lemonade. “Uh-huh, and the Colonies didn’t have me to lead them,” he teased.

  Karin laughed, and punched him playfully on the shoulder. “You know what you remind me of? You remind me of a mouse, floating down the river on his back, with an erection, shouting ‘Raise the draw bridge!’”

  “Whoa now, that really hurts. Are you saying my pecker’s the same size as a mouse’s pecker?”

  “Well, no, I do know better than that,” Karin said, and she leaned over to kiss him.

  “Want to play around?” Jake asked after the kiss.

  “Up here, on top of the wall?”

  “No. But we could walk up the beach for a way, nobody would see us in the dark. It might be fun.”

  “What would be fun about getting sand in the crack of your ass?”

  “Wouldn’t be my crack that got sand.”

  “Yeah, it would. If you really want to do this, we’re goin’ to roll through the sand like tumbleweed. It’s both of us, or no go.”

  Jake chuckled, then stood up and reached down for her. “All right then, let’s go. What’s a little sand in your ass anyway?”

  There was no moon, so it was quite dark on the beach, so dark that when then they were no more than a hundred yards away from the fort, it could no longer be seen. Jake stopped her, and they kissed again.

  “This is far enough.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Look behind us. If we can’t see the fort, nobody there can see us.”

  “What if someone comes out for a moonlight stroll?”

  “Haven’t you noticed? There is no moon tonight. They would have to stumble over us to see us.”

  Jake sat down on the sand and pulled Karin down with him.

  “It’s time to get some sand in our ass,” he said.

  Karin laughed again. “I swear, Jake, you say the most romantic things.”

  They stretched out on the sand as the waves crashed ashore.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dallas

  Sam Gelbman stood at the window in his office, looking out onto the terminal lot at the two eighteen-wheelers that were parked there.

  The two eighteen-wheelers were all that remained of what had once been a fleet of as many as fifty trucks. Mid-American Trucking, the company Sam owned, once hauled freight between Dallas and cities all over the country, from Spokane, Washington, to Miami, Florida, and from Portland, Maine, to San Diego, California, and from Canada to Mexico. That all ended shortly after Ohmshidi took office and decreed that fossil fuels could no longer be used. Mid-American, like every other freight and passenger line, went bankrupt.

  Sam did manage to hang on to two trucks in the hope and belief that at some point Ohmshidi would see the error of his policies, and fossil fuels would once again be allowed. That did happen, but it was almost too late, and now businesses all over the country were struggling hard to make a comeback.

  Because Sam had managed to hang on to the two trucks, he was slowly beginning to rebuild a successful business. He remembered reading something once which stated that, “if all the money in America were to be confiscated and redistributed evenly, within a year those who had been rich would again be rich and those who had been poor would again be poor.”

  Sam felt a sense of satisfaction in the belief that he was living proof of that declaration.

  Recovery had not been easy, and it was still difficult. No matter how much money one had, the purchase of goods and services had to be accompanied by showing an ID card, proving that the customer had converted to Islam. But Sam and his wife were Jewish, and by decree of the government of the American Islamic Republic of Enlightenment, Jews were not allowed to convert to Islam. Instead, they were issued Jewish Infidel cards, which they had to show in order to buy anything. Once identified as such, they were charged a “Jewish Excise Tax” of one hundred percent, and that meant everything they bought cost twice as much for them as it did for other people.

  That was not just for personal items, like food, clothing, and household appliances. It extended to his business as well, and Sam had to deal with crippling regulations and requirements.

  He needed a Special Infidel Business License to do business. This cost three times as much as a business license did for non-Jews.

  In addition to paying a one-hundred-percent Jewish Excise Tax on fuel for his personal vehicles, there was an additional hundred-percent tax on the fuel for his truck.

  He was charged a commerce tax on everything that came through the store.

  Despite all that, Sam’s business was picking up, and he was thinking about adding another truck and another couple of employees. One of the drivers came int
o the office.

  “Boss, we’re pulling out now,” the driver said. “I’m headed for Kansas City, Buck is goin’ to Memphis.”

  “All right,” Sam said. “You two drive safely.”

  “Hell, that’s no problem,” the driver said.

  “There ain’t one tenth of the traffic on the road now that there used to be.”

  Sam stood in the window and watched as the two drivers climbed into the cabs and started the engines. The rumbling roar of the big diesel engines had a reassuring sound, a sound that connected him with the “before time.” The trucks pulled out of the parking area, but almost immediately after they left, a car drove onto the lot. The car belonged not to the police, but to the SPS, and Sam felt a moment of apprehension.

  His apprehension grew when the two men in the car got out and started toward the office. These weren’t just SPS men, they were Janissaries, and Sam knew that the Janissaries were particularly hostile to Jews. He watched them approach, wondering if he should try and leave through the back door so as to avoid them. He knew, though, that he couldn’t avoid them forever, so he waited, nervously, until they came inside. Though they were wearing identical uniforms, the insignias on their epaulets were different, and Sam could only assume that meant that one was higher in rank than the other—though as he had purposely avoided any study of the SPS or the Janissaries, he had no idea what the ranks were.

  The two men made fists of their right hands, and folded their arms across their chests, putting their fists over their hearts.

  “Obey Ohmshidi,” one of them said.

  Awkwardly, self-consciously, Sam repeated the gesture. “Obey Ohmshidi,” he said. “May I help you gentlemen?”

  “We’re looking for the Jew that owns this business,” the taller of the two men said. He also seemed to have more hardware on his epaulets, so Sam decided he must be the higher rank.