Phoenix Rising: Read online

  With almost 900,000 people injured to various degrees, the task of caring for the injured was far beyond the ability of the medical system to respond. All but one of Manhattan’s large hospitals were inside the 5 psi ring and were completely destroyed. There weren’t enough empty hospital beds in all of New York and New Jersey for even the most critically injured. The 1 psi ring alone had an estimated 30,000 burn victims who required specialized care. In the days following the nuclear detonation, many of the injured died from lack of any medical care.

  For well over a year, Manhattan was without any utilities: electricity, gas, water, or sewage. Transportation of the injured and the ability to bring in the necessary supplies, people and equipment depended upon the condition of the tunnels and bridges that connect Manhattan to New York and New Jersey; nearly all of those were destroyed, or blocked to some degree. And even when rescuers were able to get into the city, the streets and avenues were so filled with rubble that they were completely impassable.

  Tens of thousands of survivors became homeless. Creation of temporary shelters was the first recovery task after all the trapped and injured had been found and cared for. True recovery for New York was still a long way off. Some areas remained dangerously radioactive and even without the radioactivity it was likely that New York City would never fully recover to its original status as the nation’s leading financial and cultural center.

  Now, nearly two years later, most of the material that comprised those buildings in mid-Manhattan remained piled up to depths of hundreds of feet in places. Absolutely nothing in what had once been the heart of the most advanced and bustling city in the world was recognizable.

  All the commerce of New York had moved south of 10th Street, and this little inhabited end of Manhattan could have been Baghdad, Tripoli, Teheran or Kabul from the looks of it. Nearly every man on the street was wearing a thobe, and every woman a burka. Bryan Gates, who was dressed no differently from any other man on the street, went in to a coffee shop on East First Street. Bryan had once been a member of the CIA, but because he had been covert, very few knew of his background. His method of making a living now was as covert as it had been in the pre-O times. He “adjusted” things.

  If somebody was having a problem with an officious member of the AIRE government, Bryan, for a price, would “make things right.” Often a visit to the offending party was all that was needed. Sometimes a little more persuasion was necessary, and a kneecap might be broken. In those cases where persuasion was ineffective, Bryan made a more permanent adjustment.

  Taking his coffee over to an empty table, he was very surprised to see an old but familiar face from his past. Aleksandr Mironov was sitting at a table on the other side of the room. When their gazes met, Mironov got up and brought his coffee to Bryan’s table. Bryan stood, and the two men shook hands.

  “Have a seat, Aleks. How long has it been?”

  Mironov smiled. “I was assigned to the Soviet delegation to the United Nations from 1972 until 1981, when you blew my cover as a member of the KGB. I came back in 2004 as a member of the Russian delegation, and stayed until Christmas of 2008. I left right after that.”

  Bryan took a swallow of his coffee and looked around before he answered, quietly. “You chose a good time to leave.”

  “So I have observed. What has happened to your country, Bryan? What has happened to the America I loved?”

  “You can see for yourself,” Bryan said.

  Mironov made a tsk sound, and shook his head.

  “What brings you here, Aleks? I know it isn’t the United Nations, they are no longer here, nor are we any longer a member.”

  Mironov handed Bryan a newspaper clipping.

  OΦuep nou co

  Π ap ap, ap ec a ea Taacy p , caoyca. Xo a , , a y, e , e eo ,— e, a yc oa . , a e ya, o y aa.

  aa aa , o ap e p o. O aooo p, aop aa o o p, o aa, o eo o apa.

  “I haven’t been using Russian much, lately,” Bryan said. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to read this aloud, and you tell me if I have it correct.”

  “All right,” Mironov agreed.

  Bryan cleared his throat, then began to read aloud. “Army Officer Commits Suicide. Colonel Vladimir Shaporin, commanding officer of the Tenth Battalion of the Tamanskya Division, was found dead in his quarters this morning, the victim of a suicide. Although Shaporin left no note, it is believed that he was remorseful over his belief that he had lost some nuclear warheads that were in his charge—that belief stemming from an antiquated method of record keeping. It is well known that Colonel Shaporin did not trust the computer accounting system, as he had complained of it to his superiors.

  “The sad irony is, Colonel Shaporin did not lose the warheads. They are safely accounted for, and had Shaporin shown a bit more patience, he could have easily been shown that his worry was for naught.”

  Bryan looked up at Mironov. “Did I get it right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aleks, I get the idea that you wouldn’t be bringing this article to me unless you believed that these five warheads really are missing.”

  Mironov nodded. “Vladimir Shaporin was my nephew. I don’t have the slightest doubt but that he was murdered. And he was murdered because he knew that the warheads were missing.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “I think they were sold on the black market.”

  “To who? Someone in the Middle East?”

  Mironov shook his head. “To an American.”

  “Good heavens, you mean the states that have broken away? They bought them?”

  “No. To an American. One man, representing only himself.”

  “Who is it? What’s his name?”

  “I’ve told you as much as I know. But I have contacted someone in Russia who can help. He wants to meet with Chris Carmack.”

  “Chris Carmack? Why would he want to meet with Carmack? I’m not even sure he is still alive. And if he is alive, I have no idea where to find him.”

  “You must try,” Mironov said.

  “All right. I will try.”

  Mironov stood. “I wish you the best of luck, my friend. The lives of many, many people may depend on it.”

  Bryan nodded. Then, as Mironov left the coffee shop. Bryan thought about the last time he had seen Chris Carmack.

  Bryan had met Chris at the Mehran Kabob Restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue, within sight of the White House. The two shook hands, then found a table in the back of the room that was some distance separated from any other customer in the restaurant. Chris had been someone that Gates worked with in the CIA, and though he never knew about Chris’s “contract killing” job, he did know that Chris had been involved in several very classified operations.

  “What are you doing these days, Bryan?” Chris asked.

  “Whatever I have to do to turn a buck. Or, I guess I should say, a Moqaddas.”

  “Do you still have inside sources of information?”

  Bryan broke eye contact, and shrugged, but didn’t answer.

  “And if you had that information, would you sell it?”

  “Chris, are you wired? Are you still working for the government?”

  “I swear to you that I am not,” Chris said.

  Bryan smiled, though the smile was strained. “You were trained to lie,” he said. “I never did know exactly what you did for the company, but I did know that it was top secret. How do I know you haven’t just taken your talent over to the SPS, or worse, to the Janissaries?”

  “I was a contract killer,” Chris said.

  Bryan nodded. “Yeah, I thought it might be something like that.”

  “I’ll give you another piece of news about me, that if it got out, would have my head on the chopping block, literally. You will be the only one who knows this, and the only reason I’ll tell you, is to show you that I represent no danger to you.”

  “What would that be?” Bryan asked.

  “I’ve already given you some information, I told you I was a co
ntract killer. Now, I’m going to ask you for some information. If you can supply it, I will give you five thousand Moqaddas, then I’ll give you the incriminating information I spoke of.”

  “Five thousand Moqaddas?”

  “I have the money with me.”

  “Where did you come up with money like that?”

  “First, you answer a few of my questions, if you can.”

  “All right, ask. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Where are they keeping George Gregoire? In which jail?”

  Bryan shook his head. “They aren’t keeping him in any jail. He is being kept on the top floor in Grant Hall at Fort McNair.”1

  Shortly after that meeting, Gregoire had been rescued, and Rahimi killed. And since that time, Gregoire had made broadcasts from the center of the rebel stronghold.

  Bryan smiled and hit his fist into his open palm. He knew exactly where Chris Carmack was.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Fort Morgan

  Chris was on the balcony of his sixth-floor apartment at The Dunes condo, looking out toward the Gulf of Mexico. There was absolutely no surf today, the gulf being as flat as a swimming pool. Kathy came up behind him, then leaned into him. When she did, Chris smiled.

  “You are either wearing something very thin or . . .”

  “Would you believe the or?” Kathy asked, her voice low and breathy.

  Chris turned toward her, and his smile broadened. “Damn,” he said. “You are totally naked.”

  “I am not totally naked,” Kathy replied. She smiled, and held out a foot. “If you would bother to look at my feet, you would see that I’m wearing slippers.”

  “Now why the hell would I want to look at your feet?” Chris asked, wrapping his arms around her, and pulling her naked body against him.

  “Woman, what have you got in mind?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kathy said. “I suppose it depends on . . . what comes up.”

  Chris chuckled. “Yeah, well, something has come up.”

  “So I’ve noticed. Shall we take care of it?”

  “I think that would be an excellent idea.”

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Not one traditional university had survived the collapse of the United States. Old and storied schools like Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Penn, as well as traditional football powerhouses like Alabama, Ohio State, USC, and Christian schools such as Notre Dame, Seton Hall, Texas Christian, and Baylor were gone.

  In their place were new schools based upon the religious principles of Moqaddas Sirata, schools with names like Islamic University of Enlightenment, Holy Path College, and American Islamic University. Math and science courses were still being taught, but there were no American or world history courses available. Neither were there courses in business, literature, art, or music. Medical and law courses were still available, but the law courses stressed sharia law, and the practice of medicine was limited to males only. And, as part of their instruction, they learned that women were to receive no medical treatment of any kind as it was a sin for any man, including a doctor, to look upon the naked body of a woman.

  “Should such a heresy occur, both the doctor and the female patient will be put to death,” the course warned.

  The curriculum was heavy with classes on Islamic thought, Muslim philosophy, as well as the evils of Christianity and Judaism.

  “It is our duty to convert everyone to the truth of the Holy Path, including other Muslims who have not seen the way. Those who do convert will be received as one of us. Those who do not convert will receive neither sustenance, support, or sympathy from the believer. It would be better for the nonbeliever to die quickly, for death is sure to come.”

  Four students of the University of Islamic Enlightenment were gathered in the one-room apartment of Ron McPherson. The students were Ron’s sister Ann, Carl Mosley, and his wife, Sally. Ann and Sally were wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt, though both girls had burkas handy for when they left the room. They had gathered around Ron’s computer, giving him suggestions on what to write. After a few minutes he lifted hands from the keyboard.

  “I think this is it,” Ron said.

  “Read what you have,” Carl said.

  Ron ran his cursor back to the beginning of the file.

  “A Message of Defiance, and a Plea for Action,” Jack read.

  “Great title,” Ann said. “Who came up with that?”

  “You came up with it,” Sally said.”

  “Oh, no wonder I like it,” Ann said with a chuckle.

  Ron cleared his throat before he continued to read.

  “We were born free, looking forward to a future with the innate idea that could achieve anything we set out to achieve, limited only by our intelligence and self-determination. This was the result of what had been two hundred and thirty two years of freedom in a country that was the preeminent nation in the entire world.

  “But the nation that our parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and generations past fought to build and preserve, is no more. How did this happen?

  “Perhaps we can start with the universities. The education we sought to guide us into our professional careers was sabotaged by the very people who were to provide us with this education. College and University professors all across the country began a program of indoctrination of a left-wing political philosophy that exceeded the actual education.

  “This platform undermined two hundred and thirty two years of awareness of duty, sense of honor, and pride of country. The result was the creation of a society that was more interested in free stuff than freedom. The United States of America did not fall victim to a foreign enemy, but to an electorate that was either too selfish, or too intellectually challenged, to carry the torch of freedom forward. We voted for a candidate who had no record of accomplishment, or even a history of gainful employment.

  “When the Titanic struck the iceberg, Thomas Andrews, the head ship designer, was aboard. As each succeeding compartment filled with water, he was able to calculate to the minute when the ship would reach the tipping point, when there would be more compartments not contributing to the buoyancy of the ship than there were compartments that were contributing to the buoyancy. Once that tipping point was reached, the result was inevitable, the Titanic would go down. With the unprecedented spending, and the number of noncontributing units outnumbering the contributing units our “ship of state” reached the tipping point, and, like the Titanic, our Republic foundered.

  “We are no longer a nation of individuals, we are a flock of sheep. We stood by without so much as a comment as our economy was wrecked while, to deal with the emergency he caused, Ohmshidi began to strip our rights away. And where are we today? We are subject to Moqaddas Sirata, a degrading law that enslaves our women, and robs us of our humanity.

  “In the 1960s this nation witnessed the power of an aroused student population when it helped to end an unpopular war. It is time, once more, for the students to take the lead. Next Wednesday we are calling upon all students to show solidarity with our sisters, by men and women wearing a burka, and staging a sit in at every university in the country.

  “Signed, Warriors of the White Camilla.”

  “Okay, what do we do with it now?” Sally asked.

  “First thing we will do is send out an e-blast,” Ron said. “I had a computer geek who agrees with us create a program for me. All I have to do is send it to one address, and it will go out to every student in every university in the country.”

  “How many students would that be?” Carl asked.

  “Before the collapse of the United States we had twenty million university students,” Ron said. “I imagine that now the number is less than five million.”

  Carl smiled. “But five million . . . damn! That’s quite a circulation!”

  Ron put the article into an e-mail file, and typed in the macro address “university,” then hit send.

  University of Islamic Enlightenment

  Ron and Car
l made a reasoned decision that they would not wear burkas on the day called for. If they didn’t wear burkas, it seemed less likely that the movement, should it actually occur, would be traced back to them. They were purposely late in arriving but were rewarded as soon as they did get to school by what they saw.

  Sitting on sidewalks and on the front porch of the entrances into all the academic buildings, were hundreds of students. And, because they were all wearing burkas, it was impossible, without a closer examination, to tell who was male and who was female. There was a big, hand-painted sign sticking up in the ground near the demonstrating students.

  EQUAL TREATMENT

  FOR

  MEN AND WOMEN

  “All right, look at this!” Carl said excitedly.

  “I wonder if it is like this at universities all over the country?” Ron asked.

  “I’ll bet it is. Why should they be any different? Nobody here realizes that the movement started here.”

  “Attention! Attention! All students who are currently demonstrating must leave at once!”

  “Don’t anybody leave!” one of the students shouted, though as everyone was in burkas, it was impossible to tell who shouted.

  “Attention! Attention! All students who are currently demonstrating must leave at once!”

  “Stand your ground!”

  The staff and faculty nearest the demonstrating students began talking quietly among themselves as they tried to decide what they should do. A couple of them went over to take down the sign, but after a couple more announcements over the public address system, telling the students that they must leave at once, it was the staff and faculty who finally left.

  “They’re gone! We won!” someone shouted, and the demonstraters cheered.

  That evening in Ron’s room, he, Ann, Carl, and Sally celebrated their victory.