Phoenix Rising:

by William W. Johnstone

  “Just keep us straight and level,” Clipper said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take off your boot,” Dr. Urban said. “Let me take a look at your foot.”

  With Creech at the controls, Clipper turned around in his seat and took off his boot. His sock was soaked red with blood. Gingerly taking off the sock, Dr. Urban saw an entry hole in one side of his foot and an exit wound in the other side.

  “Here’s a compression bandage, Doc,” Tom said, pulling one from the helicopter first aid kit.

  “Thanks,” Dr. Urban said. He wrapped the compression bandage around the wound and used it to stop the bleeding.

  “How is Captain Algood doing?” Bivens asked as the doctor treated his wound.

  “Not very good, I’m afraid,” the doctor replied.

  “All right, this’ll hold me long enough to get us to Blytheville. Once we get there, maybe we can get him to a hospital.”

  “Get him to a hospital . . . .”

  Algood was lying on the football field with the rest of his team gathered around him. Hospital? Was it so bad that he was going to have to go to the hospital?

  “How bad is it, Algood?” his quarterback asked.

  “The injured player on the field is number thirty-two, James Algood,” the field announcer’s voice said over the PA system.

  “Come on, Algood, you can’t be hurt. We need you, man, we need you.”

  “Shake it off, man, shake it off.”

  “What’s the matter with you weaklings?” the sergeant in basic training yelled, spittle coming from his mouth as he shouted at the trainees. “It’s called a confidence course, people, a confidence course. Is Private Algood the only recruit in the entire company with confidence?”

  “Yes, James, I’ll marry you,” Carmen said. “Papa says I’m a fool for marrying a soldier, but I love you. I’d marry you if you were working in a car wash.”

  “Darlin’, it’s a boy.”

  “We’ll name it Parker, after your father,” Algood said.

  “Daddy will be so proud!”

  “Whoa, Dad, did you see that? I just made an eighty-yard touchdown!” Parker said.

  “No fair, I wasn’t ready,” Algood said, laughing at his son’s excitement as they played football on the X-box.

  “Pop, what are you doing here? How’d you get here?” Algood said to his father.

  “I’ve always been here, son. I’ve never left you.”

  “I’m afraid he is dead, Tom,” Dr. Urban said, his hand resting on Algood’s neck.

  The helicopter, with four dead, beat its way through the dark night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  South Carolina

  There were seven vehicles in the convoy. The lead vehicle was an up-armored Humvee, followed by two cargo trucks, then an armored personnel carrier, two more cargo trucks, and another up-armored Humvee to bring up the rear. Captain Bob Bostic, in the lead Humvee, was the convoy commander. He was in the right front seat, connected to all other vehicles in the convoy by radio. The convoy was made up of a group of former members of the US Army, determined now to free South Carolina from the Moqaddas Sirata. The group called themselves “Sons of Patriotism.” Deon Pratt was also in the lead Humvee, though he was here as liaison only.

  Two dozen or more goats scrambled across the road to get out of the way of the rapidly moving convoy.

  “Hey, Cap’n, lookie there, what do you say I open up on those suckers? I could kill two or three of ’em and we could barbecue ’em for supper tonight,” Rugen said.

  Rugen was the gunner and he was standing up in the lead Humvee, with his head and shoulders sticking through the top.

  “Negative,” Bostic answered. “We aren’t here to shoot goats.”

  “I do a damn good barbequed goat,” Rugen said.

  “Everyone keep a sharp lookout,” Captain Bostic said to the rest of the convoy. “If we are going to be hit, this is most likely the place that it’ll happen.”

  KARUMP BOOM!

  “Holy shit!” Bostic said. “What was that?”

  “Number five got hit!” someone shouted over the radio. “We’re cut off!”

  “Stop the vehicle!” Bostic yelled to the driver.

  “Cap’n, we have to get out of the kill zone!” the driver called back.

  “We’re not leaving them. Stop the vehicle! Rugen, do you see anyone?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Shoot into the woods. Let ’em know we’re here!” Bostic ordered.

  The convoy came to a stop and the gunners on each of the vehicles started firing onto both sides of the road. Three RPGs came swooshing out of the trees, and three more vehicles were hit including the lead Humvee. Deon was literally blown from the vehicle, and when he looked back at it, he saw that it was completely engulfed in flames. He started toward it.

  “No, Cap’n!” someone shouted, coming up from the next vehicle. “There’s nothing you can do!”

  “I’m not going to leave ’em there!” Deon said.

  There was a secondary explosion in the Humvee and the shock wave knocked Deon down. When he got up he saw Bostic, Rugen, and the driver, obviously dead, their bodies blackened and burning.

  By now the APC which had not been hit managed to pull around the burning vehicles as Deon and other soldiers piled into it. It backed out of the kill zone, all the while shooting into the direction from which the RPGs had come.

  “Lieutenant, we have air cover on standby. Call them in! We need some air!” Deon shouted to Lieutenant Abner Garner. Garner was now the convoy commander.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll see what I can do,” Garner said. He spoke into his radio. “Gunslinger, Gunslinger, this is Turtle, do you copy?”

  “This is Gunslinger, over.”

  “Gunslinger, we need support. Can you home on me? Over?”

  “Give me a five-second squelch,” Gunslinger said.

  “Squelch to follow.”

  Garner held the mike key down for five seconds, then released. Depressing again, he spoke into the mike. “Gunslinger, did you copy?”

  “Roger that, Turtle. I see three burning vehicles.”

  “That’s us. Your target is west of the road.”

  “Let me see what I can—ahh, I’ve got the bastards.”

  Shortly after that message the Apache attack helicopter came low and fast from the east. Deon heard the sound of the Vulcan gun, even above the slap of the rotors, then he saw several rockets zipping forward. Almost immediately thereafter explosions sent up fire and smoke from just beyond the tree line.

  The Apache made a sharp 180 degree turn, then made a second pass with guns and rockets blazing.

  “Turtle, this is Gunslinger. I think you can move in now.”

  “Thanks, Gunslinger, Turtle out.”

  The Apache passed low overhead, dipping from side to side as it did so.

  “Medics, see to the wounded,” Garner said. “Simmons, White, grab your squads and come with me. Let’s check it out.”

  “I’m coming as well,” Deon said.

  Deon pulled his pistol and followed the others into the trees. There they saw six bodies, all wearing the forest green uniforms of the SPS.

  “Damn,” Garner said. “Just six of them did that to us?”

  “That’s what happens when you have position and surprise,” Deon said.

  “Yeah,” Garner said. “Seems like I might have heard that once or twice in my young life.”

  “I can’t believe we are actually doing this,” Simmons said.

  “Doing what?” Deon asked.

  “Killing Americans.”

  Deon turned one of the bodies over with his foot, and stared down at him. The eyes were open, but glazed over with death.

  “Once the sons of bitches put on one of these uniforms, they are no longer Americans,” Deon said.

  Fort Morgan

  Shell Banks Cemetery is located on Fort Morgan Road, eight miles west of Highway 59, behind Shell Banks Baptist Church. O
ver the many years of its existence, going back to before the American Revolutionary War, Shell Banks Cemetery has been the final resting place for Indians, pirates, early Alabama settlers, and soldiers from the War of 1812, the Civil War, World War I, World War II, and the Vietnam War. The latest to be buried was John Deedle, and as Willie and Marcus came out to the cemetery . . . where Algood, Kearney, and Cooper were to be buried, they walked over John Deedle’s grave.

  “Who was John Deedle?” Barbara Carter asked. Barbara had come to the cemetery with Willie.

  “You remember him, don’t you, Becky?” Marcus asked his wife.

  “Yes, I remember him,” Becky said. “He was with all of you when you first came down.”

  “What happened to him?” Barbara asked.

  “He was killed, less than three miles from here,” Willie said.

  “By SPS men?”

  “No. By armed hooligans.”

  “Armed hooligans?”

  “I don’t know what else to call them. We were prepared and they weren’t. They wanted what we had, and they wanted it badly enough to kill us for it. Or at least, to kill John.”

  Willie grew quiet then, as did the others, and while they were waiting for the funeral procession to arrive, they stood over John Deedle’s grave in reflective silence. And though Will was silent, his mind was active, as he recalled the incident that had taken John Deedle’s life. They were coming back from town when they encountered a roadblock, made up of abandoned refrigerators, and when they stopped, they came under fire. Bob Varney had come from the fort, flying the Huey helicopter they had used to escape Fort Rucker.

  “If you can’t get through, get out and move one or two aside,” Bob said. “Do not get off the road, if you do you’ll get stuck axle deep in the sand.”

  Starting the truck, John drove up to the barricades, then stopped. “We’re going to have to go around,” he said.

  “No,” Jake replied. “Bob lives down here, so I’m sure he knows what he is talking about. We’re going to have to push a couple of the refrigerators out of the way.”

  John put the truck in neutral and he and Jake got out and started pushing refrigerators aside until they had opened a path big enough for the truck to get through.

  “I think we can do it now,” Jake said.

  “Yeah, we’ve got it made in the shade,” John said with a happy laugh.

  Jake heard the solid thunk of the bullet hitting John. Blood and brain detritus erupted from the wound on the side of John’s head and he fell toward Jake.

  Jake caught him, and held him up.

  “John! John!” he called.

  John didn’t reply, and as Jake made a closer examination of him, he realized that he was dead.3

  “Here comes the funeral cortege,” Becky said, and looking back toward the church Willie saw three hearses coming around the curve. There was a limousine following each hearse, and Willie felt a deep sense of sadness because he knew that in each of those limos were the families of the three men who had been killed.

  “Let’s go over there,” Willie said and, as the train of cars following the limos stopped, and the doors opened to spill out the mourners, Willie and Barbara and Marcus and Becky went over toward the three graves that were already open.

  There were twenty-six enlisted men and one officer dressed in the khaki uniforms that had been adopted by the army of United Free America. Seven were carrying rifles, and one was carrying a bugle.

  Willie saw the wives and children, unable to hold back the tears, as they were led to a row of chairs adjacent to the open graves.

  The coffins were removed from the hearses, each being carried by six pall bearers, and brought to the gravesites. Each coffin was covered with two flags, the new flag of United Free America, as well as the Stars and Stripes of the United States of America.

  Father Ken Coats stepped up to the three open graves.

  “In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life though our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our brothers James Algood, Andrew Kearny, and Paul Cooper, and we commit their bodies to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless them and keep them, the Lord make his face to shine upon them and be gracious to them, the Lord lift up his countenance upon them and give them peace. Amen”

  With solemn precision, the flags were lifted, and held, tautly, above the coffins.

  The officer in charge stepped to the head of the three graves as the seven-man firing squad stepped into place. The pall bearers raised their hands to render a salute as the firing squad lifted their rifles to their shoulders.

  “Ready! Fire!”

  The seven rifles fired as one.

  “Ready! Fire!”

  A second volley was fired.

  “Ready! Fire!”

  A third volley was fired.

  “Order, arms!”

  The bugler raised the instrument to his lips then began playing Taps. This was the haunting melody that, ever since the American Civil War when General Daniel Butterfield rearranged the notes of Tattoo to make the melody slower and more stately, had put the troops to sleep at night, and for their final, everlasting sleep. It was a melody which would linger in the heart, long after the last note was silent.

  When the last prolonged note faded away, the honor guard folded the flags into the tricorn, being careful with the Stars and Stripes that no red be seen.

  General Jake Lantz presented both the US and the UFA flags to the windows.

  “These flags are presented on behalf of a grateful people and the patriots who struggle to recover the United States, as a token of appreciation for your loved one’s honorable service in this struggle.”

  “I wish you had left me in the prison,” Dr. Urban said that afternoon. He was standing on the beach at the place known, geographically, as Mobile Point.

  “Why do you say that, Doc?” Tom Jack asked.

  “You lost three of your men in rescuing me. Three lives for one, and I’m much older than they were. That doesn’t sound like a very good deal to me. And I feel responsible.”

  “I understand that the young woman you examined was killed by the Moqaddas Sirata. Do you feel responsible for that as well?”

  “No. I was following the dictates of my honor, and the dedication of my profession.”

  “Let me ask you something. What makes you think that only the medical profession has honor and dedication?”

  “No, no, I didn’t mean it that way,” Dr. Urban said.

  “Look. I’m the one who selected the men for this mission. Yes, they all volunteered, but the final selection was mine. If anyone should feel responsible for those brave men getting killed, it should be me. And, while I do feel responsible, I am also tremendously proud of them. Whenever a man, or a woman, takes an oath of allegiance to the country they serve they are signing a blank check, payable with their life, if it comes to that.

  “And disabuse yourself of the idea that this mission was just to rescue you. There was more to it than that. This was a mission to show the rest of the world that the real spirit of America isn’t dead. James, Andy, and Paul gave their lives for that. I think you should honor them, rather than take on a sense of guilt.”

  Dr. Urban nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yes, I will think of it like that.”

  “Are you going to be okay?” Tom asked.

  “Yes, thank you. And, again, thank you for rescuing me.”

  Tom nodded. “I’m glad we had the opportunity. Oh, Sheri wanted me to invite you for dinner tonight.”

  “You tell her I’ll be glad to come.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Onboard the John Paul Jones in the Gulf of Mexico

  Captain Stan Virdin was standing on the bridge, looking through a pair of powerful binoculars at another ship that was about 6,000 yards away. They had been tracking the ship for some time now, and had established, from the outset, that it was a destroyer equipped with guns and missile tubes. The ship belonged to the
navy of the American Islamic Republic of Enlightenment. Within the last fifteen minutes, the AIRE ship had decreased, by half, the distance between them. It was the closest any AIRE ship had come since they had started their patrol.

  “Signalman, send a blinker message, tell the captain of that ship to come up on channel thirteen, 156.650 mhz.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The radioman responded, and a moment later all on the bridge could hear the call.

  “Outlaw vessel, this is the AIRE destroyer Ara Anwar al-Awlaki, Captain Amara, commanding.” Although the captain of the AIRE destroyer identified himself with a Muslim name, his accent showed, clearly, that he was an American.

  Virdin picked up a microphone and looked at his signalman.

  “Your mike is hot, sir,” the signalman said.

  “This is Captain Stan Virdin, commanding John Paul Jones. You are encroaching in UFA waters, and you are too close to the UFA drilling rigs. Back off.”

  “The American Islamic Republic of Enlightenment does not recognize the UFA. The drilling rigs are property of the AIRE. And you are illegally in possession of a ship that belongs to the American Islamic Republic of Enlightenment,” Amara said.

  “You’re full of shit, Amara, or whatever the hell your real name is,” Virdin said. “This ship belongs to the United States Navy, and until such time as the United States is reconstituted, it is under the protective care of United Free America.”

  “There is no such country as the United States of America, or United Free America. Withdraw and allow us free approach to the drilling rigs, or you will be fired upon.”

  “What did you say?” Virdin asked, snapping the question. “Amara, did you just threaten to fire on us?”

  “Withdraw immediately,” Amara replied.

  Virdin looked at the radioman and made a slashing motion across his throat, indicating that communication with the AIRE ship, Ara Anwar al-Awlaki should be broken off. The signalman did so, then nodded at the Captain.