Phoenix Rising pr-1

by William W. Johnstone

“Let’s bury him out there on the parade ground, under the flagpole,” Clay suggested.

  “Damn good idea, Sergeant Major, damn good idea,” Tadlock said.

  Clay went to the general’s quarters to get his dress blue uniform and he and Jake dressed the general, including all his medals. While they were doing that, Tadlock rounded up as many officers and men as he could, including seven men who would form a firing squadron to render last honors, and one bandsman who agreed to play taps.

  Now the general lay in a main-rotor shipping case alongside a grave that three of the EM had dug. There were over fifty men and women present, in uniform, and in formation. The general was lowered into the grave, and Jake nodded at the firing team. The seven soldiers raised their rifles to their shoulders.

  “Ready? Fire!”

  The sound of the first volley echoed back from the buildings adjacent to the parade ground.

  “Ready? Fire!”

  Rifle fire, which, during his life, the general had heard in anger, now sounded in his honor.

  “Ready? Fire!”

  The last volley was fired, and those who were rendering hand salutes brought them down sharply.

  The bandsman, a bespectacled specialist, raised a trumpet to his lips and with the first and third valves depressed, played taps.

  Jake thought of the many times he had heard this haunting bugle call, at night in the barracks while in basic training, and in OCS. He had also heard it played for too many of his friends, killed in combat or in aircraft accidents.

  The young soldier played the call slowly and stately, holding the higher notes, gradually getting louder, then slowing the tempo as he reached the end, and holding the final, middle C longer than any other note before, he allowed it simply and sadly to . . . fade away.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Dunes, Fort Morgan—Friday, July 27

  Many of the houses at The Dunes had their own generators as a result of the long power outages following hurricanes. The problem was that at full usage the propane tanks could last for no more than a week. By rationing the usage, Bob was able to get ten days of service; then he, James, and Jerry began taking propane tanks from the unoccupied houses and using them for their own needs.

  In addition to taking the propane tanks, they also took the food that many of the houses had in their freezer and pantries They ate the frozen food first so they would not have to keep it cold for too long—and at the beginning of their ordeal, they ate very well: steaks, roasts, lobster, shrimp, and fish.

  For better utilization of the food the three families decided to take all their meals together.

  “What is this? Leg of lamb?” Jerry asked as he cut into the meat.

  “Yes. It came from Dr. Kelly’s freezer,” James said.

  “You can say what you want about Dr. Kelly, the man does have good taste,” Bob said. “That’s also where we got the prime rib, isn’t it?”

  “And the lobster,” James added.

  James Laney did not have a college education, but he had worked himself up from general handyman to plant manager of the Cobb County Electric Cooperative in Georgia. He accomplished this by mastering every job in the plant and even though he was now retired, he kept himself busy by taking care of the houses of the absentee owners: doing electrical repair, plumbing, carpentry, and painting. Bob and Jerry had “elected” him mayor of The Dunes. The election was only partially in jest; James knew all the absentee owners, and had a key to every house.

  James had married his wife Cille when he was seventeen and she was fifteen, and though everything seemed stacked against their marriage succeeding, they had celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary earlier this year.

  Jerry Cornett was a retired salesman and now the consummate outdoorsman who had fished and hunted around the world. He did his hunting with bows that he made himself, and was a champion bowman, having won so many bow shooting contests that the magazine Bowhunt America pronounced him “America’s Senior Champion Archer.” Jerry’s wife, Gaye, was a retired hairstylist.

  Until the collapse of the economy, Bob Varney had been a successful novelist. Success had come late for him—he had written over three hundred books, but most were ghostwriting projects for others. And while his ghostwriting paid well, it left him with a sense of frustration. He saw many of the books he had authored become bestsellers, but he was unable to take advantage of them. Then, two years ago he convinced his editor to let him write his own books. Those books had done very well and at long last, let him build his own career.

  Ironically, the career that had taken him so long to build was now nonexistent due to the collapse of the U.S. economy.

  Bob was also a retired Army officer who had done three tours in Vietnam as a helicopter pilot. It had been forty years since he last flew, and he often watched, with a bit of nostalgia, the service helicopters pass over his house as they flew out to the offshore gas rigs.

  Because of his writing and research, he was practically a walking encyclopedia, fascinated by trivia, and he knew diverse facts ranging from the number of words in the King James Version of the Bible—181,253—to the temperature of the sun at its core—twenty-seven million degrees. And he was a Custer expert who could name every officer who made that last scout with Custer, including those who were with Reno and Benteen, and tell what eventually happened to them.

  Bob’s only other talent was in cooking, but he excelled in that, his specialty being coming up with very satisfying meals by utilizing what was available. Bob’s wife, Ellen, was a retired schoolteacher, who, in her youth, had taught in Point Hope, Alaska. That remote experience was coming in handy now that the small Fort Morgan Dunes group was isolated from the rest of the world.

  Hampton Roads, Virginia—Saturday, July 28

  The United States had a long record of helping other countries in time of need—from the earthquakes in Haiti to the Indonesian tsunami, going all the way back to the Marshall Plan that helped Europe recover from World War Two. Because of that, countries around the world, many of whom had been helped by the U.S. at one time or another now rose to the occasion offering aid to the stricken nation that had fallen from such great heights.

  Three cargo ships, the Abdul, the Kishwan, and the Sahil, their containers filled with food and goods, left Yazikistan bound for the United States. All three were flying proud banners proclaiming:

  Friendship from the Islamic Republic of Yazikistan

  After crossing the ocean together, the three ships parted company off the coast of the U.S., then sailed on for three separate destinations: Boston, New York, and Hampton Roads.

  As the three ships separated, Ariz Khabir Jawwad, who was on the Kishwan bound for Hampton Roads, went to the container that was labeled RICE.

  Buried in the rice inside this container was a Russian SS-25 nuclear warhead, with an effective charge of one hundred kilotons, which was eight times more powerful than the bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima. There was also a similar nuclear warhead on each of the other two relief ships.

  Jawwad recalled the briefing he and the other two martyrs for Allah had received, prior to being dispatched on their mission.

  “We expect the initial casualties from the three bombs to exceed one million in number. That figure does not include those deaths that will come indirectly from disease or other longer-term fatalities. The overall effect of an attack on this scale is particularly numbing. Anyone trying to flee will find themselves travelling through contaminated areas. The pollution of water supplies, destruction of homes, and general devastation will result in secondary problems with disease. Radiation reduces the body’s ability to fight off illness. The final number of deaths from the martyrdom would then be much higher.”

  Jawwad thought of the others on board this ship, and the two other ships. They were completely unaware that one of the cargo containers held a nuclear bomb. When Jawwad detonated the bomb it would not only kill the American infidels, it would also kill everyone on board this ship and most o
f them were, like Jawwad, Muslims, true members of the faith. In addition, as Jawwad had been a crew member of the Kishwan for the last three years, he had made many close friends among the other crew members on board. When he had mentioned to his trainers that innocent Muslims would die, he was told that he would be doing them all a favor.

  “They will be welcomed into heaven as martyrs who died for the faith. Worry not about them.”

  The Kishwan dropped anchor in Hampton Roads at 9 A.M. local time. It was a coordinated arrival; the Abdul would be in New York and the Sahil would be in Boston at exactly the same time. This had been carefully arranged so the mercy missions of the three ships would achieve maximum exposure in the world press.

  Jawwad checked his watch. It had been agreed by the three martyrs that they would detonate the bombs at exactly nine-thirty. Jawwad watched the minute hand reach the number six, and waited fifteen seconds until the sweep hand reached the number twelve.

  “Allah Akbar!” he shouted.

  “Jawwad, why do you . . .”

  The light was so brilliant that people as far away as Richmond saw it. A huge fireball rolled out across the water, touching the land on each side. The heat inside the fireball was hotter than the sun and the ship was vaporized.

  At the same time the bomb at Hampton Roads was detonated, the bombs in New York and Boston also exploded.

  Concurrent with the nuclear blasts in the U.S., one nuke was detonated in Spain, one in France, one in Germany, and one in Great Britain. Three nuclear-tipped missiles were launched into Israel.

  The governments of Iran, Iraq, Libya, Syria, Afghanistan, Lebanon, and Saudi Arabia received a message from Caliph Rafeek Syed demanding that they recognize the Greater Islamic Caliphate of Allah, with him as the grand caliph. Every government contacted acquiesced to the demand.

  Fort Rucker—Monday, July 30

  Although it had been two days since the nuclear bombs had been detonated on American soil, Jake Lantz knew nothing about them. General von Cairns had been dead for almost two weeks, and not only had the Department of the Army not appointed a new base commander, Jake was convinced that DA didn’t even know General von Cairns was dead. For that matter, Jake wasn’t entirely convinced that there even was a Department of the Army anymore.

  Lieutenant Colonel Dave Royal, who was director of the Aviation Maintenance Course, had contacted Jake shortly after the funeral, asking if Jake knew of anyone remaining on the base who might outrank him. When Jake said he did not, Colonel Royal asked if Jake thought he should assume command.

  “I think it is entirely up to you, Dave,” Jake replied. “The truth is, I know and you know there is nothing left to command. Most of the officers and nearly all of the men are gone now. The only people left behind are those who have no other place to go.”

  “I think you are right,” Colonel Royal said. “But I’m not one who likes loose ends, so if you have no objection, I think I will assume command.”

  That was ten days ago, and Jake had heard nothing from Lieutenant Colonel Royal since that time, and wasn’t even sure Royal was still on the base. And that brought Jake to the moment of truth. He knew that there was no longer any reason for him to stay. His Army career had come to an end, and it was time for him to activate his survival team.

  Pulling a yellow tablet from his desk, Jake began studying the names he had written. He had personally chosen everyone whose name was on the tablet, using three things for his governing criteria. First, each must possess a skill set that would be beneficial to the team as a whole, since he was convinced that they would be completely self-contained for a long time. Second, they must all be single. He had nothing against married people, but he was going to limit this team to no more than eight members, and spouses would be excess baggage. Third, he had to know them personally, and he had to like them.

  The first name on his list was Karin Dawes.

  CAPTAIN KARIN DAWES

  If you had asked any of Karin’s childhood friends about her, they would all say that the last thing any of them ever expected was for Karin to wind up in the Army. Would they think of her as a nurse? Perhaps. All agreed that she was someone who tended to look out for others, but nobody expected her to become an Army nurse. And certainly no one ever thought of her being in a combat zone, though not because anyone questioned her courage or her physical stamina. Karin had always been very athletic.

  Karin was a distance runner and a cheerleader, both in high school and at the University of Kentucky. She continued to run after graduating from college and last year she came in first place among all women in both the Atlanta and the Chicago marathons.

  While in college, Karin fell in love and planned to be married upon graduation. But only three days before the wedding, Tony Mason, her fiancé, was killed in a car wreck. Karin was so distraught by the event that she joined the Army. She was sent to Afghanistan immediately after her training, and there, she encountered a captain with severe wounds to his face, side, and leg. The wound in his leg got infected and there was a strong possibility that it would have to be amputated, but Karin made a special effort to tend to the wound, keeping him dosed with antibiotics, keeping it clean and aspirated, and treating it with antiseptic, sometimes spending the night in the room with the patient in order to attend to it. The captain’s leg was saved. Dr. Metzger told the wounded officer, Captain Jake Lantz, that Karin had saved his leg.

  It was not entirely by coincidence that when they returned to the States, they both wound up at Fort Rucker, Alabama. Karin thought she would never feel about another man as she had felt about Tony, but Jake Lantz had changed her mind. She would marry him in a minute if he would ask her, and if he didn’t ask her, she might just ask him.

  SERGEANT MAJOR CLAY MATTHEWS

  Tactical officers in Officer Candidate School can be particularly brutal on the officer candidates, and if the TAC officers find some peculiarity, they can make it very hard. When the TACs learned that Jake had been raised Amish, they used it as a tool to try to break him. They called him “Amish boy” and asked if he knew how to drive a car, or turn on a light.

  Sergeant Clay Matthews was a TAC NCO, and one day when the TAC officers were enjoying a field day with Jake, Sergeant Matthews called the young officer candidate to one side, telling the others that he would “get the candidate straight.” When he was sure that the TAC officers were out of earshot, Clay spoke to Jake in a quiet and reassuring voice.

  “Son, don’t let these TACs get under your skin. They are paid to be assholes and they take their jobs seriously. But I’ve been watching you, and the truth is you’ve got more sand than anyone in this class, including the TACs. Stick with it; you are going to make a fine officer, one I would be proud to serve under.”

  Jake did graduate, then went almost immediately to college. After he got his degree he went to flight school, and after flight school he did serve with Sergeant Matthews in Iraq. During their service together, he took special pleasure in submitting Sergeant Matthews’s name for the Silver Star when the sergeant pulled four of his fellow soldiers from a burning Humvee, then killed the six militants who had attacked them.

  For the moment, Clay Matthews, who was forty-eight years old and divorced, was the noncommissioned officer in charge of Environmental Flight Tactics, Jake’s department. At least he had been the NCOIC while EFT still existed.

  Jake valued dependability above all else in the people he worked with, and Clay was the most dependable man, soldier or civilian, Jake had ever known. If you asked Clay to take care of a job, you could put that job out of your mind, because Clay would take care of it. He would be, Jake was sure, his most valuable asset in setting up a survivalist team. With him, Jake felt confident of success. Without him, it would be iffy at best.

  SERGEANTS JOHN DEEDLE AND MARCUS WARNER

  Deedle and Warner were helicopter mechanics who worked on the flight line. In all the time Jake had been in the Army he had never run across any who were better at their job, or any two me
n who better complemented each other’s work. And their skills weren’t limited just to aircraft maintenance. The two men were among the most resourceful he had ever met.

  At twenty-four, Deedle was the younger of the two. By general consensus, John Deedle was the best mechanic on the base. Some swore he was the best in the Army. He was quick to diagnose problems, knew all the special tools and parts, and could, if asked, even though it was against Army procedures, disassemble and rebuild, fashioning parts if need be to fit any engine, transmission, or rotor component.

  Marcus Warner was twenty-six and had been married, but was now divorced. He had no children and his wife had since remarried, so he had no obligations that would detract from his being a team member. Marcus Warner’s mother had been born in Italy and immigrated to the U.S. when she was twelve. He grew up speaking Italian and English, but demonstrated a flair for languages early in his life. After he joined the Army he went to its language school at Presidio. He was fluent in Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, French, and German. But, since the Army had no particular need for any of those languages, he applied for, and was accepted into, the helicopter maintenance course. He had pulled two tours in Iraq, and was now a technical inspector for the school’s fleet of aircraft.

  SERGEANT FIRST CLASS WILLIE STARK

  Willie Stark was thirty years old. An avionics specialist, Stark could practically build a radio from scratch. He not only knew all the inner workings and hidden mechanisms of any radio, he could read and send messages in Morse code. Stark, whom others referred to as an “electronics geek,” was a wizard around radios and computers, but was too shy to have much experience with women. He had never been married, and had never even had a serious relationship with a woman.

  SERGEANT DEON PRATT

  Deon Pratt, twenty-five, was a powerfully built black man who was an instructor in the Escape and Evasion course at Fort Rucker. The consummate warrior, Deon was skilled in hand-to-hand combat. He was also an expert in firearms and explosives. Deon had won a Silver Star in Afghanistan for killing fifteen enemy fighters and rescuing, under fire, his captain and first sergeant who had been wounded and were trapped beneath a collapsed building. Jake had thought long and hard about including a combat expert, but he realized that if there was a complete breakdown of civilization, Sergeant Pratt would be a good man to have on his side.