Phoenix Rising: (41 page)

Sorroto was watching the news on America Enlightened Truth Television.

Ohmshidi appeared on screen.

Ohmshidi clasped his hands together, prayer-like, and bowed his head.

Sorroto turned off the TV, and decided it was about time he paid Ohmshidi a visit. He picked up the telephone intending to call, but he changed his mind. If he called, Ohmshidi might construe that as Sorroto asking to see him. In order to make certain that Ohmshidi would never forget his station, relative to Sorroto, Sorroto would show up in Washington, or Muslimabad, or whatever in hell Ohmshidi was calling it, with no prior announcement. But Sorroto would not go to the White House to meet Ohmshidi. He would demand that Ohmshidi come to him.

When Warren Sorroto arrived in Muslimabad, he hired a limousine to take him to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel.

“Yes, sir?” the desk clerk said, greeting him deferentially.

“I'll have the Oriental Suite,” Sorroto said.

“Oh, I'm sorry, sir, but that suite is occupied.”

“Tell them you are sorry, but you made a mistake. Give them a double refund, and offer them their choice of any other suite in the hotel for free.”

The hotel clerk started to protest, but, even though he had never met Sorroto, he knew that this was no ordinary customer. “Yes sir,” he said, picking up the phone.

 

 

Two hours later Sorroto was standing at one of the round windows, looking out toward the water when the telephone rang.

“Yes?”

“He is here, Mr. Sorroto.”

“Tell him he may come up,” Sorroto said. “Alone.”

“But he goes nowhere without his bodyguards.”

“He will either come here alone, or he can return to the White House,” Sorroto said. “I really don't care which. But if he returns to the White House without seeing me, he will pay a penalty.”

There was a pause at the end of the line, then the caller returned. “He'll be right up, Mr. Sorroto.”

Sorroto hung up the phone without answering. He was preparing himself a martini when he heard the doorbell. Picking up a remote device he pointed it toward the door and pushed the button. The electric lock buzzed, and the door was pushed open. Ohmshidi came in.

“Would you like a drink?” Sorroto asked.

“Alcohol is banned in the American Islamic Republic of Enlightenment,” Ohmshidi said.

“Bullshit. I know you drink, but have it your own way,” Sorroto said. He poured his drink into a shaker. “For me, a vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred,” he added with a smile. When Ohmshidi made no response, Sorroto looked over at him. “Bond, James Bond.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How the hell did you ever get elected president, knowing so little about the culture and history of this country? Never mind, you weren't elected. I appointed you.” Sorroto capped off his comment by taking a swallow of his drink.

“Oh, I wouldn't say that,” Ohmshidi replied. “Nobody has enough power to appoint a president.”

“Really? Would you like me to demonstrate that power by removing you from office and putting someone else in?”

“No, no, I . . . uh . . . am very grateful for your support.”

“Yes, I would think so.” Sorroto took another drink and continued to stare at Ohmshidi, who was beginning to show his unease.

“Sit down,” Sorroto said. It wasn't a request, it was an order, and Ohmshidi sat, quickly.

“What did you want with me?” Ohmshidi asked.

“I saw the news on television as to how more than two thousand students were holding meetings to demonstrate against you.”

“Yes, but they were, uh, taken care of by Allah.”

“Don't give me any of your bullshit, Ohmshidi. I know damn well you killed them.”

“You did not think that I would allow such a thing as student protests to go unchallenged, did you? If it got out of hand it could spread and cause more problems.”

“Yeah,” Sorroto said. “Look, I'm not condemning you. You did what you had to do.”

“Yes,” Ohmshidi said with a sigh of relief. “I am glad that you understand.”

“You are also aware, are you not, that resistance to your government is growing all across the South?” Sorroto asked.

“A few isolated incidents here and there,” Ohmshidi said. “It's certainly not anything I can't handle. I have spoken with National Leader Franken about it.”

“Franken,” Sorroto said, making a scoffing sound. “Why you appointed that incompetent fool as head of the SPS, I'll never know.”

“I believe that the National Leader will have little difficulty in dealing with these few upstarts.”

“I'm not so sure about that. Never underestimate a person's determination to be free.”

“Oh, I think that isn't a problem,” Ohmshidi said. “I'm told that over ninety percent of the population has converted to Islam so that they can buy goods and services. And as long as I control that, I can keep control over everything.”

“I think ninety percent is a vast overestimation. I would say that it is more like sixty percent, and damn few of those are real.”

Ohmshidi smiled. “You don't understand. I don't care whether they are real or not. All that is important now is that I have control over them. And as long as I control such things as food, fuel, electricity, and the press, I do have control over them.”

“Like I said, Ohmshidi, don't underestimate a person's determination to be free.”

“Why are you so concerned about this, anyway? I know that all of your money is in offshore accounts. What difference does it make to you what happens here?”

“It makes a difference to me, because I have plans for this country's future.”

Ohmshidi's face reflected an expression of concern.

“You have plans for this country's future?”

“Yes.”

“Do your plans include me?”

“Oh yes, they most definitely include you,” Sorroto said. “I wouldn't have made you president in the first place, if I didn't want to use you.”

“Use me?”

“Yes, Ohmshidi. I intend to use you.”

Bob was sitting at his computer. For a moment he drummed his fingers on the desk, creating a drum cadence, then, putting his fingers back on the keyboard he resumed his writing.

Bob had written more than 200 Westerns under at least 40 names, and even though there were no more Westerns being written, for the simple reason that there were no more publishers, Bob found some comfort in doing what he had been doing for fifty years.

He was about to start a new paragraph when Jake knocked quietly, then stuck his head in through the door.

“Mr. President, do you have a moment for us?” Jake asked.

Bob chuckled. “How about calling me Bob? And who is us?”

“Tom Jack is with me.”

“Sure, come on in.”

“Writing?” Jake asked.

“Yes,” Bob answered. “I know, people probably think it's foolish of me to continue to write, especially since there are no legitimate publishers left. But it's something I used to tell my students whenever I would speak at a writing conference. A real writer cannot not write, no matter whether he or she sells or not. Real writers have a divine discontent that drives them to write. So . . .” Bob pointed to the screen. “Colt Langley rides again.”

“What's Colt Langley doing now?” Jake asked. He had read several of the published Colt Langley novels, and had been reading this novel as Bob was writing it.

“He's got the three bad guys holed up in a dead-in canyon, and he's going in after them,” Bob said.

“Three against one?” Tom asked. “How do you plan to get him out of that?”

“Hey, Tom, you don't know anything about Colt Langley, do you?” Jake asked. “He is one badass dude, I tell you. Why he's killed . . .” Jake looked at Bob. “How many has ole' Langley killed, anyway?”

“Before the publishers all went out of business, there were 40 Colt Langley books, and he generally killed at least six or seven in each one.”

“Even if it was only six in each book, that would be 240,” Jake said. “So you see Tom? Three bad guys? They'd better be saying their prayers, because they're goin' down.”

Tom smiled. “You're right, Colt Langley is one badass dude.

“I'm pretty sure you didn't come here to talk about Colt Langley,” Bob said.

“No. I thought you might like to know that we heard from Louisiana. They will be sending a delegation. And, an old army buddy of mine is going to be with them. Colonel Stump Patterson.”

“Stump? That's not his real name, is it?”

“If I remember, his real name is John. But I never heard him called anything but Stump. We were together in Germany.”

“Germany,” Bob said with a smile. “If that doesn't bring back good memories. My favorite tour for the whole time I was in the army was when I was in Germany. I would have extended my tour if I hadn't gotten orders to Vietnam. I was a single officer then, and on flight pay. What could be better?”

“Where were you in Germany?” Jake asked.

“I was stationed at Conn Kaserne in Schweinfurt. There was a bar on Niederwerrner Strasse called the Scotch Bar. A very pretty young
fraulein
named Uta used to hang out there a lot. She's twenty-one, twenty-two maybe, you know, just the age to be perky and—wait. Damn! She'd have to be at least seventy-two now! Never mind.”

Jake and Tom laughed.

“I was with D Troop of the 3rd Battalion of the 7th Cavalry,” Bob said. “We had our own pipe and drum corps. I'm sure you've heard of us.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jake teased. “I got enough of your ‘Garry Owen' crap when I was in. I know all about Custer's Own, believe me.”

“So, Louisiana is coming. How many states does that make now?”

“Eight,” Jake said.

“Are we going to move our capital to Mobile?” Tom asked.

“No, I don't see any reason why we should, do you?” Bob asked.

“No, I don't. Sherri and I are just getting settled in here. We're on the sixth floor of The Dunes, on the north side. There's not a better view on the entire island.”

“Tom Murchison, my best friend in the world bought that unit,” Bob said, wistfully. “We'd been friends since the third grade, but as adults it was always a long distance friendship. He only got to come to his unit one time before he got cancer and died.”

“I'm sorry. It makes me feel bad to think that I'm able to take advantage of that.”

Bob smiled. “Well, you've both got the same first name. And knowing Tom as I did, if the cancer hadn't killed him, seeing what Ohmshidi has done to the country would have.”

“Too bad he didn't get to enjoy his place. It sure is beautiful.”

“How do you know he isn't enjoying it?” Bob asked. “Truth is, sometimes I feel his presence, just like I feel the presence of the men I served with in Vietnam—men whose names are now on the wall.
Were
on the wall, I mean,” Bob corrected, bitterly. “We thought their names would be preserved for a thousand years; who would've ever thought that some low-assed bastard would take the wall down?”

“Well, at least we have the satisfaction of knowing that one of our own killed the son of a bitch who did that,” Jake said.

“That would be Chris. Has anyone heard from him?” Tom asked.

“I don't think we are likely to hear from him,” Bob said. “If we are lucky he will just show up and tell us that the job has been done.”

“You know who Chris reminds me of?” Jake asked.

“Who?”

“Your Western hero, Colt Langley.” Jake made the shape of a pistol with his hand, made the sound of firing, then lifted his extended index finger to his lips as if blowing away the gun smoke.

“Have gun, will travel,” Jake said.

“That was Paladin,” Bob said. “Or more accurately, Richard Boone.”

“Who?” Tom asked.

“A TV show back in the late fifties and early sixties,” Bob said.

“You people are old!” Tom said, laughing.

“At my age the only alternative to being old is being dead,” Bob said. “I'll take being old. Tell me, by the way, have we heard anything from Virdin? His ship is still on patrol, isn't it?”

“Yes, he's guarding the off-shore gas rigs,” Tom said.

“Do you think he has everything he needs? I mean, he's only one destroyer.”

Tom chuckled. “This isn't the navy you remember, Bob. The
John Paul Jones
has more fire power than the entire Japanese fleet that attacked Pearl Harbor. Believe me, he more than has enough to handle anything that might come up.”

It was just after sunrise and in the east the sun was spreading color through the heavens and painting a long smear of red and gold on the surface of the sea. On the bridge, Captain Stan Virdin was drinking coffee as he took in the beautiful sunrise. Because Virden enjoyed classical music, and because he thought it had a calming effect on the crew, he had the Intermezzo from
Cavalleria Rusticana
broadcast throughout the ship by way of the 1MC.

The
John Paul Jones
had been built as an
Arleigh Burke
class destroyer, and was among the largest destroyers built in the United States. The
Arleigh Burke
class destroyers were the most powerful surface combat vessels ever put to sea. The
John Paul Jones
was a multi-mission ship with a combination of an advanced anti-submarine warfare system, land attack cruise missiles, ship-to-ship missiles, and advanced anti-aircraft and antimissile weaponry.

When the United States collapsed under Ohmshidi, the American Islamic Republic of Enlightenment took its place and reestablished the military. The destroyer
John Paul Jones
was renamed the
Shapur 1
by the navy of the AIRE, but when the ship was recaptured by the patriots of Firebase Freedom, it was once again called the
John Paul Jones
.

The current mission of the
John Paul Jones
was to protect the offshore gas and oil drilling rigs that the patriots of Firebase Freedom had captured. Those rigs were now producing gas and oil for the use of the patriots who were in open revolt against the AIRE.

So it was as Captain Virdin that he took his ship out on patrol.

“Captain, we have surface contact, small vessel approaching at thirty-five knots, bearing one, niner, zero,” the radar operator said.

“Thirty-five knots? Damn, that's practically flying,” Virdin said. He raised his glasses and looked slightly west of south, but he saw nothing.

“Mr. Pearson, launch the UAV copter,” Virdin ordered.

“Aye, sir.”

On deck preparations were made to launch the small, unmanned helicopter.

“Stand clear of the rotor blades!”
the 1MC announced.

The craft took off, then started toward the contact. In the CIC room Virdin and the others watched the monitor.

“There it is,” someone said.

The contact was a small patrol boat. The boat sprouted four machine guns and what looked like torpedo tubes, and it was heading toward the gas wells, going so fast that it was throwing up quite a rooster tail behind it. Suddenly one of the guns began firing at the UAV.

“Cap'n, we're being fired on.”

Virdin pushed a button. “Weapons?”

“Do you have the coordinates of the surface contact?”

“Take it out.”

Thirty seconds later a Tomahawk missile was launched, and Virdin watched the trailing smoke as it headed toward the horizon. All eyes were glued to the monitor until there was flash of light, then black, as the patrol boat was hit.

There was cheering in the CIC.

“Signalman, send the following message to Phoenix. Sighted armed patrol boat approaching defense area. When we sent a UAV out for further observation, the UAV was fired upon. Patrol boat engaged and sunk.”

“Aye aye, sir,” the signalman replied.

“Secure from weapons, make ready to recover the UAV.”

When Willie Stark received the message from the
John Paul Jones
, he picked up the phone and called over to headquarters.

Barbara Carter, an attractive eighteen-year-old girl and recent escapee from the Youth Confinement and Enlightenment Center Number 251, took the call.

“Headquarters, Firebase Freedom, this is Barbara.”

“Barbara, this is Willie. Is the General there?”

“Just a minute, Captain Stark, and I'll get him.”

“Captain Stark? I thought we were beyond that.”

“Not when I'm on duty,” Barbara replied. It was an open secret that Barbara and Willie had been seeing each other on an increasingly regular basis.

“You won't be on duty tonight,” Willie teased.

“I'll get the general for you,” Barbara said. “And we'll see about tonight, tonight,” she added, with a smile in her voice.

Jake was talking with Bob Varney and Tom Jack when Barbara knocked on the door, and when Jake looked up at her, she spoke.

“Captain Stark is on the phone, sir.”

Jake picked up the phone. “Yes, Willie, what is it?”

“Sir, I just got a FLASH message from Captain Virdin.”

“Wait a minute, Willie, I'm going to put you on speaker phone,” Jake said. He pushed the button so Bob and Tom could hear as well. “All right, go ahead, what is the message?”

“Sighted armed patrol boat approaching defense area. When we sent a UAV out for further observation, the UAV was fired upon. Patrol boat engaged and sunk.”

“Thank you, Willie,” Jake said as he punched out of the conversation.

“Did he say he sunk the boat?” Bob asked.

“That's what he said.”

“Well, you can't say he isn't decisive. I hope it was a patrol boat, and not some fishing boat.”

“Bob, I know Virdin, and I've known him for a long time,” Tom said. “If he says it was a patrol boat, you can hang your hat on it.”

“Has he always been this decisive?”

“He is someone who was born for command,” Tom said. “He isn't afraid to make a decision, but I certainly wouldn't call him rash.”

Bob nodded. “All right, good,” he said. “He is the kind of man we need in leadership positions if we are going to make this thing work.”