Phoenix Rising: (51 page)

Dr. Taylor Urban's office was on the corner of New Madrid and Center Street. The office had been there for over fifty years, first with Dewey Urban, Taylor's father, and now with Taylor. There had been a decided change in the practice beginning from the moment the “Ohmshidi Care” bill was passed establishing socialized medicine and putting all doctors on the public payroll.

The workload for doctors increased, then, when nearly half of the doctors quit their practice, the workload increased exponentially. Taylor Urban didn't quit, it wasn't about the money for him. It never had been about the money. He treated patients because he felt as if he had been born for that purpose.

After the United States collapsed under Ohmshidi, to be replaced by the American Islamic Republic of Enlightenment, there was an even more drastic change in the practice of medicine. All women doctors lost their license to practice and it became law that male doctors could no longer treat female patients.

Dr. Urban refused to follow that decree, and he let it be known that he would treat female patients. He established a second office in the back of a store that sold muslim clothing for women, such as abaya and jilbab, hijab and scarf, kurti and tunic. Because the store specialized in clothing for women, it did not immediately arouse suspicion that there were always women going in and out.

Then, one day in late July, Dr. Urban had Blanche Percy, a single young woman in her early twenties, sitting on the padded table. Blanche was topless, and Dr. Urban was feeling her breasts to search for lumps. It was at that precise moment that the door to his “secret” examining room burst open and four armed Janissaries burst in.

“Here, what is the meaning of this?” Dr. Urban demanded, indignantly.

“You and the whore are both under arrest,” the leader of the Janissaries said.

“This woman is my patient!” Dr. Urban said. “How dare you break into my office like this! And how dare you call this innocent young lady a whore!”

Blanche Percy was ordered to cover herself. Then both she and Dr. Urban were taken to jail.

Merlin Lewis was an extrovert. He greeted everyone effusively, even people who were on the other side of the street, often calling them by name. He was a heavy-set man with white hair and an almost perfectly round birthmark on his face. Many years ago Lewis had been a star football player for the Blytheville High School Chickasaws. Then, he went by the nickname of Bull, the sobriquet earned by his bruising defensive play.

On this morning, Lewis went into the SPS headquarters which was located on Walnut Street in what had once been the police station. The desk clerk looked up and, recognizing him, said, “You here to see Captain Mahaz?”

“Yes, please.”

The desk clerk picked up the phone and punched a number. “Your informer is here.”

A moment later Captain Mahaz came out to see him.

“What do you have for me?”

“You said you wanted me to tell you when there would be a gathering of twenty or more people, violating holy law?”

“Yes.”

“A group of old army and air force veterans are meeting for a picnic and softball game at Walker Park. Their wives will be with them, and I expect there will be at least thirty or more. And, I'm told they will be serving barbecued pork at the picnic.”

“When is this to be?”

“Tomorrow at noon.”

“You're blind as a bat, Wilson, if you think I was out at second base. I beat that throw by a mile.”

“Carmichael, it took you two minutes to run from first to second. I was standing there, holding the ball, waiting for you. Hell, I would have had time to go to the latrine and back while I was waiting for you to run from first to second.”

The others laughed at Wilson's comment. The softball game having just been completed, Army beat Air Force nine to seven, the men and women were now filing by the food table. The table was amply supplied with potato salad, baked beans, and sliced meat, which, according to the sign was “barbequed goat.”

In fact, the meat came from a couple of pork shoulders, cooked the day before on a farm outside of town so that the telltale aroma wouldn't give it away.

“Damn, this is good . . . goat,” someone said, and again there was laughter.

Wilson was the first to see the military truck drive into the park. “What's that deuce and a half doin' here?” he asked.

“Oh!” a woman said. “They know about the pork!”

“What pork,” Carmichael said. “It's goat. Remember, if they ask us anything, it's goat.”

Twelve SPS men climbed down from the back of the truck. All were armed and they started across the park toward the group of picnickers.

“I'm frightened,” one of the women said.

“I'll go talk to them,” Wilson volunteered. He started toward the group of SPS men, holding up his hand as he approached.

“I don't know what you think is going on here, but I assure you this . . .”

That was as far as Wilson got, before the SPS men raised their automatic weapons and began firing.

Wilson was the first to go down. Men shouted in alarm, and women screamed as the SPS men continued to fire. Some of the victims tried to run, but the SPS men chased after them, and shot them down. Then, with every man and woman down, the SPS troopers went around the park, firing a bullet into the head of each person, just to make certain they were dead.

After that, they stepped over the dead bodies to go up to the table and help themselves to the food that was there. Nearly every SPS man who had taken part in the raid was from the local area. They had grown up eating barbequed pork so they knew, immediately, what they were eating. They had the cover, though, of the sign saying that the meat was goat, so not one man commented on it. Instead, they just enjoyed the food.

 

 

Article in the
New York Socialist Islamic Times:

When Dr. Urban was brought into court, he looked around for Miss Percy who, he had been told, would be tried with him. She was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is Miss Percy?” he asked the bailiff.

“Dead.”

“What? What happened to her?”

“She was executed.”

“But she wasn't even tried!”

“Why waste time with a trial? There were four witnesses who saw her naked in your office. The judge summarily sentenced her to death and she was beheaded this morning.”

“No!” Dr. Urban said. He bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No!” he said again.

“All rise!” the bailiff shouted. “This court of shariah law is now in session, the honorable Imam Tahir presiding.”

The gallery rose as the judge, wearing a dark bisht came into the courtroom. Not until he was seated did the gallery sit down.

“Sit there,” the bailiff said, pointing to a single chair behind a table.

Dr. Urban noticed two things right away. There was no lawyer at his table, and there was no jury.

“Where is my lawyer?” Urban asked the bailiff.

“Silence in this courtroom,” Tahir said, glaring across the bench at Dr. Urban.

“Your Honor, my lawyer hasn't arrived yet. And neither has the jury,” Dr. Urban said.

“I told you to be quiet, infidel,” Tahir said. “I have dismissed your lawyer and the jury. You may represent yourself, and I will act as both judge and jury.”

“But that's not right!” Dr. Urban protested.

“It is right, because I say it is right. Now, sit down and don't say another word until you are given permission to speak.”

Dr. Urban sat down as ordered, then he thought again of the young woman who the bailiff said had been beheaded this morning. Was he the cause of that, simply because he had agreed to treat her?

“Prosecutor may make his case,” Tahir said.

The prosecutor, wearing a thobe, was sitting at a table across from Dr. Urban. He stood and began speaking.

“This man was observed by four witnesses to be treating a female patient. This is against our law, and in a perfect example of why it is, and should be, against our law, the four witnesses observed the female to be nude from the waist up, and this man,” he pointed dramatically toward Dr. Urban, “was openly fondling her breasts!”

The prosecutor shouted the last five words, and he got a gasping reaction from those in the gallery.

“I was not fondling her breasts! I was examining her for cancerous lumps!” Dr. Urban shouted.

“You will be silent!” Tahir shouted.

The prosecutor, showing by the expression on his face his disdain for Dr. Urban, continued with his presentation.

“One of the worst of evil deeds is in openly defying the law of Allah, as taught to us by his messenger Mohamed, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him.” The prosecutor pointed to Dr. Urban. “The malevolence of this heretic despoiled a young woman and caused her to commit a sin which according to Mohamed, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him, demanded that he be put to death.

“There can be no lesser penalty for this man.” The prosecutor sat down and the judge looked toward Dr. Urban.

“You may speak in your defense.”

Dr. Urban stood up. He was going to repeat his denial that he was “fondling” Blanche Percy's breasts, but he had already shouted that out. He knew the judge had heard him, so, for a moment, he was at a loss for words, so he stood quietly for a long moment.

“Speak, or be seated,” Tahir ordered.

“Your Honor, when I took the oath of my profession, I made a pledge. It is a pledge that I committed to memory, and with your permission, I wish to repeat it here.”

“Does prosecution have any objection?” Tahir asked.

Dr. Urban had to hold himself in check. What did the judge mean, asking if prosecution has any objection? What right does the prosecution have to object?

“I have no objections, Your Honor,” prosecution replied.

Tahir turned his attention back to Dr. Urban.

“You may speak.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. This was the oath I took. ‘I solemnly pledge to consecrate my life to the service of humanity. I will give to my teachers the respect and gratitude which is their due. I will practice my profession with conscience and dignity. The health and life of my patient will be my first consideration. I will respect the secrets which are confided in me. I will maintain by all means in my power, the honor and the noble traditions of the medical profession. My colleagues will be my brothers. I will not permit considerations of religion, nationality, race, party politics or social standing to intervene between my duty and my patient. I will maintain the utmost respect for human life, from the time of its conception, and even under threat I will not use my medical knowledge contrary to the laws of humanity. I make these promises solemnly, freely and upon my honor.'

“I submit, Your Honor, that it was in following the obligation of this oath, that led me to provide medical services to the young woman.”

Dr. Urban sat down, and the prosecutor jumped up almost immediately

“Imam, the accused now stands convicted by his own words. Nowhere in that oath he just recited, did he mention Allah. Any oath, not taken to Allah, is heresy.”

The prosecutor sat back down, a triumphant smile on his face. The judge looked over at Dr. Urban.

“This court finds you guilty as charged. You will be taken from this place to the prison at Tanner, and there you will remain until I decide how best to administer your ultimate punishment. This court is adjourned.”

They were meeting in a building at the corner of East Meadow and North Johnson Street. Sarhag (Colonel) Saladin had come down from Muslimabad to talk with the “Special Operations Team.” Ten men, all Janissaries, had infiltrated the South Carolina Defense Corps and, over the last six weeks, had earned the trust of Captain Ray Lumsden, the SCDC commander for the local area. They had trained under Lumsden, and had been accepted as active duty members of his company.

“Obey Ohmshidi,” Saladin said.

To the man, all ten Janissaries responded with the Moqaddas salute, a closed fist, across their chest.

“Obey Ohmshidi.”

The men were not wearing their black and silver uniforms, but a uniform of gray, much like the work uniforms of truck drivers and warehouse workers.

“Lumsden does not suspect anything?” Saladin asked.

“He suspects nothing, Sarhag,” Jay Malone said. Malone was his birth name and although he and the other nine Janissaries had taken on Muslim names, for the purpose of this operation, which was being called “Mohammed's Hammer,” they were using their birth names.

“There are eighteen of us who were trained by Lumsden,” Malone said. “Eight are locals, who were sincere in joining the rebels.”

“Have you a plan to handle them?”

“Yes, Sarhag. We believe that Lumsden will be sending us out on a scouting mission without one of his regulars, tomorrow. When he does, we will kill the ones who have not joined us, then we will return to the camp and kill Lumsden and the others. They will suspect nothing.”

“Good. I will stay here in Gaffney until the mission is accomplished,” Saladin said. “When you are done, call me on the cell phone. Obey Ohmshidi.”

“Obey Ohmshidi,” the Janissaries replied.

The firebase was set up on the very grounds where Colonel Daniel Morgan and his American Continental troops defeated Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton and his British Regulars during the Revolutionary War. The roads into what had been a national park in the pre-O time were now so deteriorated that they were practically impassable by vehicle. This location was specifically chosen for that reason, as well as its historical significance.

South Carolina had declared itself as seceded from AIRE, but, because there were still people who were leery about joining another federation, it had not sent a delegation to the convention in Mobile. There were also people within the state who opposed secession and so much of the fighting within the state had been infighting.

The Firebase leader, Captain Ray Lumsden, had named the camp after his one-year old daughter, Cassandra. The young girl's pictures, posing with and without her mother, were plastered all over Lumsden's quarters. Camp Cassandra had been in position for just over a month now and, Lumsden was proud to say, the team was functioning exactly as it was supposed to. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, Lumsden sat down at his field desk, then opened up the laptop computer to establish a link with the satellite. Once the link was established, he keyed in his operational readiness report.

Walter Dent had been appointed to the rank of Sergeant by Captain Lumsden, and he was leading the eighteen-man team. Their mission for today was to setup a roadblock on Hands Mill Highway, to stop what the latest intelligence report said would be a convoy of SPS weapons.

“All right, we'll set up here,” Dent said. “We'll drop a tree across the road, that will stop them and . . .” Dent saw Malone and several others moving away. “What are you doing? We're going to be setting up here, not . . .”

“Allah Hu Akbar!”
Malone shouted, and the nine men with him turned their weapons on Dent and the seven with him. Most of the men had put their weapons down as they were preparing to cut down the tree so they were completely defenseless. Dent and the seven men with him went down under the gunfire.

When the stopped shooting the air was heavy with the acrid stench of gun smoke.

“All right,” Malone said. “Back to the camp. We have some infidels to kill.”

Dent, who had been hit in the shoulder, lay perfectly still until Malone and the others left. He heard Malone say that they had infidels to kill. He checked the others and found that all were dead. He had brought a radio with him when they started on the patrol, but it was gone. He searched the others for a radio or cell phone but couldn't find one.

Dent knew he had to warn Captain Lumsden and the others, but how? Tearing off a piece of his shirt, he stuffed it into the bullet hole to stop the bleeding, then started back toward the compound. Malone and the others had a head start, but he had to try.

“Cap'n Lumsden, you in here, sir?”

Looking up, Lumsden saw Sergeant Haverbrook sticking his head through the opening of the CP tent.

“Right here, Hav, what's up?”

“The patrol's comin' back, sir.”

Lumsden glanced at his watch. “They aren't due back until sundown. Why are they coming back so early?”

“I don't know, sir. Kincaid was up on the tower and he saw them. But there's only ten of them.”

“Ten? Didn't we send out eighteen?”

“Yes, sir, we did.”

“They must've run into trouble.”

“Yes, sir, that's what I'm thinking. But why didn't they radio for support?”

“I don't know,” Lumsden said. “Let's go meet them.”

As Lumsden and Sergeant Haverbrook started toward the edge of the compound, Lieutenant Cummins joined them. The rest of the team was playing volleyball.

“What do you mean it was out, you dumb shit? It hit just inside the line!”

“What the hell, Tyndol, do you think the North Carolina state line is the boundary?”

The response met with laughter.

“Yeah, all right, I know what I'm dealing with now,” Tyndol said. “Next time I'll spike it right down your throat.”

“Oooh, Tyndol, you're bad, you're baad,” someone said, and again there was laughter.

“Who's that in charge?” Lumsden asked as the approaching patrol came closer. “That's not Dent.”

“No, sir, it isn't,” Haverbrook said. “It's Malone.”

“Malone? What's he doing in charge?”

“Dent must've gone down.”

They waited until the patrol was within ten yards of them.

“Malone, what happened?” Lumsden called out. “Where's Dent?”

“Open fire! Kill them all!” Malone shouted.

The members of the patrol brought their weapons around and started firing. Lumsden, Haverbrook, and Cummins went down in a hail of gunfire. Those playing volleyball looked up in surprise, wondering what was going on. They were shocked to see the patrol running toward them.

“No,” Tyndol shouted. “Don't run! Form a defense perimeter!”

Tyndol was yelling at the patrol, because he thought the attack had come from outside the camp and, ever the instructor, he was trying to get the patrol into position to repulse.

The patrol opened up on the unarmed volleyball players.

“My God, they've turned on us!” Tyndol shouted, realizing his error too late. He was one of the first to go down. The patrol swept over the unarmed Americans, killing them with grim efficacy. Within less than a minute, all twelve members of Firebase Cassandra were dead.

Malone pulled out his cell phone and punched in the telephone number for Salidin.

“Obey Ohmshidi,” Salidin answered.

“Obey Ohmshidi. This is Jamal,” Malone said, using his Muslim name. “
Allah hu akbar!
It is done.”

 

 

Walter Dent had watched the entire massacre, unable to do a thing to prevent it. He stayed hidden until Malone and the others left, then he went into the camp, hoping to find someone alive. He knew, even before he started looking, that it would be fruitless. He had watched, helplessly, as Malone and the others finished off each of their victims with a shot to the head. He realized that he was lucky they hadn't done the same thing to the other members of the patrol.

Going into Captain Lumsden's office, he found a radio, and put through a call to Major Tobin. As he was waiting for Tobin to come to the radio, he saw, on the wall, a picture of the little girl after whom the camp was named, and he felt a lump in his throat.

“This is Major Tobin.”

“Captain Lumsden is dead,” Dent said. “Everyone is dead.”