Authors: Phoenix Rising

William W. Johnstone (6 page)

BOOK: William W. Johnstone

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Tuesday, March 20

When Jake went into his office the next morning, he saw a lot of smiles on the faces of the lower grades. Although no checks had yet been issued, they were already spending their money.

“I'm going to get a new Mustang,” one specialist was saying.

“Mustang, hell! I'm going to get new Caddy,” a sergeant replied.

“Not me. I'm investing my money,” a sergeant first class said.

“What makes you think you will be able to buy a Cadillac with one hundred thousand dollars?” Sergeant Major Clay Matthews asked. “Or for that matter, even a Mustang?”

“Cadillacs don't cost no hundred thousand dollars,” the sergeant said.

“And for sure, Mustangs don't cost that much,” the specialist put in. “I'm gettin' me a red convertible with white leather seats.”

“Yeah,” the sergeant said. “You know what? That don't sound half bad. Maybe I'll get a Mustang my own self, and save the difference in the money between that and a Caddy. Only I want mine to be white, with black leather seats.”

“You're both crazy spendin' money like that. You ought to be like me, and invest it,” the sergeant first class insisted.

“No,” Clay Matthews said. “The truth is they have a better idea than you do. They are right about spending it as soon as they get it, because the way things are going, if you invest your money now, within six months it will be worth about half. If it takes that long.”

“What are you talking about? I don't plan to speculate. I'll probably buy mutual funds. They will spread it out, and be very conservative.”

“Jenkins, if you double your money in six monthsâsay you run it up to two hundred thousand, or a quarter of a million, it won't make any difference,” Clay said. “Two hundred fifty thousand dollars, six months from now, will be worth what fifty thousand is now. And fifty thousand now is worth what five thousand dollars was three months ago. My advice is to spend it as soon as you get it.”

“Yeah,” the other two said. “Come with us, we'll all three buy new cars.”

“When is the last time you priced a new car?” Clay asked.

“I don't know. I've never had enough money to buy a new car before.”

“You don't have enough money now, either. I have looked; the cheapest new car on the market today is one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“What? That ain't right.”

“Go online, find your dream car, then tell me what it costs,” Clay invited.

“I'll do it,” Jenkins said, sitting down at a nearby computer. He did an Internet search, found a car that the other two agreed they liked, then asked for the price.

“Holy shit! Two hundred and twenty thousand dollars?” the sergeant who had wanted the Cadillac said. “What's going on here?”

“Inflation,” Clay replied. “Inflation like we've never had in this country before.”

“Sergeant Major Matthews,” Jake called. “Would you step into my office for moment?”

“Yes, sir,” Clay said.

“Look on there, see what the hell kind of car we can buy,” one of the men asked Jenkins as Clay went into Jake's office.

“Close the door,” Jake asked. “And have a seat.”

Clay closed the door, then took the seat Jake offered him.

“How are the men holding up?” Jake asked.

“They're gettin' a little antsy, what with nothing real to do,” Clay answered. “Truth is I'm beginnin' to get that way myself.”

“I know what you mean,” Jake said.

“Major, do you know something I don't?” Clay asked.

“Like what?”

“I know that none of the officers are getting any flight time. None of the enlisted personnel who are on flight status are getting any flight time either. Are things ever going to get back to normal? Is the school going to reopen?”

“I don't know the answer to either question,” Jake replied. “But if I had to guess, I would say no, things are never going to get back to the way they were, and no, I don't believe we will be making any more new pilots.”

“Pardon my language, sir, but just what in the hell is going on? Does this new president have his head up his ass and locked so tight that he is going to be the ruin of us all?”

“I'm afraid that might be the case,” Jake answered.

It was obvious that Clay was not expecting that answer, and he blinked in surprise. “You're serious, aren't you?”

“I'm very serious,” Jake replied. He opened the middle drawer to his desk and pulled out a manila envelope. “This envelope is filled with signed requisition forms, DD-1195,” Jake said. “I want you to take as long as you need to get every requisition processed and filled.”

Clay pulled out some of the forms. “Whoa, twenty cases of MREs? Five cases of nine millimeter and five cases of .223 ammunition. Are we going on a field maneuver, Major?”

“As far as anyone else is concerned, we are.”

“Ten barrels of JP-four. Why do you want that? Doesn't that normally come through the school?”

“I don't want any of this to go through the school,” Jake said. “I don't want anyone to know anything about this. And if you are unable to get anything on this list by requisition, then I want you to get it in any way you can. I seem to remember that you are an expert at scrounging.”

“And a water desalination device. A water desalination device? Major, you want to tell me what's going on here?” Clay asked.

“All right,” Jake answered. “Clay, did you know that during the night, last night, the dollar was disconnected from the international money exchange?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the dollar is no longer the monetary standard for the rest of the world. Instead of saying that one dollar is equal to one and a half euros, the rate is now free to float. It might cost ten dollars for one euro, or one hundred, or ten thousand.”

“That's not good, is it?”

“No, it isn't. There is a possibility, and I think a strong possibility, that this republic is going to come crashing down around us. And if it does, it's pretty much going to be every man for himself. Unless small groups get together for mutual benefit.”

“I see. Do you have a such a group in mind, Major?”

“Not yet,” Jake replied. “But when the time comes, I want you to be a part of it. If you are willing.”

Clay stood up, saluted, then stuck his hand across the desk. “I would be honored,” he said.

“Clay, until the time comes, this is between us,” Jake cautioned.

“Right, sir.” Clay put the forms back in the envelope. “I guess that, in addition to rounding up these items, I should also find a secure place to store them.”

“I think that would be a very good idea,” Jake said.

“I'll get right on it,” Clay said.

The telephone rang and Jake picked it up. “Environmental, Major Lantz.”

“Jake, have you seen the news this morning?” Karin asked.

“No, what has happened now?”

“Ohmshidi has turned Yamaninan over to the Islamic Republic of Yazikistan.”

“What?”

“You have a TV in your office?”

“Yes.”

“Turn it on. Ohmshidi is speaking now.”

“All right, thanks.” Jake held his hand up to stop Clay from leaving.

“What's up?” Clay asked.

“Wait. Before you go, you might want to see this,” Jake said. He picked up the remote and clicked on the TV that was mounted on a stand high in the corner of the room. The president was talking.

By extending our hand in peace, by proclaiming to the people and the leaders of the Islamic Republic of Yazikistan that we mean them no harm, I am taking the first step in building a bridge of understanding between our two cultures. It is a bridge that I am certain will pay incalculable dividends.

While some of you might consider Abdullah Ibrahim Yamaninan a terrorist, to the people of Yazikistan, this brave man is a hero who was willing to give his own life for the cause that is so dear to his country. All of us cannot help but admire someone who has the courage and dedication to give that last full measure of devotion to his country and to his cause.

It is my sincere belief that this incident, which resulted only in injury to Yamaninan, offers us the perfect opportunity to end the hostility between us. Therefore I am returning Yamaninan to his country, along with a note of admiration for his courage and dedication. For too long now, there has been enmity between us, an enmity created by conflicting religious views. Now is the time for religious mythology to be assigned to its proper place so that secular humanity can rule our activities.

Thank you, and good night.

Ohmshidi's picture left the screen to be replaced by Carl Wilson, an anchorman for World Cable News.

This is Carl Wilson. We have just heard the president announce that Abdullah Ibrahim Yamaninan, the terrorist who tried to blow up an airliner over New York, will be returned to Yazikistan. In the studio with me now is Lawrence Prescott, former head of the Yazikistan office for the CIA. Mr. Prescott, your thoughts?

My thoughts ? I will be honest with you, Carl. If I shared my sincere thoughts with you, we would be taken off the air. If someone were to write a manual on what not to do when dealing with these people, this would be principle number one.

The Middle Easterner on the street sees negotiation of any kind as a sign of weakness. And this? Turning over a suicide bomberâor rather a would-be suicide bomber to the country that launched the attack, without any concessions? This isn't negotiation. This is surrender.

And, where do you think this will lead?

It can only lead to catastrophe. Look, Yazikistan has let it be known that they want a nuclear weapon, and they are willing to pay any amount of money to get it. The country is wealthy in oil money, and unlike America, or any western nation, the oil money goes, not to private investors, but directly to the government. If it costs them ten billion dollars to acquire nuclear weapons, they would be willing to spend it.

But, where would they find someone willing to sell the weapons to them? Aren't all the nuclear weapons closely guarded?

Are they guarded, Carl? There are some estimates that as many as one hundred nuclear weapons that once belonged to the Soviet Union are unaccounted for. Do not think for a moment that one or more of these weapons could not be bought if the price is right.

That is a frightening thought.

Carl Wilson looked at the camera.

Again, for those of you just tuning in, President Ohmshidi has just announced that Abdullah Ibrahim Yamaninan, the man who attempted to bring down Pan World America flight one zero three over New York City, is being returned to the Islamic Republic of Yazikistan, without any conditions.

We will keep you updated on the latest developments as they occur. And now, we return you to “Focus,” our regular morning show.

“Major, I know that man is our commander in chief, and I need to show the proper respect to him,” Clay said. “But he is a raving maniac.”

“You'd better get started, Sergeant Major. I don't know how much time we have remaining,” Jake said.

“Yes, sir, I will get right on it,” Clay promised.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

Moscow, Russia

When the Soviet Union collapsed, the emerging nation of Russia inherited a military designed to fight an all-out global war. At the end of the Cold War the Russian military was left with an air force that could no longer afford to fly its airplanes, a naval fleet that sat rusting in harbors, and an army in shambles. With no more clear-cut enemies in central Europe or on the Chinese border, the military-technical considerations that played a dominant role in Soviet force development and deployment throughout the Cold War period became obsolete. An army that was once one of the two biggest super powers in the world struggled in its brief, but bloody war with Chechnya.

Colonel Andre Yassilov, the commanding officer of a missile battalion on an army base near Moscow, was a victim of the chain of events in Russia. Yassilov's grandfather had been a hero of the Soviet Union who was personally decorated by Josef Stalin for bravery against the Germans during the Great Patriotic War. Colonel Yassilov's father was killed in Afghanistan and given a hero's funeral. Colonel Yassilov, who had served with honor and distinction in the war in Chechnya, had been a member of the army for twenty-six years.

But now things had changed. There was no pay for the military. Worse, there was very little food. The desertion rate of Yassilov's soldiers was higher than fifty percent and Yassilov couldn't blame them. At one time being an officer in the Russian armed forces meant having a position that not only commanded great respect, but also paid very well. Now, however, Yassilov, whose missile battery was equipped with SS-25 nuclear warheads, was forced to wait tables. The irony of it was extremely bitter. He had more firepower under his command than the total amount of explosives used in all of World War I and World War II combinedâbut he was waiting tables, groveling before diners for their measly tips.

Yassilov had swallowed his pride to work at the Gostiny Dvor restaurant, which was situated deep within a decorated garden on Volkova Street. The restaurant had a large dining hall that could seat eighty persons, a VIP hall, and a summer terrace. The interior of the restaurant was vintage Russian with timbered walls, massive dark-brown furniture, decorative windows with shutters, and handmade carpets. In the yard in front of the restaurant there was a fountain and a small waterfall. It was a favorite dining place for tourists, and had especially been so for Americans before recent events had almost completely stopped American travel.

It was here that Yassilov was first approached. One year earlier Yassilov would have never even considered discussing business with someone who made an offer to buy nuclear warheads. Had he been approached even three months ago he would have reported the contact to the proper authorities. But his personal situation had so deteriorated, and the amount of money the man offered was so large that it staggered the senses. It was sufficient money for Yassilov to return his own family to the economic level they had once enjoyed, and there would even be enough leftover to buy food and supplies for his men.

What Yassilov was being asked to do was a terrible violation of the oath he once swore, but, he reasoned, that oath should go both ways. If he owed allegiance to his country, then didn't his country owe allegiance to him?

The SS-25 missiles under his command had been destined for destruction under terms of the SALT treaty, which meant it would be fairly easy for Yassilov to comply with the request.

Yassilov dismantled the weapons as ordered, but he adjusted the inventory so that all were accounted for, though in fact he held back ten of the warheads. He sold the three warheads for a total of one million five hundred thousand Rubles. That was a small outlay for the man who bought the warheads. He had a buyer in Germany who would pay ten million euros for them.

The buyer in Germany contacted a Venezuelan arms dealer who agreed to pay one hundred million euros for the ten warheads. The Venezuelan paid the money without haggling because he had a customer in Yazikistan who would pay him five billion Venezuelan bolivars. The weapons never left Russia until the final deal was completed; then they were transported quickly and easily from Russia to Yazikistan in containers marked
MEDICAL RADIOLOGY
.

Tuesday, April 17

Hello, America.

Last month Mr. Ohmshidi made world headlines, incurring the wrath of most Americans and the incredulity of all the Western nations by returning the Muslim terrorist Yamaninan to Yazikistan. Even though he was still suffering from the burns of an unsuccessful attempt to detonate the PETNânot suffering enough, if you ask meâYamaninan was placed in the backseat of President Rafeek Syed's personal open-top car and given a hero's parade through the streets of Kabrahn.

The open hand of peace Ohmshidi said he was extending to Yazikistan was met, not by an open hand, nor even by a fist, but by a swinging scimitar. As many as one million Yazikistanis lined the streets of Kabrahn, cheering loudly for their hero, and shouting such things as “Death to America!” “America the Satan!” and “Ohmshidi will go to hell!”

American interests all over the world are being attacked now. United Technomics in Paris was firebombed. In addition, every American news service in Europe has been attacked. Our embassies are under siege, and we have no means of protecting them, or American businesses overseas.

This is only the beginning.

That night Karin came to Jake's house, bringing dinner with her, and because she was expected, she let herself into the house. “Jake?” she called.

“I'm in the kitchen,” Jake replied. “I saw you drive up, so I'm getting the root beers.”

“Are you ready to see the Reds beat the Cardinals ?”

“Ha!” Jake replied returning to the living room carrying the two soft drinks. “In your dreams. The Cardinals have the Reds' number, and always have.”

“What time does the game start?”

“At seven,” Jake said, putting the drinks on the coffee table. “I've got it on the right channel. The clicker is on the lamp table right beside you. Just turn it on.”

This is Carl Wilson with World Cable News. We are waiting for an address from the President of the United States. In the eighty-eight days since President Ohmshidi took office, he has given seventy-three televised speeches. He will be speaking from the Oval Office shortly, and we are told that the address will be only three minutes long.

“Damn, has that man ever seen a television camera that he wasn't in love with?” Jake asked. “What did you get?”

“Hot wings and potato logs. I was in the grocery store and walked by the deli. It smelled good, so that's what I got. Hope you approve.”

“Oh, yeah, it looks and smells great. Now, if we could just get this idiot to stop going on TV every day.”

“Supposedly he is only going to talk for three minutes. We may as well hear what he has to say,” Karin said.

“Why? Whatever he says, it is just going to make matters worse.”

We at World Cable News, along with all other television networks, have been given a transcript of the president's speech, but were told that we cannot say anything about it prior to his address. I can tell you this, however. It will be, to say the least, a stunning announcement. Afterward, we will discuss the address with our distinguished panel of news analysts.

“That's what we need,” Jake said. “Another stunning announcement.” Jake picked up a hot wing, separated it, and began eating.

The picture on the screen showed the president sitting behind his desk in the oval office. Behind him were two flags, the flag of the United States and a white flag, bearing what had been his campaign logo but had since replaced the flag bearing the presidential seal as the image of the Ohmshidi administration. It was a green circle enclosing wavy blue lines that represented clean water, over which was imposed a stylized green plant.

“I know you aren't supposed to hate,” Jake said, “but every time I look at that man, I come as close to hating as you can get.”

“Remember,” Karin said, “that's our commander in chief you are talking about.”

“How can I forget?” Jake asked with a growl.

“Shhh,” Karin said. “He's about to speak.”

“Whoop-de-doo,” Jake replied.

Ladies and gentleman, the President of the United States,
an off-camera voice said.

My fellow Americans. For too many years now, we have been dependent upon fossil fuels to meet our energy needs. This dependency has been the cause of nearly every problem we have faced, beginning in the late twentieth, and continuing into this, the twenty-first century. It has poisoned our environment, caused cancer and countless other health problems. It has destroyed our ozone layer, leading us toward irreversible global warming. It has created severe economic problems, and it has been the cause of international hatred and war.

For the last fifty years, there have been discussions of moving to a green economy with alternative, clean, and renewable energy as our nation's engine. And while other presidents before me have announced that as their goal, they have all failed.

I will not fail because I am taking a bold, and admittedly very difficult, step. It is, however, a step that I must take. I am, today, ordering an immediate cessation to all drilling and refining of domestic fossil fuels. In addition, we, as a nation, will no longer import fuels. We will have only that fuel currently extracted, refined, and in our inventory. When that is gone there will be no more. My analysts tell me that with strict rationing of the kind used during World War Two, our fuel supply should last about six months.

Now, while this may seem like a draconian step to many of you, it is, I believe, a way of spurring our scientists and engineers into committing to a twenty-four-hour-per-day, seven-days-per-week effort to find a sustainable alternative energy program. Will it be hydrogen? Will it be cold fusion? Will it be some scientific breakthrough that we have not yet imagined?

We of course have no idea as yet what this new source will be, but our future is exciting because I have absolute faith in our scientists to find a solution. Until then, all Americans will have to tighten their belts as we embark upon this great adventure together.

Thank you, and good night.

“He can't be serious!” Jake shouted. “He has lost his mind! He has finally lost his mind!”

“You have won me over, Jake,” Karin said in a quiet, hesitant voice. “I think he has lost his mind.”

“Do you know how much jet fuel we use in just one week at Fort Rucker?” Jake asked.

“I know it is a lot.”

“We use three hundred thousand gallons per week. That is, we were using that when we were operational. Now if just we were using that much, how much fuel do you think our whole country uses? Everything, and I mean everything, is going to come crashing to a halt.”

“How long do you think before that happens?” Karin asked.

“The last time you filled up, what did you pay for gasoline?” Jake asked.

“I don't know, around three twenty-five I think. Or something like that.”

“You mark my words, tomorrow gasoline will be ten dollars a gallon, and that's only the beginning.”

“I don't mind telling you, Jake; I'm getting a little frightened, now.”

“Only idiots aren't frightened now,” Jake said.

Thursday, May 17

In the weeks following the president's announcement that he was halting all acquisition of fossil fuel, either by domestic drilling, or importation, the price of gasoline began to increase, jumping at the rate of at least two dollars per day. The cost of fuel was beginning to be a problem for Jake and he was making a good salary. He couldn't help but wonder how others were dealing with it.

It was ten miles from Ozark to Fort Rucker and Jake drove it every day. This was Friday morning and, as he did every Friday morning, he stopped his two-year-old Volvo at the Busy Bee Quick Stop service station to fill his tank. Though this was normally a “fast in, fast out” stop, this morning he saw several cars waiting at each fuel island. This had become routine in the last few weeks, and Jake was prepared for it. He was in no particular hurry and he sat listening to Vivaldi's “Four Seasons” on the satellite radio as he waited.

“You son of a bitch! You pulled in front of me!” someone yelled to the driver of a car in the next line over. The shout was followed by the incessant honking of a horn that did not cease until a couple of policemen arrived.

“That asshole pulled in front of me!” the driver yelled to the police.

“Both of you,” the police ordered, “out of line.”

Grumbling, both the aggrieved, and the aggrieving driver were ordered to leave.

“Find somewhere else to get your gas,” the policeman said. “And don't both of you go to the same station!”

Jake watched the two cars drive away. There was a time when he might have been amused by the little drama, but he had been seeing television reports of similar incidents all over the country. People were afraid, and the more frightened they got, the more uneasy the situation was becoming.

After a wait of about fifteen minutes, Jake pulled up to the pump and saw the price of gasoline, then gasped. It was thirty-six dollars per gallon.

“What?” he shouted. Thinking it might be a mistake, he checked some of the other fuel pumps.

“It's no mistake, sir,” said a sergeant on the next island over, when he saw Jake checking the prices. “I stopped here yesterday and it was thirty-four dollars a gallon. I thought that was too much, but if we aren't going to get any new oil, this is just going to get worse. I should have bought gas yesterday.”

“You had better fill your tank, Sergeant,” Jake said. “At this rate, it could be fifty dollars a gallon or more by this time next week.”

It cost Jake four hundred and thirty-two dollars to fill his tank. He was still frustrated when he reached his office. There were now more soldiers at Fort Rucker than there had been at any time since the Vietnam War, but because all training operations had stopped, except for normal housekeeping duties there was not one soldier who was gainfully employed. Jake knew that it could not last like this.

When Jake reached his office, Sergeant Major Matthews was waiting for him.

“Good morning, sir,” Clay said.

“Sergeant Major. How are you coming on your requisitions?”

“I've added something to the list. I hope you don't mind.”

“No, not at all. If you can think of something else we might need, by all means, acquire it if you can.”

“I already have,” Clay said. “I have twenty barrels of Mogas.”

“You have twenty drums of gasoline?” Jake asked in surprise.

“No, sir, barrels, not drums. Drums hold only fifty gallons, a barrel holds fifty-five gallons. I figured it might be good to have.”

“You figured correctly,” Jake said.

“I know gas is expensive now, but I don't think we should use this until we have to,” Clay suggested.

“I agree,” Jake said. “We need to put it somewhere safe.”

“I thought I would hide it in a hangar out at Hanchey Field.”

“No, too many people out there. We need a more remote place than that.”

“How about one of the stagefields?”

“Yes, excellent idea,” Jake said. “And I know where to go with it. TAC-X. It's thirteen miles away, has four buildings, and is totally abandoned.”

“All right, I'll get a truck from the motor pool.”

“No,” Jake said. “You would have to get a trip ticket for TAC-X and since it is no longer being used, that might arouse some suspicion. I think you would be better off renting a truck.”

Jake wrote a check for two thousand dollars and handed it to him. “I hope this covers your expenses,” he said. “But I would cash it immediately. And use it up as quickly as you can. The way the value of the dollar is plummeting, it may be worth only half as much this afternoon.”

“I hear you,” Clay said. “By the way, Captain Gooding is the POL Officer. If you would happen to get a telephone call from him, maybe you could cover my ass with a bit of a runaround.

“I'll do it,” Jake said.

“Thanks.”

“I'll leave it in your capable hands, Sergeant Major.”

“I'd better go find a truck.”

BOOK: William W. Johnstone

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