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 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.3

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Lancaster

  “Ja? What do you want?” Solomon Lantz asked, when he answered the door. There were two men standing there, both wearing black uniforms. Behind the two men were two vehicles, a truck and a van.

  “You are Solomon Lantz?”

  “I am.”

  “We are told that you have a relative living with you. An uncle by the name of Jacob Yoder.”

  “Onkel Jakob ist nicht hier,” Solomon said.

  “Where is he?”

  “He has gone back to Illinois.”

  “You are lying, Lantz. Now, aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I thought Amish never lied.”

  “What do you want with him?”

  “Oh, so now you are changing your story. You are telling us that he is here, you just want to know what we want with him. Is that it?”

  “I have not said that he is here.”

  “Then, you won’t mind if we have a look around your place. Actually, it doesn’t matter whether you mind or not. We are going to have a look around.”

  The speaker turned toward the truck, and ten men jumped down, all of them carrying submachine guns.

  “Gregoire?” the officer who had been doing all the talking said. “Gregoire, if you are here, you had better come out. Otherwise we are going to kill this man and everyone in the house. Then we’ll find you.”

  There was no answer.

  “I hope you are here, Gregoire,” the Janissary officer shouted. “Because I’m going to count to ten, and when I get to ten, I’m going to start killing. The only way you can stop it is by coming out. If you aren’t here, and this is all just a terrible mistake, I’m still going to start killing when I reach ten.”

  Again, there was nothing but silence.

  “One . . . two . . .”

  The counting continued until the officer reached seven.

  “No, wait!” a voice called from within the barn. “We’re coming out!”

  Gregoire, now without the makeup that made him appear to be an old man, came out of the barn with his hands raised. Two others were with him, a man and a woman.

  “Who are these two people?” the commandant of the Janissary team asked.

  “Mark Riley and Jennie Lea,” Gregoire replied. “My producer and my makeup woman.”

  The commandant nodded his head, and the other Janissaries began shooting. Both Mark Riley and Jennie Lea went down.

  “No!” Gregoire shouted. “No, God in Heaven, why did you shoot them?”

  “We had no orders to bring them in alive,” the commandant said. “To do so would just be an added burden.”

  “You are mad!” Gregoire said. “You are stark, raving, mad!”

  “Come with us now,” the commandant said. “Or we will kill more.”

  “No, no, I’ll go with you,” Gregoire said. “Please, I beg of you, don’t shoot anyone else!”

  Solomon Lantz watched as the men in uniform put Gregoire in the van. The others climbed back into the van and the truck, then the two vehicles sped off, raising a billowing cloud of dust as they left.

  The man and woman who had been killed, Mark Riley and Jennie Lea, lay dead in the dirt between the barn and the house. Solomon would see to it that they were given a decent burial.

  Cartersville, Georgia

  Chris Carmack and Kathy York drove into town in a dark green 2011 Camry. Four miles south of town, at the junction of routes 61 and 113, they had hidden a silver 2007 Chrysler Town and Country minivan.

  Now, on Main Street, they drove by the Bank of Submission, which, in the “before time” had been known as Regions Bank. They drove around the block, stopped, and switched drivers, so that now Kathy was driving.

  “Park in the lot, and keep the right door open,” Chris said. He kissed Kathy, but the kiss stretched out a little longer than a quick buss.

  “On the other hand,” he said. “We could move over there in the far corner and, uh, fool around a bit.”

  “I’m supposed to be a man, remember? What if someone sees us?”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.

  “On the other hand, if you want to take this up later,” she said with a little chuckle.

  “That’s a promise?”

  “That’s a promise.”

  As Chris got out of the car to walk into the bank, Kathy slid down in the car so that anyone who just happened to glance in wouldn’t have a close enough look to see through her disguise.

  There were two customers in the bank, and Chris went over to the table and began filling out a check. He waited until both customers were gone, then he stepped up to the teller’s window.

  “I have a check here for several dollars, and I wonder if you could cash it,” he asked.

  “Sir, we no longer deal in dollars.”

  “Oh, yeah, what is it called now? Moqaddas? What a dumb-assed name for money. But money is money. I’ll take it in Moqaddas.”

  “How many Moqaddas?”

  “I don’t know. How many Moqaddas do you have?”

  “What? Why would you ask such a thing?”

  Chris pulled his pistol and pointed it at the teller. “Because I intend to take everything you have. I’m not greedy, just whatever you have in that drawer will be enough for me.”

  The teller opened his drawer and started emptying it.

  “Do you have a little bag, or a pouch of some sort?” Chris asked.

  “I have a leather deposit pouch.”

  “Yes, that would be very nice,” Chris said. “Thank you.”

  The teller put the money in the pouch, then handed it across to Chris.

  “Thank you very much. It’s been quite a pleasure doing business with you today,” Chris said. He turned to leave, but halfway to the door, a bell rang.

  “Robbery! The bank is being robbed!” the teller said.

  Chris ran to the door, but when he tried to open it, he discovered that it had been locked by remote.

  “Drop the money!” someone shouted, and looking toward the sound of the voice, he saw the bank security guard. The security guard was pointing a gun at Chris.

  Chris knew that, even though the security guard was pointing the gun at him, he still had the advantage. From his years as a contract shooter for the FBI and CIA, he know the concept of reaction. If the guard did not shoot until he saw Chris making his move, it would be too late, because three-fourths of the time required to make a fast shot is in thinking about it.

  Chris shot and the security guard reacted in shock when he was hit in the chest by the bullet from Chris’s revolver. The security guard dropped his pistol and slapped his hand over the wound in his chest. Chris picked up a chair from behind an empty desk and used it to smash out the window in the front door. Then, he stepped through the opening the broken window provided, and sprinted quickly to the car. Kathy sped off as soon as Chris was in the car, even before he got the door closed.

  Fifteen minutes later, they drove back into town, this time in the silver minivan, and stopped in front of a restaurant. Now, Kathy was wearing a burqa. They could hear sirens, and they saw several people standing out in front of the restaurant.

  “What happened?” Chris asked, as he and Kathy stepped out of the car. “What’s all the excitement about?”

  “I’m not sure,” someone wearing a waiter’s garb said. “Somebody said the bank was just robbed.”

  “You don’t say. You haven’t closed the restaurant, have you? I mean, we can still get dinner?”

  “Yes, come in. I’ll seat you.”

  “Very nice of you,” Chris said.

  Chris and Kathy sat at a table in a restaurant that was less than three blocks from the bank they had robbed. Through the window they could see the police cars going to and fro, always importantly, always with the lights flashing and the siren going.

  “As my grandmother would say, the police are running around like chickens with their heads cut off.”

  “Oh,” Kathy said. “Given the way things are now, saying something has its head cut off isn’t a good analogy.”

  Chris chuckled. “You’ve got a point.”

  After dinner, Chris and Kathy checked into a motel.

  “Do you have proof of marriage?” the motel clerk said.

  “Yes. Why, do you think we would live in sin?” Chris asked. He showed the motel clerk a marriage license he had bought, identifying them as Mr. and Mrs. Dan Morton.

  “Very good, Mr. Morton, your room is 128, at the far end.”

  Chris took the key, and fifteen minutes later, he and Kathy were in bed, watching the nightly news.

  “All praise be to Allah, the merciful. Whomsoever Allah guides there is none to misguide, and whomsoever Allah misguides there is none to guide. You must live your life in accordance with the Moqaddas Sirata, the Holy Path. Those who do will be blessed. Those who do not will be damned.

  “There was a bank robbery in Carterville this afternoon. Witnesses say that the bank robber got into a green Camry. It is believed that these are the same two men who have robbed five other banks in the last six weeks. One of the men is described as medium height, with dark hair and a dark beard. There is no description of the driver, who has never been seen outside the car.

  “The amount of money taken was forty thousand Moqaddas.”

  “What?” Chris shouted to the TV. Why, those lying bastards! There was less than ten thousand in that drawer.”

  “Ha,” Kathy said. “It would appear that we weren’t the only ones to rob the bank today.”

  “Apparently we weren’t,” Chris said. “And the hell of it is, the teller, and whoever else was involved, got away with more than we did.”

  Muslimabad

  Gregoire was brought in to the Oval Office, where he stood, his hands cuffed behind his back, in front of the Resolute Desk. Janissaries, in their black and silver uniforms, stood to either side of him. Ohmshidi was sitting with his feet propped up on the desk.

  “Gregoire, as far as I know, you may be the only person ever brought into this office wearing handcuffs.”

  “That may be so,” Gregoire replied. “But you are the first traitor ever to occupy this office.”

  The Janissary to Gregoire’s right gave him a sharp jab in the side, and Gregoire’s knees buckled from the pain.

  “I’ve invited you here so we could talk,” Ohmshidi said.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call this an invitation.”

  The guard started to hit him again, but Ohmshidi stopped him with a lift of a hand. Ohmshidi chuckled.

  “You’re right. It wasn’t exactly an invitation,” Ohmshidi said. “But you are here, nevertheless, so we may as well have a conversation.”

  “All right.”

  “Why have you been so opposed to me?” Ohmshidi said. “From the very beginning, from the first day I was elected, you have been a thorn in my side. Why?”

  “Because from the time you started your campaign, with your promise to be a transformative president who would fundamentally change America, I considered you to be the greatest threat to our republic since the civil war,” Gregoire said. “But I was wrong.”

  Ohmshidi smiled. “Ahh, so now that you are my prisoner, you are willing to admit that you were wrong?”

  “Yes,” Gregoire said. “It turns out you were an even greater threat. We survived the Civil War. We didn’t survive you.”

  “You say you didn’t survive, I say you evolved. The government I have put in place is the most efficient government ever on this continent. In less than one year we have come from a nation that was on its knees, to a vibrant, new nation, no longer the enemy of the world. My government has brought peace to this nation . . . peace through Moqaddas Sirata . . . the Holy Path.”

  “If this nation was on its knees, it is because you took it to its knees,” Gregoire said. He shook his head. “The mystery to me is how the hell you ever got anyone to vote for you in the first place. You had absolutely no experience of any kind. You had never earned so much as one penny in the private sector. You held two elective positions, one as a state senator who cast no vote in two years, except present. Then you had another very unremarkable two years as a U.S. senator. Just how did you get elected?”

  “I was elected, because the people of America were ready for a change,” Ohmshidi said. “They had stood by helplessly to watch as America waged war on Islam. They had watched the American Jews take over the financial industry, the media, the entertainment industry.”

  “The media? The mainstream media, and their shameless fawning over you, is what got you elected, and now you are attacking them?”

  Ohmshidi smiled. “Well, there, you see, you wondered how I got elected. It just came from your own mouth. The media elected me. That is, all the media except that extreme right wing cable news service that billed itself as, what was it? Fair and Objective? Well, you see what happened to them. The people overwhelmingly supported my Fairness Doctrine, which got them, and you, knocked off the air.”

  “How do you know the people supported it? Neither they, nor their elected representatives, ever got the opportunity to vote on it. It was one of your executive orders.”

  “Yes, but in your case, it didn’t work, did it? Somehow, you managed to get back onto TV, to do your damage. Well, you will do no more damage. I am going to make an example of you, Mr. Gregoire. I am going to hold your trial on national television, then, after you are found guilty, you will be publicly executed.”

  “Have you ever heard of Nathan Hale?” Gregoire asked.

  “No, who is he? Is he another right wing bigot?”

  Gregoire smiled. “I didn’t think you would have heard of him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Jewish Ultimate Resolution Camp 26

  While chopping cotton, Sam managed to break off a piece of the hoe handle, about as long as a policeman’s nightstick. He was able to get it back into the barracks without its being discovered. At a little after one a.m. the next morning, he got up and sneaked out of the barracks.

  Sam had killed when he was in Afghanistan, so the concept of killing, if it was an enemy soldier, was not foreign to him. His plan called for him to kill one of the roving guards, and that’s what he intended to do, unless the guard killed him.

  Sam stayed in the shadow of the barracks, waiting for the guard to come by. The first time he came by, he was too far away. If Sam committed himself, he would be seen before he could get close enough to the guard. The guard’s second pass was the same as the first—he was still too far away.

  Sam knew that he was going to have to do something to attract the guard over to him, so on the third pass, he began raking the billy club against the side of the barracks building. The guard heard it, stopped, and looked over toward the building.

  Sam had already checked out the visual, and he knew that under the current conditions, he couldn’t be seen by the guard. He raked the club across the side of the building again, and this time, as Sam hoped he would, the guard came over to investigate. Sam waited until the guard was practically on top of him, then he brought the club down, hard, over the guard’s head.

  The guard went down and Sam knelt beside him, hitting him again and again until he was sure he was dead. After that, he stripped the guard and donned the black uniform, dressing the guard’s body in his own clothes.

  Now, dressed in the black uniform of the Janissary, Sam picked up the guard’s rifle and began walking guard. He knew, from observation, that this relief would be over at two o’clock, which was less than an hour from now. He knew, also, that the gate would be open about five minutes before two, to allow the new relief in. It was Sam’s plan to measure his circuit so that he would be even with the gate when it opened.

  Steadily, and with a measured gait, Sam continued “walking guard” to complete the duty of the man he had just killed. He was at one corner on the side of the compound where the main gate was, when it was opened and the new relief came inside. As he knew they would, they gathered in formation for a moment before they were released to relieve the guard.

  Sam slowed his gait until the new relief began to scatter through the compound. He walked through the open gate holding a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, sneezing as he did so.

  “If you’re catching the flu, don’t be coming around me,” the man in the gate house said.

  Without lowering the handkerchief from his face, Sam lifted the other hand and waved. He walked straight to the parking lot, then hit the remote key he had found in the guard’s pocket, until he found the car. He wasn’t challenged as he drove away.