Story in One Sentence:

Arabian Nights meets Red Dawn.

Story Synopsis:

Ameristan is a political thriller premised on the unthinkable: The United States of America becomes a conservative Muslim state where Islamic Sharia is the law of the land. You still can’t post the Ten Commandments in public schools, but Allah help you if you don’t recite the Qur’an three times a day...

You can't purchase your copy at this time. The novel will be released in 2005. But click here to reserve your copy. No payment is necessary at this time. Read the prologue and first chapter (which we have labeled as a "Sura" after the chapter divisions of the "Qur'an).

Sura 1: Foundations

he building belonged to the desert—gold dome, lonely spire to one side, sand-colored walls hugging close to the ground, and small, square window openings that appeared nothing more than cinder blocks left out during ancient construction. Even its name suggested Medina or Baghdad—the Al-Fajir Mosque.

Late-comers arrived wearing white disha dasha robes, traditional abaya coverings in brown, black and tan, and embroidered, multicolored kufis on their heads.

But their shoes were Prada and Gucci. The men walked from a clean cement parking lot filled with Mercedes-Benz, Cadillac and Lexus luxury automobiles and SUVs. Nothing similar could be found across the street, under the brightly colored triangle flags and neon sign that blinked “Texas Slim’s A-1 Used Cars.”

This was not desert. Behind the Al-Fajir Mosque towered the early-evening skyline of downtown Houston, its lights just beginning to take hold of the approaching night. The air was warm and heavy.

Inside, the men knelt in prayer, looking little different from their Muslim brothers in Abu Kareem’s home in Sanaa, so many thousands of miles away… away from this Billy-Bob, beer-and-steak land of the infidel. 

The robed men moved from their kneeling positions and sat as Abu Kareem stood before them. He wore a small lapel microphone so his message could be heard in every corner of the large room. Unlike most of the men here, Abu Kareem wore a tailored business suit. He expected to make a striking impression on these Americans—a handsome, tall figure with perfect white teeth, neatly trimmed moustache and black hair.

“My friends. My... Muslim friends. I have been asked to speak today on Islam and America.” His amplified voice echoed off stark walls. Even the women in the back, segregated behind a partition, could hear the powerful words of Abu Kareem. Among the men, some faces showed skepticism. Others remained impassive.

“America, my friends, is the last challenge for the one true faith.” Kareem paused to look around at his listeners. “What do we see all around us, if not lawlessness, immorality and disorder? Where does this come from, if not from a heretical disregard of Sharia, our sacred Islamic law?”

Kareem stepped to one side and held up a small coin.

“Look at this coin. An American penny. What does it say, right here?” Kareem examined the coin for a moment, then looked up. “In God we trust. Really? Whose God?”

Kareem locked eyes with a familiar-looking young man, perhaps in his mid-30s, sitting on the right side of the room, near the front. He wasn’t wearing traditional robes, but rather a gray suit that proclaimed “conservative businessman.” Not someone you would expect at a gathering of passionate Islamists. Kareem pegged his expression as dubious. He pressed forward.

“God is not allowed in the classroom. God is not allowed in the courtroom. God is not allowed in city hall. And God is not allowed... in the Congress, in the Senate, or even in the local school board. And I ask myself... Why?”

Kareem closed his fist around the penny and raised it above his head.

“To us, the answer is simple. The god of America is not the god of Islam! It is not the powerless god of the Jews that America needs. America needs... Allah!”

Many voices of agreement began to speak all at once, and Kareem interrupted the men.

“Why aren’t we Muslims more clever... more political? We should be running for every school board, for every mayoral race, for every state senate campaign... and for every state assembly race. At the national level, we need candidates for every congressional contest. And we need to enter every U.S. Senate race.”

As Kareem pocketed the coin, he glanced back to the young man on the right and remembered. Ah, yes, that’s Tariq Saeg. Owner of some kind of business here in Houston. Small time, but a good, committed Muslim. He’s been identified as someone we might be able to use. Kareem relaxed, then turned back to the rest of the men.

“Together, we can legally take over these “united” states and replace their constitutional government with a new government... our own caliphate.” Kareem noticed a look of surprise on Saeg’s face and began his big finish.

“United and strong, we will elect our own leader and give allegiance to him,” Kareem declared as he slowly placed his hand over his heart, “and to Islam!”

Now Kareem looked directly into the eyes of Saeg.

“You can take my word, the word of Abu Kareem! If the eight million Muslims now in America unite, we won’t have to pursue America.” He had Saeg’s attention now. “With its crime, corruption and out-of-control society, my Muslim friends, America... will come to us!”

Pausing just long enough to let those words sink in, Kareem continued, almost shouting now.

“We don’t need bombs or bullets to bring America to Sharia! Ballots will suffice!” Raising one arm with open palm, he shouted, “Allahu akhbar!”

Still holding an open hand above his head, Kareem slowly closed it into a clenched fist again.

His years of training had not been wasted. Kareem knew how to move souls. He watched as the men stood and began to shout, “Allahu akhbar!” They, too, raised clenched fists.

Tariq Saeg also stood, but his fist was not raised. Kareem watched as the crowd’s highly contagious emotion began to take effect. Saeg joined the chant, subdued at first, then louder. Soon he raised his own fist above his head like the others, shaking it in rhythm with the chants.

Kareem smiled and nodded.

Mr. Abendroth eyed the students as they entered his classroom. Every day, he sensed their apathy and resented it a little more. There seemed no hope at all for this future generation. Ah, but Byron Middle School probably wasn’t much different from any other school in California. These kids just didn’t understand what they had. Youth wasted on the young.

He watched as Sandra Edmond, a slender 13-year-old blonde, joked with her friends before taking her seat. She was one of the most popular kids in school, to Abendroth’s dismay.

He glared at the short T-shirt that bared her tiny midriff, and then noticed that the earrings dangling from her pierced ears were small golden crosses.

As the bell rang, Mr. Abendroth leaned a large poster against the blackboard. It displayed a crescent moon and a single star. He turned and saw Sandra finally slip into her seat.

“Today we begin our studies of one of the world’s great religions—Islam.” Abendroth plopped a copy of the history textbook, Across the Centuries, onto Sandra’s desk. “As an added part of your studies, I’m assigning what’s called an interactive role-playing module. From the beginning of this lesson, you and your fellow classmates will become Muslims.”

He noted Sandra’s frank look of shock.

“Well, not actually. It’s just a game. Your assignment is to study the material, then write an essay on what Jihad means to you.”

Sandra raised her hand, obviously uncomfortable with the assignment.

“Mr. Abendroth?” She shook her head, and Abendroth looked coldly at the cross earrings dangling from her ears.

“Sandra Edmond... am I going to have trouble with you?”

Enormous scars disfigured the sandy soil north of Sayhut, on the southern coast of Yemen. Huge earthmovers that gouged those scars crisscrossed in front of the foreman.

Sunglasses blocked the unforgiving sun from the foreman’s eyes, and he used the sleeve of his denim work shirt to wipe a trickle of sweat from his bushy black moustache. When the foreman saw a large stake bed truck pull around a hill and head his way, he knew this was the one he had been expecting. He knew because of the markings on the cases of product in the truck—“C-4” and “For Construction Use Only”—and the familiar logo of Bin-Salem Chemical and Construction Supply on the side of the truck. The cases of explosives bore the same Bin-Salem logo.

Good, we need this, the foreman thought. To replace what we are about to use.

He glanced up at a large sign that read, “Sayhut Desalinization Plant,” and the foreman smiled at the smaller words beneath it—“$10 Billion American Tax Dollars at Work.” Grinning back from the sign was the portrait of a rugged, good-looking man in a blue suit, above the words “Congressman Alford Dickinson (Ind.-Texas).” Beneath that was the familiar Bin-Salem Construction logo, followed by its cities of operation—Riyadh, Sanaa, Amman, Berlin, London, New York.

The foreman placed his metal hardhat atop his Arab headdress and lifted the small, remote-controlled detonator. He yelled in Arabic to a group of workers, “Inside! All of you! It is not your time to meet Allah!” They scurried behind a concrete-block shelter.

His cell phone rang, and the foreman answered it quickly. He knew who it would be, and that the man was calling from the head office of the Banque de Commerce Internationale in Amman, Jordan. Even before he heard the smooth, calm voice in his ear, the foreman could envision Ali bin-Salem reclining in his leather-backed chair on the top floor of the glass skyscraper.

Bin-Salem will look dashing in his black Brioni suit, with his pencil-thin moustache and meticulously styled, salt-and-pepper hair. He will be gazing at his three-panel computer display screen so he can watch this event in real time.

The cameras were in place, the link was established, and the LCD readout informed the foreman that encryption had been enabled on the phone line.

“Yes, Mr. bin-Salem,” the foreman answered in Arabic. “We’re right on time... The Star of Medina? Next Friday, before dusk? Yes, sir, the ‘Light of Allah’ shipment will be on time.… Fine. I’m ready to make the connection now.… Right away, sir.”

The foreman lifted a small cable that hung down from the detonator and connected it to a port on the cell phone. He looked to see the words “remote enabled” on the LCD display panel of the detonator. Then two new words scrolled across the LCD screen: “Enter password.”

“Ready, sir,” the foreman said into his cell phone.

The foreman knew that during the next few seconds, bin-Salem would be punching a series of buttons on his desk phone, slowly spelling out the word “JIHAD”: 5-4-4-2-3. And then he would press the pound key.

An enormous, ear-splitting explosion threw dirt into the air for a length of about a half mile. The men behind the concrete shelter ducked and covered their heads reflexively.

The foreman turned to face the camera, knowing he was actually facing bin-Salem. He disconnected the detonator from his cell phone and spoke into it.

“Success! Another kilometer of pipeline can now be laid. Allahu akhbar!”

The foreman closed his cell phone. He placed the phone and the detonator into his pocket as clods of dirt rained around him.

Darryl Harb hated these gangbangs—two dozen print, TV, radio and Internet reporters, all shouting and jostling each other, trying to get one meaningful little morsel from a politician. It was so dehumanizing. But he had no choice. It was Darryl’s job. And because he worked for Internet World News, he had to jostle and shout more crazily than the rest. Despite Darryl’s reputation, newsmakers didn’t always recognize him, as they did the reporters from CNN and the New York Times. With a slight build, messy brown hair and prominent nose, Darryl couldn’t command attention like those infobabes from the networks. And if he wanted to get that morsel...

Footsteps from fine dress shoes echoed down the Capitol hallway. Congressman Alford Dickinson approached, and the sharks circled his impeccably dressed figure hungrily. Darryl lead the push, but a TV cameraman knocked him aside with the steel case of his equipment. Darryl was dazed for a moment while the sharks shouted “Mr. Dickinson!” chaotically, but he regained his composure and managed to shout his question a little louder than the rest.

He had to, because Darryl realized that the reporter shoving her way next to him was Becca Jesson, the CNN bombshell, in a tight, powder-blue dress. She’ll get any Congressman’s attention. Darryl was gratified and a little surprised when Dickinson raised his hand to quiet the scrum and pointed directly at him.

“Congressman Dickinson, as committee chairman, you pushed a compromise bill through the House that virtually guarantees a student exchange program between the U.S. and the Muslim nations that hate us.”

Darryl paused to catch his breath, the pressed on. “Given the attitude of these countries toward America, do you really think your exchange program is such a good idea?”

Dickinson looked Darryl over for a moment. “Harb, is it?”

Darryl was surprised again. He had remembered his name.

“Mr. Harb, how do you expect these countries to change their attitudes unless we let their young people come and see for themselves what we are all about?”

“But Congressman, what if the students they send aren’t really...?”

Dickinson pointed to the CNN bombshell, ignoring the rest of Darryl’s question.

“Miss Jesson. Nice outfit.”

“Ms. Jesson,” she corrected him coldly. “There’s talk that you’re up for nomination as Speaker. Any truth to that?”

Dickinson assessed her, then turned away with a deprecating smile. Darryl noticed the slight. He must have been expecting a softball question from the infobabe. But Darryl took advantage of the momentary pause.

“How about it, Congressman?” he asked. “Are you next in line for the President’s job?

“That’s out of my hands.”

Becca jumped back into the fray before anyone else could react.

“You backed ten billion in loan guarantees for the Sayhut plant in Yemen, a country known for harboring terrorists.”

Darryl looked at the beautiful talking head and felt a strange mixture of irritation and respect. She’s got balls.

“Isn’t it true,” Becca continued, “that Ali bin-Salem’s conglomerate is the primary beneficiary of those funds?”

“Mizz Jesson.” The Congressman said it with a hint of derision. “Those funds were appropriated with the full consent of both the House and the Senate. If you have a problem with any of the appropriations, go see Senator Kennedy or Senator Clinton. They’re both on the Senate Armed Services Committee.”

Dickinson’s derisive tone was clear as he pointed, “That’s on the other side, Ms. Jenson.”

“That’s Jesson,” she muttered.

Dickinson turned and headed into a committee hearing room as Becca moved aside. She took a step to follow him, but the Sergeant at Arms extended his arm to bar all reporters from entering.

“Mornin’, Charlie! How’s the kids?” Dickinson clapped the Sergeant at Arms on the shoulder a couple of times, then entered without waiting for a reply.

Most of the reporters headed back to the press room to figure out if they got anything worth reporting.

“It’s Charles, you arrogant ass,” the Sergeant at Arms muttered, just barely loud enough for Becca to hear. Then he tipped a non-existent hat to Becca, who shook her head and smiled thinly as she walked away.

Darryl also heard the exchange and grinned. “That for publication, Charles?”

Charles brought an index finger to pursed lips, then broke into a warm smile. “You after another Pulitzer, Mr. Harb?” Then he leaned forward with a mock-conspiratorial whisper, “Unnamed sources on the Hill—”

“No good,” Darryl interrupted. “They don’t give out investigative prizes for headlines that say, ‘Dickinson: An Arrogant Ass.’ It’s common knowledge already.”

Charles laughed and leaned in toward Darryl’s ear again. “I understand it’s already on the Congressional Record. ‘Arrogant Ass Makes Speaker.’ Now there’s a headline for you!”