Out of the Ashes (6 page)

“How are the American people reacting?”

“Just as we expected, sir. Panic. Riots starting in some of the cities; many trying to flee the cities.”

“Where in the hell do they think they're going?”

The aide shook her head. “They don't know, sir. They're just running scared.”

President Rees shook his head in frustration. He glanced at his watch. “Do we have the secret service clean?”

“Yes, sir. That's positive.”

“Then the White House is secure?” he asked.

“Until the birds fly,” he was told. With that, President Rees puked all over the carpet.

 

Ben Raines sat in his den and watched the TV news. Regular programing had been abandoned. Ben drank his whiskey and was sourly amused at the panic building within the U.S.

He arrogantly toasted the TV newswoman with his whiskey glass and said, “I always wanted to screw you, honey.”

Then he rose from his chair, turned off the TV, and put on a symphony. Wagner's Ring.

 

The pistol in Bull Dean's hand never wavered. The hammer was jacked back to full cock, the muzzle pointed at Adams' belly. “I should have put it together months ago, Carl,” he said to his longtime friend. “You've been playing me for a fool. Worse than that, Cart—you've been playing God.”

“You're wrong, Bull!” Adams protested. He kept his hands at his side. He made no quick moves; he knew the Bull too well to try to jump him. The Bull was an old man, but still as deadly as a black mamba. “It was now or never, Bull. The only way.”

“You gave the orders for those units to revolt—knowing they would be killed.”

“I had to start it rolling, Bull!”

“You gave the orders to shoot down the VP's plane. Leak the Thunder-strikes to the press.”

“I had to!”

Bull Dean shook his head. “You fool—you poor misguided fool. You didn't really think the special troops would fall in with you, did you? Commit an act of treason?” He shrugged, but the pistol never wavered. “Well, it's over. Hours to go. Worse than being a fool, Carl, you're a traitor. Since three o'clock this afternoon, I've been in contact with more than ninety-five percent of the rebel commanders. They're out of this; keeping their heads down.”

“They'll follow my orders!” Carl screamed.

Bull shook his gray head. “No, they won't, Carl. They're Americans, not traitors. Their only reason for rebelling was for this nation—we saw it going back to the left. They were doing it for their country, not for you or me. You don't have an army.”

“Maybe you're right, Bull. O.K., so you are. But I've won, Bull. Even though I'm seconds away from being dead—I've won after all.”

“How do you figure that, Carl? We've been underground for eighteen years. Lost our families, everything. How have you won?”

“Out of the ashes, Bull. This nation will be stronger than it's ever been in its history. The survivors will be tough. They'll never let it go left again; never again go soft on criminals and punks. Discipline will be restored, and citizens will once more be armed—and they'll never—
never!
—give up their guns again.”

“It might go the other way, Carl. Ever thought of that?”

“No way.”

Bull smiled sadly. “We've started a world war, Carl. A horrible war—the worst this world has ever seen. But maybe we can stop it. Tell me how to stop the men on that sub from pushing the button.”

Adams shook his head. “They can't be stopped.” He smiled. “No verbal orders. They've shut off their only link to the outside. They're prepared to die for their country, Bull. It's too late.”

“Yes,” the old sailor said with a sigh. “I suppose it is.” He pulled the trigger, the heavy .45 automatic jumping in his hand, the slug punching a hole in Carl's chest. The slug shattered the heart. The man slammed backward, dead on the floor.

Bull Dean stood over the cooling body of the man he had called friend and fellow warrior for more than thirty years. He shook his head.

The phone rang. Bull picked up the receiver. It was the commander of the eastern-based rebels. “I have my people in position, sir, ready to move into the shelters. Same with all the others. I wonder what the civilians are going to do?”

“If they're smart,”—the old soldier smiled grimly—“they'll put their heads between their legs and kiss their asses good-by.”

He hung up.

Bull sat down in a chair by the phone and thought of calling Ben Raines, down in Louisiana. He shook his head. Last he'd heard Ben was somewhat of a drunk. Best damned guerrilla fighter Bull had ever seen. A drunk. Shame.

He reviewed the facts in his mind. Carl had left the Adirondacks twice during the past month, traveling to New York City. Bull had followed him, slowly putting it all together. Carl was playing footsie with both the Russians and the Chinese, using the Thunder-strikes as bait. A double double cross that had worked. Then Carl had instructed his people in NATO to rig a message, letting it fall into the hands of the mainland Chinese, informing them of the strike against them. And he had set up the Russians. It had all worked to perfection.

Now it was too late for anything except prayer.

“We both should have died in 'Nam,” he said aloud. “We were two good soldiers gone wrong.”

No. He shook his head. We weren't wrong. Not at the outset. It was basically a good plan, restoring America to her constitutional roots.

He sighed as he looked at the cooling body of Adams. You got too big for your boots, partner. Went off the deep end. I think, toward the end, you were crazy.

He picked up the phone, telling the operator, “Get me the White House, miss. Tell whoever answers that Col. Bull Dean wants to speak with Crazy Horse Travee.” He laughed. “That should get his attention.”

 

Only hours before the press broke the rumors of a nuclear war looming world-wide, in almost every state in America, people who knew how to survive, were ready for war, were vanishing.

Prof. Steven Miller disappeared from the campus of USC. The quiet, soft-spoken professor of history, a bachelor, could not be found. His apartment was unlocked, but nothing appeared to be missing or even out of place. An associate professor thought it strange, though, when a box of .223 ammunition was found in a bureau drawer.

“M-16 ammunition,” a policeman observed.

“But Steven didn't like guns,” his colleague said. “ 'Least he said he didn't like them. Come to think of it, he never joined us in any gun-control activity.”

The policeman shrugged.

An hour later, the policeman had vanished.

 

Jimmy Deluce, a crop-duster from the Cajun country of Louisiana, and a dozen of his friends did not report for work. No one seemed to know where they went.

 

Nora Rodelo and two of her girl friends were last seen shopping together in Dodge City, Kansas. They dropped out of sight.

 

Anne Flood, a college senior in New Mexico, and a half-dozen of her friends, male and female, got in their cars and vans and drove away. A neighbor told his wife to come quick, look at that. Those kids are carryin' guns, Mother. Look like machine guns. Don't that beat all?

 

James Riverson, a huge, six-foot, six-inch truck driver from the boot heel of Missouri, and his wife, Belle, were last seen getting into James' rig and heading west.

A neighbor had called to him, “What're you haulin' this trip, James?”

James had smiled, answering, “A load of M-16s and ammo.”

His neighbor had laughed. “M-16s! James, son, you are a card.”

 

Linda Jennings, a reporter for a small-town Nebraska weekly, did not show up for work. No one had seen her since the day before. She had received a phone call and immediately begun packing.

“Young people!” her boss had snorted.

 

Al Holloway, a musician in a country and western band, did not make rehearsal. A friend said he saw him getting into his car and heading out. Said it looked like he was carrying a submachine gun.

 

Jane Dolbeau, a French Canadian living and working in New York, was seen leaving her apartment. A young man she had dated had waved at her, but Jane had not acknowledged the greeting. He said she seemed preoccupied.

 

Ken Amato and his wife and daughter locked up their house in Skokie, outside of Chicago, and drove away.

 

Ben Raines sat in his den, listening to classical music and getting drunk. He had no idea that the gods of fate were laughing wildly, shaping his destiny.

“General Travee? There is a man on the phone claiming to be Col. Bull Dean. He says he wants to speak to Crazy Horse Travee. Begging your pardon, sir.”

Travee laughed. “So the ornery ol' Bull is alive.” He jerked up the phone. “Speak, you snake-eater!”

Bull laughed. “It was Adams, sir. Not me. The rebels are out of it. I can't tell you everything Adams did, 'cause I don't know it all. But I'll tell you what I do know.”

“Give it to me fast, Bull. I don't think we have much time.”

Travee listened for several minutes, nodding and grunting every now and then. Finally, he said, “What are you going to do, Bull?”

“I'm going to sit right here on my front porch and watch the ICBMs come in and go out. Fort Drum will surely take one nose-on, so I'll just sit here quietly until my time comes. I can't think of a better way for a worn-out old soldier to go out. Give'em hell, Crazy Horse.” He hung up.

Travee stood for a precious moment, his thoughts flung back over the years, his memories of a wild young Ranger named the Bull—the most decorated man in the history of America.

“It sounded to me, General,” Logan said, “as though you were genuinely glad to speak with that traitor.”

Travee glared at him. “Shut your goddamned liberal mouth, you prick! Bull Dean is ten times the man you'll ever be. Now sit down, shut up, and stay out of the way, or I'll tear your head off and hand it to you.”

Logan sat down in a corner, crossed his legs primly, and closed his mouth.

“VP Mills' wife is dead,” General Hyde said, walking into the room. “California Highway Patrol just found her body.”

“How did she die?” Rees asked. “And why? Killing Ruth was an unnecessary act of violence.”

“She was shot in the head.” General Hyde shrugged. “As to who killed her, we'll probably never know. We don't have that much time left us.”

“Sir.” An aide spoke to President Rees, his face white with strain and exhaustion. “The Russians have just formally broken off diplomatic relationships with the United States. Their embassy is closed and they are boarding planes to go home.”

“Their UN ambassador?”

“He is airborne. Most of the ambassadors from the Soviet bloc countries are gone as well.”

“Do we have contact with our embassy in Moscow?”

“No, sir. Everything is being jammed by the Russians.”

“Damn,” Rees cursed. “Have you spoken with the Chinese?”

“Yes, sir. The Chinese were unusually blunt. They said to pick a side and do it quickly.”

“Did you give them our reply?”

“Yes, sir. They seemed pleased.”

Brady limped into the room. “We have reports of massive riots in Turkey, India, Iran, a dozen other countries. Three embassies have been burned to the ground, our ambassadors killed.”

“My men?” General Dowling asked.

“All dead, sir. This time they died fighting.”

“Good,” Dowling said, clenching his fists. He and General Travee locked eyes for a few seconds. “It's time, C.H.,” the Marine Corps commandant said. Travee nodded. Dowling turned to an aide. “Tim, order all marines on full alert. Battle gear. Tell them to stand by. I'll be goddamned if I'm going out with my thumb stuck up my ass.”

Each man of the Joint Chiefs followed suit with his branch. Rees was not consulted, and his face mirrored his immense relief. Senator Logan jumped to his feet.

“None of you can give those orders without first consulting Congress.” Hilton Logan was scared. The military scared him. Guns frightened him. Violence made him nauseous.

He was ignored.

General Travee spoke to his president. “Sir, I am declaring a national state of emergency—martial law. The Constitution of the United States is hereby suspended. I am assuming full control.”

War is a contagion.

—Franklin Roosevelt.

 

Midnight—twelve hours before launch

 

Shooting, faint and far away, drifted to the men sitting on the park bench in New York's Central Park. A hard burst of gunfire followed, from automatic weapons. There were cars and trucks backed up for miles on the expressways around the city: a mass exodus.

“It's no longer safe in the city.” The Albanian grinned, and the Chinese laughed at him.

“How many warheads and what kind?” the Chinese asked. “Not that it will do my country any good. I can't get through to them.”

“Too many warheads. The gas is a form of Tabun, highly refined now, in a mist form. A half-drop on bare skin, or inhalation of the mist causes death within seconds.”

“Tabun. Another of Hitler's brainchildren.”

“That is correct.”

“Do the Americans know of this Tabun form?”

“A few of them.”

“How long have they known?”

“Years. Their nerve gas is similar.”

The Chinese chuckled without mirth. “They must know, then, that Russia is saving most of her missiles for us.”

“That is correct; but they know that Russia has a dozen Tabun-armed ICBMs pointed at America. No telling how many other types of missiles.”

“It is my understanding that America has chosen a side in the upcoming confrontation.”

“All of their missiles—so I have heard—will be directed at Russia and the eastern-bloc nations.”

The Chinese stood up. Just before he walked away, he said, “Good luck to you.”

 

Miami—eleven hours before launch

 

“A meeting in the open is dangerous,” the Russian said to the Cuban.

The Cuban shrugged. “So is crossing the street—even in normal times. The Chinese know of your Tabun.”

“So they will have a few days to perspire heavily from fear.”

The Cuban looked out over the waters. So pretty and calm. His thoughts were of his family in Cuba. Those he would never see again. “How much of the world will survive?”

“What difference does it make?” the Russian said, rising to his feet. “We won't be here to see it.”

“I do not share your tolerant view of death . . . comrade. I also do not understand why, since the KGB has known of this coup attempt for months, and also of the American double cross—if that's what it is—all parties involved do not just sit down and put a stop to it. Before the world explodes.”

The Russian laughed. “Because it is time, that's why. When the missiles fly, Saul, just close your eyes and pray to whatever god you believe in. You will have approximately eighteen minutes to tremble and wet your drawers.”

The Cuban looked up at the Russian, contempt in his eyes. “At least I have a god, Peter.”

“Better not let Castro hear you say that,” he replied with a chuckle. He walked away.

Saul lit a cigar with hands that trembled. He watched the retreating back of the Russian. Everything was set . . . in motion. He could not stop it.

No one could.

 

The men in the sub waited. They had no fear of being detected, for they knew, as the Russian in Miami did, that it really made no difference who fired the first missile. It was time for a war. They knew, from monitoring Russian broadcasts, that the Red Bear was aware they were going to fire the Thunder-strikes. Had been for months; certain leaders had known of the coup attempt for almost a year, but had remained quiet. Communism was not working in Russia; more and more of its citizens were discontent, rumbling. They knew there would be an attempted revolt inside the mother country, had known of the plans for months.

General Malelov had said it was time for war.

General Travee knew it was time for war.

Premier Su knew it was time for war.

So let it begin.

 

Brady sat with the Joint Chiefs, having a last cup of coffee, smoking, talking. Time was running out; down to hours, minutes. They talked of the panic in America, and in the world, and of the inevitability of armed conflict. They spoke of the burning, the looting, the savagery.

“We're going to have ICBMs coming at us from all directions,” Travee said, glancing at his watch. “Very soon.” He lit a cigarette and the men looked at him in surprise.

Brady said, “I thought you quit smoking years ago?”

“I did,” Travee said, smiling, sucking satisfying smoke deep into his lungs. “But what the hell difference does it make now?” He laughed.

The men chuckled with him, watching him smoke and sigh with obvious satisfaction. “Well, boys,” he said, “what about it?”

“I'm leaving for Gitmo in about an hour,” General Dowling said. “I'm going to take my marines and fulfill a twenty-five-year-old dream. I'm going into Cuba proper, find Castro, and kick the balls off him.” He looked at Admiral Divico. “You, Ed?”

Navy smiled, then sighed. “I've said good-by to my wife. She understood why I have to do what I'm doing. She's military as much as I am. I'm flying out of Edwards in just a few moments. I'll be on a flagship. You know what, though? God, would I love to have my shoes planted on the deck of the old
Missouri
when the ball starts rolling.” He looked at Air Force. “You, Paul?”

General Hyde spat on the ground. “I'm leaving in just a second or two. I'll be in the left seat of one of our lumbering, antiquated old B-52s, trying to penetrate Russian air space, hoping a goddamned wing doesn't fall off from old age.” He glanced at Travee. “Well, old warrior, looks like that leaves the country in your hands.”

“Thank you all very, very much,” Travee said dryly. “Since the flying White House was sabotaged, I'll be in Weather Mountain, directing our attack.” He coughed. “Brady will be with me.” He coughed again. “Goddamned cigarettes are gonna kill me!”

The men laughed, rose to shake hands, then parted, each going his own way to meet the enemy. They did not say another word. There was nothing left to say.

 

With less than ten hours before launch, the world went into a blind panic. In America, there weren't enough police and soldiers to control the frightened mobs trying to flee. Wild reports that hundreds of thousands of enemy troops were on the way split the airwaves. Troops were moving, but they were Russian and Chinese troops moving toward each other, not toward the U.S.

Rioting and looting in American cities began slowly, then picked up in intensity and savagery as night darkened the streets. Subways were jammed with frightened people running blindly, clutching a few possessions.

Freeways and expressways clogged, slowed, then became hopelessly snarled as cars and trucks broke down and were abandoned. For the most part, efforts to try to clear the interstates failed because civilians refused to obey military orders.

Civil defense and evacuation plans in America were a joke. Leaderless, the people were left to their own panic-stricken imaginations, and they ran wild.

The military had declared martial law, but the news of that only served to frighten the people more. The American people reasoned that if the military had declared martial law, then we must be under attack— from somebody.

Because of jammed highways, the military had had to airlift troops in, and at night, troops in battle dress all look alike. Who could tell?

Automobiles became useless; death became indiscriminate. The elderly became the first casualties—most had no place to go, and others could not get where they wanted to go. The old could not move swiftly enough, so they were trampled upon and left to be robbed, assaulted, and killed. Children became separated from their parents. They sat on the curbs and howled their fright and were knocked out of the way by panicked adults. Some ran into the streets and were crushed by speeding automobiles. Others were left to wander the streets in total mindless terror and confusion. Older children found rocks and sticks with which they broke windows, then stole candy and food. The girls, those old enough—in most cases—were dragged into alleys and, at the very least, raped.

It is a fact that in times of great crisis, human animals prowl the streets in far greater numbers than normal. Weaponless, most people had no means with which to defend themselves. But criminals never register guns; and never seem to have any problem getting them. Shots were fired, fires were started, the flames and the gunfire and the screaming heightening an already near-impossible situation.

And the worst was yet to come.

A wire service reported that America was under attack from foreign countries. Flash. DJs hit the air with the news. More panic.

And, just as America has agents in every country around the globe, gathering intelligence and waiting to strike in case of open hostilities, most other countries have agents in America, waiting to do the same. They all have their orders: in case of attack, knock out communications and create panic and confusion. And that they did. They could not reach their home countries, and most of their embassies were closed, so they followed the earlier orders. The U.S. had begun jamming frequencies—as many as they could, and that created even more problems and confusion.

The Emergency Action Notification System—ENS—was ordered activated. It is an expensive and bothersome mess that has never worked, and many (if not most) DJs did not have the vaguest idea of what to do when the bells started clanging and the buzzers began buzzing and the tones began howling and whistling.

More panic.

Then the first missile was fired. It was not clear (and never would be) just who started the dance with whom, or why, but India and Pakistan exploded, and that part of the world began burning.

South America had erupted in warfare, as had the Mideast, and Africa. The world had, for years, balanced on the edge of insanity. The slender tightrope had snapped, and the world went berserk.

General Travee was attempting to talk reason with acting Premier Malelov, actually a general, of Russia. In that country, as in America, the military had been forced to take control. Prime Minister Larousse of Canada was listening in. The satellite hotline was humming—for the last time.

“Missiles have been fired, Travee,” Malelov said, “from your sub. At us.” His voice sounded tired, strained. “China has invaded our borders, the little yellow bastards pouring across like ants toward honey. Sadly enough—or is the word ironic?—it seems that many of my own countrymen have decided to forgo communism in favor of your form of government. We have a small revolt on our hands. What an inopportune time for that to occur, since it appears democracy is not working in either of your countries,
da?
Ah, well,”—he sighed, the sigh very audible over the miles—“perhaps it is time. Yes, I believe it is, and I think you do, too, Travee.”

“Time for what?” Travee asked, knowing full well what the Russian general meant.

Malelov laughed. “Time to knock down all the pretty buildings and toy soldiers and many-worded diplomats and all forms of government—none of which appear to be working.”

“Then what do we do?” Larousse asked.

“We
won't do anything, Canadian.
We
shall be dead.” Malelov chuckled. “But . . . perhaps out of the ashes, eh?”

“Fatalistic son of a bitch!” Larousse cursed him. “You could, we could, stop all this before it starts.”

“That's what the English just told me moments ago.” Malelov laughed, his dark humor tumbling through the miles of cold space. “I told them to pour a spot of vodka in their tea.”

“We are not invading your borders,” Travee reminded the Russian.

“Oh, hell, Travee!” Malelov replied impatiently. “Don't be so naive. You know perfectly well—as I do—it's time. We've been rattling sabers and growling at one another for more than forty years. Isn't-that right, Crazy Horse?” He chuckled. “I do so envy you Americans your nicknames. We Russians have to be so damned formal. I used to be known as the Wolf, but the central committee frowned on that nickname.”

“Liked the ladies, eh?” Travee said.

“Oh, yes, Crazy Horse. But, like you, I'm getting old. Content with just one woman, even if she does look like a baked potato.”

Travee had to laugh at the man. “Just enough time for some chitchat, eh, Malelov?”

“Just about, Travee,” the Russian replied. “Yes, I think that is aptly put. No more time for serious talk... well, maybe a bit of talk before we enter that long sleep. Larousse, you silly Frenchman—I have some firecrackers for you. Coming your way very soon, now. What do you think about that, you who are—or were—always so afraid of helping your southernmost neighbor in her times of stress. Cowardly Canadians.”

A moment of silence and outrage, then the PM spoke.
“Bâtard!”
He spat the word with all the venom he could muster.

Malelov laughed, the sounds of his howling echoing through the miles. “So I am a bastard, eh? Well, that would come as a considerable shock to my poor mother.” The Russian then said something neither American nor Canadian could understand. Then, “I am glad my mother is in her grave, so she does not have to witness Russian fighting Russian.”

Travee felt, after the Russian had spoken in his native tongue, that Malelov was up to something, buying time while he got the jump on the American missiles. The soldier in him surfaced. “Are we going to have war or a debating society?”

“Ah, American,” Malelov spoke softly. “Can we not have a few moments of camaraderie before we explode the world? Are you that anxious to die—I am not.”