Out of the Ashes

ONE

“Maybe historians will treat me in a more humane fashion than the press has for the past eight years,” President Fayers remarked to his wife. “But sometimes I wonder.”

“You’ve done a lot of good things over the years, Ed.” She smiled at him, patting his hand. “SALT 5 was only one of them. It’s taken you time, and you didn’t win all the battles, but you certainly didn’t lose the war.”

“Then why, for the past several months, have I had this… uneasy feeling in my guts that… oh, hell, honey—I don’t know. I’ve been a politician all my life. And I know something is going on. I can’t put my finger on it, but… some thing is crawling around the gutters of this city. Some… secret I should know.”

His wife studied him. She knew only too well the sixth sense career politicians develop over the years, and knew it was not to be taken lightly. Her husband had had his finger on the pulse of the world for more than forty years, for the past eight as president of the United States. If he believed something was amiss… it was.

“Ed, this unknown… quantum bothers you that much?”

“Yes, it does, honey. Ever since that gun-control bill went through, the unrest in this country has been building. Baby, citizens of this country—not criminals—have been beaten, jailed, and killed, simply because they clung to the belief—a correct belief, I might add—that they had a right to own a gun. Damn that Hilton Logan for the son of a bitch he is! He and that pack of liberal bastards really stirred it up with that gun-control bill.”

“You didn’t sign it, Ed. Don’t forget that.”

“It still became law.”

“The law of the land, Ed,” she reminded him.

“But,” the president stared hard at his wife of fifty years—more than his wife: his friend, his confidante. “Is it really the law of the land? Of the people, for the people? Is it constitutional?”

“The supreme court says it is.”

“Five to four,” President Fayers grunted. “Not exactly an overwhelming majority.” He walked to the window and looked out at the night. “I cannot forget the news film of that fellow down in South Carolina. That man never had so much as a traffic ticket in his whole life. And agents—federal agents—employed by the very government his taxes help support, shot him stone damned dead! And for what? Because he wanted to keep a .38 pistol in his house. Ah, hell!” The president waved his disgust.

“The country is becoming prosperous once again,” she said, attempting to change the subject.

“What’s the matter?” He grinned at her. “You worried about my blood pressure?”

“Somebody has to. You won’t.”

“After all the social blunders of the ’60s and ’70s… I’ll be goddamned if we’re not heading down the same old road. Just look at that new pack of liberals in Congress.”

“It’s the will of the people, Ed.”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, honey, that’s the shame of it—it isn’t. It’s the will of pressure groups, lobbyists, so-called Christians.” He poured a drink under the frowning gaze of his wife. He downed it neat, then sighed. “Something’s in the wind. And it stinks. I just don’t know what it is.” He sat down. “God, I’m tired. I’m seventy-five years old. I’m tired. I just want out.”

Ben Raines sat on the front porch of his home in Louisiana and for the first time in a long time thought about Vietnam and how, during the quiet moments after patrol, unwinding, but still too keyed up to sleep, he would sit with his buddies and talk of home, women, movies, and politics—as well as other topics.

Two decades had passed since that exercise in futility had ended for Ben. He didn’t think about it often. The nightmares had dimmed into occasional dreams, without substance, the blood in them no longer red and thick and real. The screaming faint night sounds now had no meaning, and the smoke from the burning villages was no longer acrid, did not burn his eyes or leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

It was just a fading memory. Nothing more.

He wondered, now that SALT 5 was two years old and the nuclear weapons around the world had been greatly reduced, at least for the major countries, if there would ever be another war.

He felt there would be, and he also wondered if Russia and America were living up to the terms of the agreement.

He doubted it. Both sides still had missiles tucked away, hidden, ready, and aimed. Each side knew the other too well. Only the doves in America truly believed in all the terms of SALT 5. Ben wondered if those missiles aimed at Russia and America were nuclear or bacteriological types. He thought probably the latter, for SALT didn’t cover germ-type warheads… that came under a different agreement.

“Come on, Ben,” he muttered. “Why are you thinking like this tonight?”

He tried to think about the new novel he was planning, but his thoughts would not jell. Then he suddenly recalled the words one of his long-dead buddies had spoken to him, so many years before, during one of those long bull sessions.

“How would you change our system of government, Ben? I mean, we all agree the system isn’t working. But how would you correct it? If you could?”

And that had sparked hours of debate and sometimes heated arguments that turned into fist fights. The debates had lasted for days.

He recalled the legendary Col. Bull Dean listening to his men argue and debate. The Bull had smiled. Then, when they were alone, Bull had said to Ben, “Keep your dreams, son. You have good thoughts for one so young. Keep them alive in your mind, for someday, probably sooner than you might think, you just might have a chance to see them spring to life. Hell, son! You might write a book!”

Ben had grinned, thinking the Bull was kidding.

On this soft night in Louisiana, Ben remembered Bull’s words as they had waited to lift off from Rocket City, heading into North Vietnam, to HALO in: high altitude, low opening. They would jump at twenty thousand feet, their chutes opening automatically when they got under radar.

“We’re losin’ this war, son,” Bull had said. “And there is nothing that guys like you and me can do about it—we can only prolong it. Back home, now, it’s gonna get worse—much worse. Patriotism is gonna take a nose dive, sinking to new depths of dishonor. There is no discipline in schools; the courts have seen to that. America is going to take a pasting for a decade, maybe longer, losing ground, losing face, losing faith. That’s when the military will be forced to step in and take over. And God help us all when they do that.”

“Why do you say that, sir?”

“Remember that line about absolute power?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The military leaders—those with enough sense to pour piss out of a boot, that is, and we do have a few of them in uniform—realize the truth in that line. They won’t want to take over the country—but they might be forced into doing it. For a time. It will be a bad time for you all.”

“For you all? Not including yourself in that, Colonel?”

The Bull had smiled.

“Sir? Why are you telling me all this… now?”

The Bull shook his head. “I haven’t told you as much as you might believe. But in the years ahead of you—two decades, more than likely—you’ll understand.”

Ben stirred uncomfortably on the porch. It had been two decades, almost. The strange visitor of several years back suddenly popped into his mind. He shook away those memories.

And just before that leap into the rushing night, so many years ago, as the Bull stood in the door of the plane, he screamed at Ben: “Bold Strike, son. Remember it. Bold Strike. Say it to no one.”

A few weeks later, Col. William “Bull” Dean was supposedly killed, his mutilated and unrecognizable body found days later by a team of LRRPs—Long Range Recon Patrols. Then Adams was reported missing. He was MIA’ed; then, finally, listed as KIA.

A month later, Ben had been wounded and sent home.

After he recovered from his wounds, he found he could not tolerate the attitudes in America toward her Vietnam vets. He was restless, and missed the action he had left behind. He had been sent home to a land of hairy, profane young men who sewed the American flag on the seats of their dirty jeans and marched up and down the street, shouting ugly words, all in the name of freedom—their concept of freedom.

Ben left the country and made his way to Africa, signing on as a mercenary with anyone who wanted and appreciated fighting men. For two years he fought in dozens of little no-name wars, just drifting, becoming hardened to death and blood and suffering.

One day he told a visiting American writer—whom he had met in a bar—he thought he might write a book. The writer questioned Ben closely, then told him to do just that, and when he was through with it, to send it to his agent. He’d tell the agent it was coming.

The more Ben thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He went home, back to Illinois, to his parents’ home, and wrote his book.

He’d been writing ever since and had lived in Louisiana for almost fifteen years.

He stirred from his misty memories and realized the phone was ringing in the den. He walked from the coolness of the front porch and picked up the phone. Two words were spoken, and they caused his heart to pound and a dizziness to spring into his head.

“Bold Strike.”

Then the line went dead.

Ben sat down hard in a chair. He had not heard those words in years. But what the hell did they mean? A warning? A cue for him to do something. What in the shit had the Bull meant by them?

Ben turned on the TV set and caught the last of the nightly news. Fresh outbreaks of race riots in Newark and Detroit. The government was worried about the resurgence of the KKK and the American Nazi Party—and the fact that they had joined hands, to jointly spew their hate. White robes and black uniforms.

“Bold Strike,” Ben muttered. “What’s going on? Bull Dean is dead. And so is Carl Adams. I saw the bodies.”

No, he corrected his thoughts. You saw a body. Someone said it was Colonel Dean. You later—much later—saw pictures that someone said was Adams.

Then the words of the news commentator numbed Ben. “Certain military units have been placed on low alert. No reason was given. But it’s nothing to be concerned about, the Pentagon says. Just testing security.”

“What units, you son of a bitch!” Ben shouted at the TV set.

A commercial for a female hygiene spray greeted his question.

Ben turned off the set.

Something dark and elusive darted around the shadowy corners of his mind. He fixed another drink and sat down by the phone. He jerked up the phone, consulted an address book, and dialed the number of a friend over at Fort Stewart, Georgia. His wife answered the phone.

“No, Ben, he’s not here. No. I can’t tell you where he is, ‘cause I don’t know where he is. It hasn’t been this tight around here since the Iran thing.”

They chatted of small things for a few moments, then Ben said good night. The wall of secrecy was closing. Ben knew it well.

He tried his old outfit, the Hell-Hounds. Probably less than five percent of Congress knew of their existence. Maybe not that high a percentage. Certainly no member of the press knew of them. In times of trouble, they would be gearing up in Utah, at an old AEC base. The Hell-Hounds had no permanent base, being constantly on the move. The nearest thing they had to a home was that desolate, deserted spot in Utah.

Col. Sam Cooper, CO of the Hell-Hounds, was blunt with him. Blunt, but not unfriendly. He simply had his orders, and that was that.

“I don’t know what’s going down, Ben. But it’s good to hear from you. I enjoyed your last book. Good stuff.”

“Honestly, Sam? You really don’t know what’s happening?”

“I’m leveling with you, Ben. To tell you the God’s truth, I can’t find anybody who knows what’s going on. Or at least who will talk about it.”

Ben felt a chill move around in his belly. “Take care of yourself, Sam.”

“Will do. You hunt a hole, partner,” the Hell-Hound said. “Keep your head down.” He broke the connection.

Or somebody did it for him.

“It’s firm, Hilton,” the senator’s chief aide told him. “The military is up to something. Lots of moving around and quiet talk. And I can’t even get in the front door at Langley. Certain units of the military are on some kind of low alert.”

“Why?” the senator demanded.

“I don’t know.”

“President Fayers?”

“He’s fat, dumb, and happy.”

“You mean he doesn’t know what’s going on?”

“Apparently not.”

“Jesus Christ!”

TWO

The banquet hall of the lodge had been cleared of all furniture not essential to the meeting. The building had been electronically swept for listening devices. Long tables had been placed end to end, side to side, forming a huge square, capable of accommodating fifty people in comfort. Pitchers of water, drinking glasses, pads and pencils, and briefing books were placed on the dark blue cloth, the items neatly arranged before each chair. A shredding machine stood silent in the corner.

Tension, heavy and ominous, hung in the huge room as the room filled with men in groups of two or three. Although no nametag designated individual place, there was no confusion; each man seemed to know exactly where to sit. There was no unnecessary chatter, few social amenities were exchanged. The men looked at each other, nodded, then sat down.

All of the men were military. That would have been evident to even the most uneducated in military bearing. Neatly trimmed hair, out of style; eyes that gave away nothing; erect bearing; no wasted motion.

To the more knowledgeable, the men were line officers and combat-experienced sergeants and chiefs. All career men.

The Army general and colonels, had they been in uniform, would have had Airborne/Ranger/Special Forces tabs on their shoulders. The generals and colonels of the Marine Corps are Force Recon—trained—Raiders. The general and colonels of the Air Force are combat pilots and Air Force commandos. The Navy men are UDT, SEAL, pilots, ships’ captains. The Coast Guard men are all career; they have all seen combat. There were fifteen sergeant majors and master chiefs making up the complement.

During the past twenty-four hours, the men, all having arrived at night, had traveled various routes to get to the lodge. The real-estate agent who had rented them the lodge knew only that he was renting the place for a top-level think tank.

Keep your mouth shut about this and we’ll be back next year. A handsome bonus for you. And don’t disturb us.

Yes, sir, the agent had replied instinctively. Guy looked like his old drill sergeant.

Guards were sentried about the two hundred acres. They were in civilian clothes and their sidearms were out of sight.

Cigars, pipes, and cigarettes smoking, water glasses filled, the men waited for someone to open the ball.

“Who ordered this low alert the press is talking about?” the question was tossed out.

“Came out of the Joint Chiefs. It’s confused the hell out of a lot of units and caused several hundred thousand men to be shifted around, out of standard position. Goddamn, it’s going to be days before they get back to normal. We not only don’t know who issued the order, but why?”

“Maybe to get us out of position for the big push?”

“I thought we had more time—months, even.”

“Something’s happened to cause them to speed up their timetable,” Gen. Vern Saunders of the Army said. “That means we’ve got to move very quickly.”

“Hell, Vern,” Gen. Tom Driskill of the Marine Corps said, “what can we do… really? We’re up against it. We all think we know where ‘it’ is. But we’re not certain. Do we dare move? If we do, what will be the consequences?”

Admiral Mullens of the Navy looked around him, meeting all eyes. “I don’t think we dare move.”

Sergeant Major of the Army Parley stirred.

“You got something on your mind, Sergeant Major,” the admiral said, “say it. We’re all equal here.”

“Damned if that’s so!” a Marine sergeant major said.

Laughter erupted.

Parley said, “I don’t believe we can afford to move. But if we don’t, what do we do—just sit on our hands and wait for war?”

“I think it’s out of our hands,” Admiral Newcomb of the Coast Guard said. “We’re damned if we do, damned if we don’t. If we expose the location of the sub—where we think it is—we stand a good chance of a war. A very good chance. I think we’re in a box. If we expose the traitors, they’ll fire anyway. And we’re not supposed to have that type of missile.”

“Which is a bad joke,” Sergeant Major Rogers of the Marine Corps said in disgust. “Russia’s still got us outgunned two to one in missiles of the conventional nuclear type. God only knows how many germ-type warheads they have.” He forced a grin. “Of course, we have a few of those ourselves.” He shook his head. “Jesus! Thirty damned guys control the fate of the entire world. Even worse than that, if our intelligence is correct, it’s a double double cross.”

Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy Franklin looked across the table, disgust in his eyes. “Admiral? Do you—any of you—know for sure just who we can trust?”

The admiral shook his head. “No, not really. We don’t know how many of our own people are in on this… caper.”

“You mean, sir,” a colonel asked, “one of us might be in on it?”

“I would say the odds are better than even that is true.”

“I wondered why I was jerked out of Italy so fast I didn’t even have time to zip up my pants,” the Ranger colonel smiled.

“Well, you’d better zip ’em up, Pete,” a SEAL laughed at him. “You don’t have that much to brag about.”

“How the hell do you know?” A marine chuckled. “You two guys queer for each other?”

“I ain’t free,”—the Ranger grinned—“but I’m reasonable.”

An AF commando laughed. “He bends over in the shower a lot, lookin’ for the soap.”

The rough humor touched all the men. After the laughter had died, the men seemed more relaxed, able to talk without constraint. A Special Forces colonel said, “General? You think some of my men are involved in this?”

“No,” General Saunders said. “Our intelligence people”—he waved his hand—“all services, seem to agree on one point: no special troops are involved. But”—he held up a warning finger—“this touches all branches of the service, not just in this country, but all countries. Russia included.” He smiled grimly. “I take some satisfaction in that. Those men in that sub have friends all over the world. That’s why they’ve been able to hide from us for so long.”

“The Bull and Adams are really alive?”

“Yes. I talked with Bull. It came as quite a shock to me.”

“I… don’t really understand what they have to do with this… operation,” a master chief said, as much to himself as to the men around him.

“Really… neither do we,” an admiral replied. “But we do know these facts, one of which is obvious: Bull and Adams faked their deaths years ago; we know they are both superpatriots, Adams more than Bull when it comes to liberal-hating. All right. We put together this hypothesis: Adams and Bull had a plan to overthrow the government—if it came to that—using civilian… well, rebels, let’s call them, along with selected units of the military. Took years to put all this together. But… the use of civilian rebels failed; couldn’t get enough of them in time. We know for a fact that many ex-members of the Hell-Hounds turned them down cold.”

“How many men do they have?”

“Five to six thousand—at the most.”

“That’s still a lot of people. And knowing Bull and Adams, those men are trained guerrilla fighters. How have they managed to keep that many people secret for so long?”

The admiral allowed himself a tight smile. “You didn’t know the Bull, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“If you had known either of them, you wouldn’t have asked.”

“I knew both of them,” a Ranger colonel said. “If they even suspected a member of any of their units was a traitor, they would not hesitate to kill him—war or peace.”

“I see,” the man said softly. “So… Bull came up with the sub plan?”

General Saunders shook his head. “No. It wasn’t his plan. We believe it was Adams’ idea. But I couldn’t discuss this with Bull. I only had two minutes with him. Besides, he and Adams have been friends for twenty-five years. But I did manage to plant a seed of doubt in his mind. Yes, we believe Adams has lost control; he’s slipped mentally. Mr. Kelly of the CIA shares that belief.”

“There is something I don’t understand,” a Coast Guard officer said. “Obviously, this plan has been on the burner for a long time—years. To overthrow the government, I mean. Why have they waited so long?”

“That’s what we don’t know. And we’ve got dozens of computers working on the problem right at this moment.” The general rubbed his face with his hands. “I didn’t get a chance to ask the Bull that. So many questions I wanted to ask. Men, I don’t think we have a prayer of stopping those men on the sub. I think we’re staring nuclear and germ warfare right in its awful face and there isn’t a goddamned thing we can do about it.”

“I gather,” a Marine officer said, “the Joint Chiefs don’t know about this?”

“We don’t know if they do or not,” Admiral Mullens said. “But we can’t approach any of them for fear one of them is involved.”

“One or more. And which ones?”

“That is yet another point to consider.”

“And we can’t do to them what we’re about to do to each other,” General Driskill said, as an aide, as if on cue, wheeled in a cart with a machine on it.

No one had to ask what it was; all the men present held the highest security ratings in America. They had all taken these tests before. The machine was the most highly advanced of the psychological stress evaluators. PSE. The same type the Bull and Adams used to ferret out informers.

“Each of us will submit to a PSE test. Sergeant Mack is the best around.” General Driskill smiled as he laid a pistol on the table, in front of him. “This won’t take too long.”

A few seconds ticked past. An Air Force colonel tried to light a cigarette. His hands were shaking so badly he finally gave up the effort. He looked into the hard eyes of the Marine general. “Save yourself the trouble, General. I don’t know where the sub is; I don’t know who on the JCs—if anyone—is involved in this operation; and I don’t know anyone who does know.”

“You damned fool!” General Driskill snapped at him. “Don’t you people realize—or care—you’re bringing the world to the brink of holocaust?”

“Oh, the hell with that!” the colonel said. “Let Russia and China fight it out. Let them destroy each other. We’ll pick up the pieces and be on top once more.”

“So that’s it,” a man muttered.

The Air Force colonel smiled.

“I don’t believe that’s all of it,” General Crowe of the Air Force said. He pulled a pistol from his waistband and pointed it at the colonel. “You traitorous son of a bitch. Which one of the Joint Chiefs is it?”

The Air Force colonel was suddenly calm with the knowledge that he would never leave this room alive. He was not going to give the men in the room the pleasure of seeing him squirm. His gaze touched each man, then he lit his cigarette with steady hands. “I don’t know. And that’s being honest. I think it’s an aide, but I can’t be sure. You can test me; I won’t fight the machine.”

He was tested. He did not know the name of the man on the Joint Chiefs, and his hunch that it was a top aide showed positive. He did not know the location of the sub, and had no further knowledge of it.

“Explain it all!” General Crowe snapped. “I’ve seen men tortured before, sonny.” He still held the .38 in his right hand.

“General, I don’t know much about the operation. That was deliberate on the part of the top man, or men. Not even the men in the sub know who the architect is. Least I don’t believe they do.” No one in the room believed him. “My orders are to report what I heard here, that’s all.”

“He’s lying!” a master chief said.

General Crowe said, “Colonel, make it easy on yourself. We can do this one of several ways. We’re not savages, but the fate of the world may very well rest in this room.”

The Air Force colonel glanced at his watch. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He gave the general a Washington, D.C. phone number.

“Trace it,” Driskill told Sergeant Major Rogers.

The colonel’s eyes hardened.

“Let’s tighten up all the loose ends, Colonel. Too many ropes dangling, flapping in the breeze.”

He looked at his watch once again and said, after a slight smile and a deep breath, almost a sigh of relief, “We—those of us in the operation—knew that Brady would eventually put things together and go to Fayers.”

“Harold Brady of the CIA?”

“Yes. We had hoped he wouldn’t put it together until after the elections.” He glanced at his watch.

“Why are you always lookin’ at your goddamned watch?” an Air Force commando asked. “You takin’ medicine?”

“He’s stalling!” a SEAL said. “Playing for time.”

The Army Ranger hit the colonel in the mouth with a short, hard right, slamming him out of his chair. General Driskill kicked the man to his feet and shoved him back in his chair.

“Now, speak!” the general barked.

The Air Force colonel shook his head to clear away the cobwebs and wiped blood from his mouth. He smiled.

“What do you find amusing about all this?” Admiral Mullens asked.

The colonel’s smile broadened.

“Because,” Admiral Newcomb said quietly, “there aren’t going to be any elections—right, Colonel?”

The man’s smile faded. “That’s right, Admiral.”

“Why?”

He again glanced at his watch. “Because it’s 1207, that’s why.”

“What?” Driskill barked. “What the hell has the time to do with anything?”

“Brady put it all together much sooner than we expected. I should have received a phone call before 1145 hours. I didn’t. That means our computers have concluded that no one can beat Hilton Logan in the fall elections. It—they—have concluded that even if it’s close, too close, no clear majority, it’ll be thrown into the House. Logan will come out on top, and that liberal son of a bitch will find out we’ve built new nukes and order them destroyed.”

“Son,”—General Saunders leaned forward—“don’t do this. Don’t do it to your country. Logan is just a man. Not much of one,” he grimaced, “but still a man. He’s not going to dismantle the nation. We’ll weather it.”

“No, General. No, we won’t. This country’s had it.” His eyes were sad, his voice low when he spoke. “We’ve had eight years of conservatism, but everything Fayers has pushed through has been a battle. People aren’t interested in the long run; they’re only interested, concerned, with now. The gun-control legislation proved it; we’re moving back to the left, and we can’t allow that to happen. This way is the only way we can get back on top. China will give Russia every missile she’s had hidden for years, then pour half a billion troops across the border. They’ll destroy each other. The two-bit countries will blow each other off the map once we start the dance. Africa will go up like a tinderbox, the Mideast with it.” His eyes grew wild with fanaticism.

“And what of America, Colonel?” General Crowe asked.

“Oh, we’ll take casualties,” he admitted. “Somewhere in the seventy-five to ninety-million range; you all know the stats. But we’ll come out far better than any other major power. And when we’re back on top again, this time, by God, we’ll stay there.”

“You’re crazy!” Sergeant Major Parley blurted. “My God, man—think of all the innocent people you’re killing. You people are fucking nuts!”

Rogers came back into the room. “I used the mobile phone in the car, General, just in case the phone here has a long-range bug on it. The phone company in D.C. got a disconnect order on the number he gave us. Got it about two hours ago. What’s happening here?”

“Holocaust,” a buddy informed him.

Driskill looked at the colonel. “I believe the colonel is about to give us all the details, aren’t you, superpatriot?”

The Air Force man laughed in his face. “Sure, I’ll tell you. Why not? There isn’t a damned thing any of you can do about it.”

Only blow your fucking head off when you’re through flapping your gums, General Crowe thought, his hand tightening on the butt of the .38.

“There won’t be any elections,” the colonel said. “Not for a long time—a very long time. The military is going to be forced into taking over the country: suspending the Constitution and declaring martial law. That’s all we wanted, all along. All we were doing, once we learned Brady was onto us, was buying time. Getting set. We’re five days from launch.”

The men in the room, to a man, sucked in their guts. One hundred and twenty hours to hell.

“I should have gone to the president when my intelligence people first stumbled onto this… treason!” General Saunders said.

The Air Force colonel laughed. He lit a cigarette. His last one. “Well, General, I’ll salve your conscience a bit. It wouldn’t have made any difference. You couldn’t have stopped us. You didn’t really know what was going down until today. You couldn’t have gone to the Chinese to tell them the Russians were going to launch against them. No proof. Big international stink would be all you could have accomplished. Same if you’d gone to the Russians. It all boils down to this: an American sub will launch the missiles—American missiles. Both countries would have turned on you. And… I think most of you know what type of missiles we’re going to fire. Missiles so top secret not even the president knew of their existence. You clever boys got too clever, that’s all. We used your cleverness against you.”

“What type of missiles are you using?” a master chief asked.

“Supersnoop missiles,” Admiral Mullens answered the question. “Thunder-strikes. We started building them on the QT when we realized SALT 5 was becoming a reality. Yes, the Russians knew we were going to build them—before SALT was signed. That’s the main reason Russia agreed to SALT 5.”

“The president and/or Congress know of them?” he was asked.

“No,” he said tersely.

“The lid is being slowly nailed on our coffins,” a Navy officer said. He looked at the Air Force colonel. “What about him?”

General Crowe jacked back the hammer on the .38 and shot the colonel between the eyes, knocking him backward, out of the chair.

“Good shot, Turner,” General Driskill observed.

THREE

General C.H. Travee, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, sat quietly in his office. He sat for a long, speculative time, drumming his fingertips on the polished wood of the desk top.

Too many rumors being whispered in this city. Entirely too many to ignore. Whispered rumors of a power play. Among the military? Too incredible to believe. Still…

Travee had tried to reach his old friend, Vern Saunders, just that morning—couple of hours ago, after Vern failed to show for their regular Saturday morning golf game. Travee had tried to track down his friend, but had hit a stone wall in every direction he turned.

Odd.

Then he heard rumors that General Crowe was seen climbing into the cockpit of a fighter and taking off for parts unknown. Odd. Crowe was entirely too old to go roaring off into the wild blue yonder like a young buck, cutting didos in the sky.

And General Driskill always worked in his office for a couple of hours on Saturday mornings. But not this Saturday morning.

Travee punched a button on his desk.

“Yes, sir?”

“Get me Major Bass from ASA. Tell him I want him in my office in thirty minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Army Security Agency major was standing in front of the general’s desk in exactly twenty-nine minutes. There were questions in his calm eyes.

“What’s going on, Major?”

“Sir?”

“Come on, Major—you’re in the know. You’ve heard the whispers all over the town. Now you tell me.”

“I… don’t know, sir. We can’t even pinpoint who gave those low-alert orders.”

“But yet it came from the Joint Chiefs?”

“Yes, sir. Sir? We think it was an aide. But the one we have in mind has… disappeared.”

“I won’t ask you who you suspect. Just this: why would he do such a damned fool thing?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Travee nodded, then said, “I want you to do me a personal favor, Major. Find out where Gen. Vern Saunders was this morning. Pronto. And report your findings only to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sunday—four days to launch

President Fayers looked out the window of his office, wondering why any man would want the thankless job of president of the United States.

“It’s such a lousy job,” he said to his chief aide and good friend. “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. The massive responsibility for running a country this size should not be dumped onto the shoulders of one man. It’s too much.”

“Yes, sir,” the aide agreed, not really knowing what his boss was talking about. The president hadn’t been himself lately. He’d been depressed, complaining of sleeplessness, and the aide was worried the press would discover it and blab it all over the nation. Not that it was any of their goddamned business. No—the president is supposed to be perfect. Can’t ever be sick in private. Can’t be a human being. No, the president has to be superman.

“Ed,” the aide said, “are you all right?”

“Yes, of course I am. No, I’m not. Hell, I don’t know. I’m getting old, that’s what.” He sighed heavily. “What is on the agenda for this afternoon?”

“The meeting with the analytical and statistical chief of the CIA’s overseas intelligence operation.”

“Hal Brady, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Titles. Everybody has to have a title,” Fayers muttered. “When is the meeting?”

“Right now.”

“Send him in.”

Harold Brady limped into the Oval Office, carrying a thick briefcase jammed with papers. His limp was the result of his days with the old OSS during World War II; a leg broken during a jump into France and never properly set.

Brady glanced at the aide. “In private,” he said shortly, as was his manner. Abusive-sounding until one got to know the man.

The aide left the room.

“You look exhausted, Mr. President,” Brady said. “I thank you for seeing me on Sunday afternoon. I know you like to rest on this day. Are you feeling well, sir?”

“As well as could be expected,” Fayers replied, pouring them coffee. “Hilton Logan is privately saying he is unbeatable; he is our next president. God help us all, for he’s probably correct. The unions are bitching and striking—as usual. Every minority group in this nation is complaining—loudly—that I am discriminating against them… and my wife has had a headache for three weeks. At night. Calls me a horny old goat.” President Fayers smiled. “And you think you’ve got troubles.”

Brady laughed along with his boss. “Well, sir, at least you’ve managed to keep your sense of humor.”

“Only by straining, Hal. And by keeping in mind that in a few months I will be out of this office. Now then, what glad tidings have you to offer?” He lifted his coffee cup to his lips.

“I believe certain factions within the U.S. are preparing to start a war between Russia and China.”

Fayers dropped cup and saucer to the carpet. “That’s a rotten joke, Hal!” He knelt to pick up the broken bits of chinaware.

“It isn’t a joke,” the CIA man said, opening his briefcase, spreading papers on the president’s desk. “You’d better sit down, sir.”

Behind his desk, his face ashen and suddenly shiny with sweat, Fayers asked, “When is… all this supposed to occur?”

Brady shrugged. “I don’t really know, but I would guess within a week. Maybe less. I just put together the remaining bits and pieces of evidence and supposition this morning.”

“Do you want the secretary in on this?”

“Not just yet. You listen first, sir.”

A half-hour later, President Fayers told his aide, “I don’t want to be disturbed the rest of the evening. I’m going to Camp David to rest and to spend the night. That’s all anybody needs to know.”

Sunday evening—Camp David

“Begging your pardon, Mr. President,” General Travee said, after recovering from his initial shock, “but I… just can’t believe it.”

“You’d better believe it, C.H.,” Brady said. “I’ve been working on this for months. In total secrecy. I just didn’t know who I could trust—not even you. But when the computers turned out this new evidence, I… had to come to the president.”

“Why didn’t you come to me before this, Hal?” Fayers asked.

“Because… I believe your staff—a few of them—are part of this. I don’t know which ones. And the secret service; there again, I don’t know which ones.”

The secretary of state, Rees, had flown to Camp David with Fayers. The Joint Chiefs had joined them an hour later, arriving by car. Barry Ringold, director of the FBI, had driven in, followed by Kelly of the CIA and Hal Brady.

“I resent the fact you did not come to me with this information, Brady,” Kelly said.

“There, again, sir,” Brady replied. “Who to trust?”

The two men glared at each other. But Kelly dropped his gaze after only a few seconds. Kelly was a political appointee; Brady was a career snoop with a lifetime spent in the shadows. Kelly was just a bit afraid of the man.

“Now, let me get this straight,” Ringold said. “You want us to believe there are some five to six thousand rebels—organized and trained and armed—in the U.S., ready to move against the government?”

“That is correct,” Brady said.

“They will be working with certain breakaway units of the armed forces?”

“That, too, is correct, sir—as far as it goes. But please bear in mind that many of those units—if not all of them—are not traitorous; they have been misinformed. They do not know the full scope of the story. Only bits and pieces. That is my theory.”

Ringold nodded. “All right. Now, Bull Dean and Colonel Adams are both alive and well, working with the rebels and the maverick units of the military? Goddamn it, Harold! Dean and Adams are buried out there in Arlington. What kind of fairy tale is this? What have you been smoking?”

Brady flushed, opening his mouth to tell the FBI director to go fuck himself, then thought better of it.

Ringold said, “And China is going to declare war on Russia… you say. But you haven’t, as yet, explained how or why that is going to occur.”

His composure restored, temper in check, Brady said, “May I do so at this time?”

“Please do, sir,” Ringold replied, with greatly exaggerated courtesy.

The two men did not like each other, had never liked each other, and would never, in the time left to them, like each other.

Brady looked at each man in the room before he replied, “Because I believe agents, posing as Red agents, will assassinate the Chinese premier and every member of his party when they visit the town of Fuchin next week.”

“And you believe that will prompt a nuclear war between the two countries?” Kelly asked.

“That will be the start of it. Yes. A missile will then be fired from a submarine lying just off the coast of Russia.” He limped to a huge wall map of the world and thumped a spot. “From right here. The sub will fire its missile, or missiles, probably, from just off the coast of Zapovednyy. I have reason to believe there will be more than one missile, single or multiple-warhead type. I also believe the cities of Harbin, Mutanchiang, and Haokang will be destroyed.”

“Why would Russia want to launch a nuke attack against China?” Ringold inquired. “Half the world might well be wiped out.”

“There are many reasons they’d like to,” Brady said. “But just as it will not be Red agents who kill the premier and his party—it will be Americans—it won’t be the Russians who fire the missiles. They will be American missiles fired from an American sub.”

General Travee had been studying the huge map. He said, “Fired from a Stealth-equipped sub, pulled in so close to the coast it would appear the missiles came from Russian soil.”

Brady sat down. “Correct.”

Admiral Divico had been unusually quiet, his eyes studying the map. “We’re in a box,” he said. “We’re in a damned box, unable to do anything about it.”

“What do you mean, Max?” Secretary Rees asked.

Ringold looked angrily at the admiral.

Brady smiled grimly.

“The small-class experimental sub that supposedly sank last year during a test run,” the admiral said.

“What about it?” the president asked. “That was one of our best-kept secrets. All civilian personnel on board. High-paid volunteers with no family, picked by…” he paused. “Who did pick that crew?”

“We did,” Kelly said glumly.

“Several members of the agency who,” Brady said, “have quietly and mysteriously left the city over the past thirty-six hours. No answer at their homes.”

“That doesn’t answer my original question,” Fayers said.

The admiral locked eyes with Brady. “I believe Mr. Brady is about to tell us that sub didn’t sink.”

“That is correct, Admiral. It was spotted last month by one of our operatives. He couldn’t be one hundred percent certain; but certain enough to report it to me. I had had strong suspicions about it all along. The agent was killed just hours after making that report. The sub was taking on supplies, from a ship belonging to—quote/unquote—a friendly nation.”

“Goddamn it!” Ringold said. “What small-class experimental sub?”

“It was top secret,” the admiral said. “Very few people knew anything about it.”

“Well… thanks just a whole hell of a lot!” Ringold blurted.

The admiral shrugged his total indifference as to what Ringold thought. “You didn’t have a need to know.” The admiral then added, “Shit!” Then he put together a string of expletives that made the Watergate tapes sound like children’s nursery rhymes.

“Where in the hell could a sub hide for this long?” Ringold asked.

“This sub could hide anywhere it wanted to hide,” Travee said. “It’s invisible. Sonar can’t detect it. But God, it was expensive to build. Greatest weapon invented in the past fifty years. Came along much faster than its airborne counterpart. For all the good it’s going to do us.”

“All right,” Secretary Rees said. “Do we or don’t we notify the Russians and the Chinese? Do we tell them what we know—what we suspect? Take a chance?”

“What do we know we can prove?” General Dowling of the Marine Corps asked.

“We have nothing we can prove,” Brady said. “No hard evidence to present to them. And,” he said softly, “do we have the time? The Chinese—and this is my personal opinion—would, I think, behave in a decent manner. The Russians I wouldn’t trust as far as I could spit. Their minds would work this way: the sub is American; the missiles are American; the crew is American—the fault is ours. They’d drag us right into a war. We don’t know where the sub is; we can’t stop it. No,”—he sighed—“I think we have to chance this and hope we take minimum casualties. And the American people must not learn of this. The instant we assume a public defensive posture, the sub will fire its missiles. The American people won’t have time to do anything. Besides, we don’t know how many missiles will make it through our screens.”

“That’s a damned cold-blooded attitude!” Ringold said.

“But a necessary one.” Brady defended his statements. “Better the people are surprised—if it comes to that—than have several days of pure panic. And”—he held up a finger—“the Russians have a very good civil defense system: bunkers, food, water. The U.S. has shit for CD. Let the Russians get the message the same time our people receive it. More dead Russians and less U.S. casualties.”

“I’ll go along with that,” Divico said. The other members of the Joint Chiefs nodded in agreement.

“Let me say this,” Fayers said. “Mr. Brady believes the launch will be made within a week. All right, we’ll stay with that hypothesis. We don’t know where the sub is, but we’ll assume it’s in position to fire. Now, according to Ringold, his bureau has never heard of the rebels. Fine. As far as I’m concerned the rebels—if they exist—are of little concern at this moment. I’m not sure how we would go about breaking up a group we didn’t know existed—again, if they do—until a couple of hours ago. We don’t know what military units are involved in this, or where they are located. We don’t know what commanders we can trust. For that matter, I don’t know if I can trust any of my staff, and you don’t know if you can trust me. I don’t know if I can trust any of you!”

Fayers’ gaze swept each man. Words of protestation formed on each tongue, then died before being sounded, each man knowing there was nothing he could do to convince the others of his innocence.

Fayers continued. “So we have to assume we can trust each other. That is the only way we can possibly deal with this.”

“How is the sub armed?” Ringold asked, feeling a bit less left out.

The admiral sighed, cutting his eyes to General Travee. “With Thunder-strikes,” he said.

“Oh, hell!” Hyde of the Air Force and Dowling of the Marine Corps spoke in unison.

“What is a Thunder-strike?” Ringold asked. The feeling of being left out once more struck him.

“Yes.” The president leaned forward. “I’d like to know that myself. I’ve never heard of anything called Thunder-strike.” He glanced at each of the Joint Chiefs.

General Hyde said, “The… ah… president before you… ah… authorized them, sir. Before our tenure on the Joint Chiefs, I might add,” he said, a bit defensively. “The code name is ‘Supersnoop.’ It is not a large missile, but it is very powerful… and practically unstoppable. Like the sub, it’s Stealth-coated. No one will pick them up until it’s too late. Hugs the ground.”

“How very interesting,” President Fayers said dryly. “How very informative. I can but assume construction continued even after the latest SALT was signed?”

Divico cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“And they are not included in the breakdown of our nuclear arsenal?”

“That is correct, sir,” Divico admitted.

“Well, isn’t that marvelous?” the president said. “That sure as hell lets out telling the Russians anything, doesn’t it, gentlemen?”

No one said anything in rebuttal.

Fayers’ tone was sharp. “How many of these Thunder-strikes do we possess?”

“One hundred and fifty,” General Dowling replied.

Fayers swung his gaze to the marine. “You all knew of these missiles?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The weapon is very powerful?”

“Yes, sir. Some are equipped with germ-type warheads.”

Fayers slammed his hand on the table top, startling the men. “Well, that is just dandy. Yes, indeed. That is just fucking wonderful!”

And the president seldom used profanity.

Divico defended his missiles. “We had to have the edge, sir. Had to stay ahead of them. Without the missiles, the Russians would have never signed the new SALT. We talked of telling you, but…” His voice trailed off.

“Where are the Thunder-strikes stored?” Fayers asked.

“California.”

Fayers pointed a finger at Divico. “Admiral, you will—personally, tonight—transport yourself to that depot and count each Thunder-strike. Report back to me as soon as possible. Within hours. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m certain that all one hundred and fifty will not be at the depot,” Secretary Rees opined. “But of those that are, do we ready them for launch?”

“Yes,” Fayers said.

“I may take that as a direct order, sir?” Divico asked.

“Yes,” Fayers said.

“Dear God!” Ringold whispered.

FOUR

“You know this for a fact?” the Russian asked.

“I know it for a fact.” The man spoke from the shadows of the room.

“The Chinese have developed a low-level missile, capable of sliding through our defenses undetected?”

“That is true, sir. Our mole in the Pentagon reported this to me.”

“I find it most difficult to believe,” the Russian agent said. “I find it incredible that Chinese technology in the field of nuclear weaponry would surpass ours, much less that of America.”

“They were working together, sir.”

“China and America?”

“Yes.”

“That I can believe. So these reports, rumors, we’ve been hearing for months—they are true?”

“Yes, sir. I am afraid so.”

“These missiles… we thought were solely American… Thunder-strikes—how many do the Chinese possess?”

“Hundreds.”

“No! Hundreds?”

“Yes, sir. Our mole said several hundred, at least. All armed and aimed—at us.”

“And many are of the germ type?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d like to see one.”

“I know where one is stored, ready for shipment to China.”

“Message coming in, sir,” an aide informed the president.

Fayers jerked up the phone. “Speak!”

Admiral Divico’s voice was calm. “You wanted the count on the missiles, sir?”

“I didn’t send you out there to pick cantaloupes!” Fayers was angry, his angry mood made worse by the dizzy spells he’d been suffering all night and most of the morning. His head ached, throbbed with pain. He had said nothing about it.

“One hundred, sir.”

“One hundred? You said we had a hundred and fifty.”

“One hundred, sir.”

“How many does the sub carry?”

“Twelve, sir.”

“Thank you very much, Admiral.” Fayers spoke through the pain in his head. “That only leaves thirty-eight unaccounted for.” He broke the connection.

Major Bass stood before Travee’s desk. He thought the general looked tired… haggard. Maybe worried about something. “General Saunders was fishing with the CG of Fort Leonard Wood, sir. On the morning in question.”

“Fishing? Vern hates fishing. Where were they fishing?”

“Missouri, sir.”

“Vern flew eight hundred miles to go fishing?” In a pig’s ass, he did. “You’re sure of this, Major? No room for any doubt?”

“None, sir. I’d stake my life on it.”

Or mine, Travee thought. Or the entire world.

“Something else, sir.”

“Say it, Major.”

“Driskill of the Marine Corps and some of his senior sergeants were in Missouri, too. As were Admiral Newcomb, some special troop commanders and senior sergeants, and General Crowe and some of his people.”

“I have to ask, Major. Are you sure of this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Major.”

“Yes, sir.” The ASA man wheeled and left the office.

Travee phoned General Fowler, head of Army Intelligence. They arranged to have lunch that day. The two men had graduated from the Point together. Their paths had gone in different directions after that, but they remained friends. Or so Travee thought… until today.

Who do I trust? he mused.

“You’re picking at your food, C.H.,” General Fowler noted. “Don’t you feel well? Have something on your mind?”

How about holocaust? Travee looked at the food on his plate. Or treason? He lifted his gaze to his friend.

The men sat in the rear of the plush Washington restaurant, in a private dining area where they could not be heard or seen.

Unless Fowler is wearing a bug, Travee thought.

“Monk.” Travee used the general’s nickname. “I want you to tell me something.”

“If I can, C.H., sure. Shoot.”

Travee took a small sip of coffee, glanced around him, then shot straight, the words pouring from his mouth. Monk Fowler dropped his fork in his lap. Two minutes later, his face ashen, he tried to take a sip of water. His hands shook so badly he spilled water down the front of his shirt.

Travee finished by saying, “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the rumors, Monk. Don’t insult my intelligence by saying you haven’t seen bits and pieces of this crop up in reports. And don’t tell me you haven’t put it all together—or you’re not a part of it. Talk, Monk. And make it good.”

“C.H.! I… ah… I don’t know what you’re—”

Fowler heard the almost inaudible click of an Army-issue .45 automatic pistol jacked back to full cock, under the table. He looked into his friend’s eyes. Cold.

“God, C.H.! Don’t let that thing go off.”

“I ought to kill you right here, Monk. You’re a treasonous snake. Damn you! You were my friend. Were! As head of Army Intelligence, you have to be involved in this up to your butt!”

“Please put the pistol away, C.H.”

“You’re a part of it, aren’t you, Fowler?”

General Fowler’s eyes were wide with fright. “I don’t want to die, C.H.”

“We’re all going to die in a matter of days, you son of a bitch! My God—who can I trust?” Travee stood up, shoving the pistol back into his belt. “Get up, you slime, and don’t get hinky or you’re dead. And I’ll gut shoot you, Monk. Takes a lot longer to die that way. Painful.” He dropped money on the table for the meal and shoved Fowler toward the rear door. “Move!”

“Where… are we going?”

“To the White House.”

Behind them, Washington diners ate and gossiped and flirted, unaware that nuclear and bacteriological horror lurked only hours away.

“And that’s all you know?” Fayers asked, speaking through the roaring pain in his head.

“Yes, sir,” Fowler said. “I don’t know all the details, but I do have suspicions.”

“Bull Dean?”

Fowler shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so. I haven’t been able to contact him for several days, but the Bull fronts up the rebels, that’s all. Adams said he’d never go along with something like this.”

“Is it worldwide, Fowler?” Travee asked.

Fowler hesitated. “I… can’t say, C.H.”

“General Travee, Fowler. Sir. With a sir. Put a sir on it when you speak to me.”

“Yes, sir. I won’t say, sir.”

“Oh, yes, Monk—you’ll say, all right.”

“I will say I’m glad it’s over.”

“It isn’t over, Fowler,” Travee said, then knocked the general out of his chair with a short right punch. “You’re going to tell us all you know, or you’re going to die hard.” He turned to General Hyde. “Put a pistol on that warrant officer in the hall. Don’t let him get gone with those codes. We’ve got to buy us some time… if we can.”

“Good Lord, General!” Fayers said. There was an odd look in his eyes. The president laughed out loud.

Hyde paused at the door to glance at the president. He lifted his gaze to Travee. Travee shook his head slowly, sadly.

“God! My head hurts.” Fayers rubbed his temples.

General Hyde stepped out into the hall and motioned the young warrant officer inside. The W.O.’s mouth dropped open at the sight of Fowler, struggling to get to his feet, his mouth bloody.

“What’s… sir?” He looked at the president.

Fayers looked at him. “Beware the ju-ju bird, son.”

“Sir?” The W.O. stared at his commander in chief.

Travee held out his hand. “Give me those codes, Mr. Anderson. And please bear in mind General Hyde has a .45 aimed at your back.”

The W.O. did not hesitate. He stepped forward and handed the briefcase to General Travee. “Has it hit the fan, sir?”

“Yes, son,” the general replied. “It most certainly has.”

Fowler was sitting in a chair, holding his head in his hands. “Don’t hurt me, C.H. You know I have a low pain tolerance.”

Travee’s smile was ugly. “I’ll bear that in mind—traitor.”

Monday afternoon

In a warehouse on the waterfront in New York City, the Russian agent looked at the gleaming shape of the Thunder-strike, lying in its long crate, marked: AXLES.

The Russian shook his head. Leave it to the Americans, he thought. The most secret weapon in the world, and they dump it in a wooden crate, mark it AXLES, and stick it in an open warehouse.

The missile did not look dangerous; it looked beautiful and sleek. It was minuscule compared to a huge ICBM. But when the warhead was placed inside the nosecone, it became the most advanced missile in the world. Even God—if He existed, thought the Russian—would need clearance to view this missile. The agent knew he was looking at the reason his country signed SALT 5.

The Thunder-strike suddenly appeared very ominous. The Russian began to perspire, knowing he was looking at, in all probability, the object that would be the cause of his death. Very soon.

He nailed the lid back on the crate, sighing as he looked at the markings on the crate. DESTINATION: MAINLAND CHINA.

“Little yellow bastards!” he muttered.

“Hey, you!”

The Russian turned. A man dressed in jeans and hard hat stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at him.

“What the hell you doin’ in here?”

“Waiting for a man.”

“Yeah? Well, wait somewheres else. You ain’t supposed to be in here. Git outta here!”

The worker had apparently not seen him place the hammer back on the workbench. “Of course. I beg your pardon. Is there a place where I may wait, nearby?”

“Yeah. Right down the pier. A little beanery. Move!”

When the Russian had gone, the man walked to a phone, quickly dialed a number, and said, “He bought it; everything is go.”

President Fayers looked in disbelief at the body of General Fowler. He was dead! Fayers could not believe this was happening. Not here! Not in the Oval Office. His head hurt. He felt reality slipping from him; he was sliding through the most intense pain he’d ever experienced. Through his daze and pain, he could hear the military people talking, but their words were incomprehensible; he didn’t even know who those men were. He began to hum, very quietly.

“When they learn Fowler talked,” General Hyde said, “we won’t have much time.”

Fayers looked up and for a moment ceased his humming. Who were these men? Where had they come from?

“Worldwide,” Dowling said. “Fowler must have named a dozen or more countries. Including Russia. I can’t believe they are planning armed revolt in Russia.”

“C.H.,” Admiral Divico said, “we can’t just carry a body out the front door. There must be a dozen press types hanging around.”

“Did anyone see or hear you waste Captain Bingham?” Travee asked Divico.

“No,” the admiral said, the taste of betrayal bitter on his tongue. “A traitor on my own staff. I left the son of a bitch sitting in his chair, behind his desk, with half his head gone.” He had locked the door and put a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob, Bingham’s own signal that he did not wish to be disturbed.

“This thing is growing like a cancer,” Travee said. “Touching all branches. I’ve been in contact with Saunders and they confirm they were at a special meeting Saturday, all branches present, trying to decide if we were behind this mess. Our own men didn’t even trust us. God!”

“Can you blame them?” Dowling asked. “Hell, C.H., put it out of your mind—we’ve got to buy some time. It’s getting precious.”

Fayers’ intercom buzzed. The president looked up, glanced at it, then giggled.

“He’s out of it.” General Hyde looked at Fayers. “Why do I envy him his bliss?”

Travee punched the “talk” button. “Yes?”

“Ed? You sound funny. Look, I’ve got to tell the press something. They want to know why all the brass are here.”

Tell them it’s none of their goddamned business, Travee thought. He glanced at the Joint Chiefs. “Get in here.”

“Who is this?” the aide questioned.

“Get your ass in here!” Travee snapped.

The aide, James Benning, came to a sliding halt on the carpet, his eyes wide as he looked at the body of General Fowler. The man’s fingers were all broken, twisted into grotesque shapes. He looked at the president. Fayers returned his gaze, but it was an empty look, void of any understanding.

The room stank of sweat and of urine from a suddenly relaxed bladder.

“That man’s been tortured,” the aide said lamely. “There is a gag in his mouth. My God—he’s dead!” He put his hand on Fayers’ shoulder and gently shook him. “Ed?”

“He’s out of it, James,” Dowling said. “Get the VP.”

“I… uh…” The aide shook his head. “I can’t. He is right now”—he looked at his watch—“approaching the Mideast. Conference that was set up months ago.”

“Damn!” Dowling said. “Where’s the Speaker?”

“The Speaker’s on a junket. President pro tem of the Senate is in the hospital, recovering from surgery.”

“Goddamn it!” Travee roared. “Then get Secretary Rees in here.”

The aide picked up the phone, then looked at Travee. “Did you do that to General Fowler? You’re an American general, sir. What in the hell is going on?”

“Get fucking Rees in here!”

“Yes, sir!” The aide snapped to, punching out the number, contacting State.

Fayers sat in a chair in the corner, out of the way. He was softly humming his old college fight song.

“Rees is on the way,” James said. “I’ll get the secret service in here. General, sir, what is going on?”

“There is a coup attempt going down, son. Among other… issues. Can we trust the secret service?”

“We have to,” Dowling said.

Travee turned to the young W.O. “Who relieves you?”

“Myers, sir.”

“You know him well?”

“I don’t know him at all, sir. Sir? This is America. This can’t be happening here!”

“Well, it is happening, and not just here. Why don’t you know this Myers?”

“He was just assigned this duty.” The W.O. paused. “And that’s odd, too, sir. All the guys who normally handle this job have been replaced over the past few months. I’m the only one of the original bunch left. Their orders came in so fast, and there just wasn’t any reason for them.”

Travee handed him his briefcase full of war codes. “Sit down, son—out of the way. If anybody other than the men in this room attempt to take that briefcase… shoot them. You’re armed. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

The chief of White House Secret Service walked in. He stood in shock for a few seconds. “What in the hell is going on?”

Travee told him, bluntly and quickly. “Get all your older men in here. I don’t give a damn where they are or what they’re doing. Just get them.”

“I don’t take orders from you,” he was informed by the secret service man.

Travee lifted his .45, cocked it, and pointed it at the man’s head. “You have five seconds to obey my orders.”

“Yes, sir,” the secret service man said, walking stiffly to the phone.

Travee looked at Benning. “Where is Mrs. Fayers?”

“In California, sir. Speaking engagement.”

“All right. Get the White House doctor in here.” He used another line to call the Pentagon. “This is General Travee. The code word is Blue Tango. I’m going to say this only once, so you’d better listen. I want these orders sent out immediately, top priority, scrambled. They are as follows: every military base in this country is to be shut down tight. Tight! Every leave is hereby canceled. Get those personnel back to base. You understand me?”

“Blue Tango, sir?” The rustle of paper. “Blue Tango! That’s… hell, that’s insurrection within our borders, sir.”

“I am fully aware of that, Colonel. Just do it.”

“I can’t, sir. I need more code designation.”

“Red Fox!”

“That has to come from the president, sir.”

“Goddamn it, I know that. The president is… incapacitated.”

“The VP, then, sir.”

“The VP is out of the country. Do what I tell you to do!”

“Sir,” the colonel protested, “I’m only following orders—the chain of command.”

“Goddamn you, Colonel—I am giving you a direct order!”

The phone buzzed in Travee’s ear. He looked around in astonishment.

“That son of a bitch hung up on me,” Travee said.

FIVE

“I cannot believe the Americans are doing this,” the Russian ambassador said. “Unless… unless those rumors within our country have some validity to them. Yes. That must be it.” The Russian agent sat before him in the embassy.

“I have seen the Thunder-strike with my own eyes. By now it is on its way to mainland China. To join the several hundred others they have.”

“Aimed at Russia,” the ambassador said. “Things were going so well—we thought.” His hands were shaking.

His secretary buzzed him. “Sir, President Fayers has just been rushed to Bethesda Hospital. He’s had a massive stroke. Not expected to live. The vice president cannot be located. His plane and everyone on board have vanished somewhere in the Mideast. There are fears that Fayers’ wife has been kidnapped.”

“Thank you. Keep me informed. Send a message of regret and sympathy to the White House.” He told the agent what had just been relayed to him. He lit a cigarette with trembling hands. “Too much is happening too quickly for it to be mere coincidence. I think the world is about to explode in our faces. We have much to do, Fyodor. So let’s get busy doing it.”

Premier Su listened to the colonel from Chinese Intelligence. His face remained impassive as the colonel talked… and talked. Finally, Su interrupted.

“You have seen these missiles?”

“With my own eyes, Premier.”

Su sighed. “With who else’s eyes—a goat? We have nothing in our arsenal that would stop them?”

“No, Premier. Nothing.”

“The Russians were going to assassinate me at Fuchin?”

“And your wife.”

“Barbarians! What of the Americans?”

“Our intelligence reports they have nothing to do with it. The Thunder-strike is theirs, true, but the plans were stolen from them—by the Russians. Of course, neither side could mention any of this at the SALT talks.”

“Naturally. Some deviousness was to be expected. From both sides of the table.”

“The fox does not tell the hound of its exit,” the colonel said.

Premier Su sighed heavily. “Colonel, please spare me your pearls from the Orient. I was never an admirer of Charlie Chan.”

“Yes, sir. There is also something going on within America’s borders, sir.”

“I know, I know. President Fayers is quite ill. I have sent wishes for an early recovery.”

“More, sir. The vice president is missing, as is the president’s wife. Military chain of command is… well… confused.”

“Confused? What kind of briefing word is that—confused?”

“I’m sorry, Premier. All outgoing traffic has gone to a new type of scramble system. We haven’t, as yet, broken it.”

“Keep trying.” Su smiled. “Perseverance keeps honor bright.”

The young colonel’s face brightened. “Confucius, sir?”

“No, Shakespeare.”

Premier Su covered his mouth with his hand to hide his slight smile at the colonel’s crestfallen expression. “Oh,” the colonel said.

Su said, “You and your people are certain the Russians will attack us—beyond any doubt?”

“Yes, Premier. We have broken several of their coded messages from the base at Zapovednyy. This one confirmed it.”

Su looked at him, sighed, said, “I’m waiting, Colonel.”

“Sir?”

“Read the message!”

“Yes, sir. ‘Operation Dragon-Die into effect at 2359 Monday. Wipe the yellow horde from the face of the earth.’”

“Dragon-Die.” Su shook his head in disgust. “How quaint. How like the Russians. Yellow horde. Barbarians! Four days,” he said softly.

“To hell,” the colonel added. “If there is one, I mean.”

General Sun, commander of the Chinese Army, spoke for the first time during the meeting. “When do we strike, sir?”

“Tomorrow.” Premier Su glanced at him, then at the colonel. “Noon.” He smiled. “The early bird gets the worm, you know.”

The White House resembled a besieged command post. Outside, the grounds were calm, but inside, controlled chaos. The press was screaming for information—receiving very little. Travee had received word that the Speaker of the House, upon hearing of the tragedy in America, had suffered a mild heart attack and relinquished his succession to the presidency to Secretary of State Rees.

Secretary of State Rees, now Acting President Rees, was showing signs of coming unglued. The presidency was the last job in the world he wanted. He had been, prior to becoming secretary of state, president of a bank in Des Moines.

Following the news that Ed Fayers had died on the operating table, after a massive cerebral hemorrhage, a message came in that the VP’s plane, and the press plane, had been shot down over the Mediterranean Sea. No survivors.

Reports were conflicted as to just what had happened to the two planes. The Israeli Air Force spokeswoman said an American fighter-bomber had downed the planes.

Where had the fighter-bomber come from?

They didn’t know.

The PLO screamed they didn’t do it. Libya said they were delighted it had happened. The rest of the Mideast countries said they certainly didn’t do it. Nothing was coming out of the Russian Embassy. The Chinese ambassador expressed profound regrets.

“Mr. President,” Sen. Hilton Logan said to the harried Rees, “I believe we should do something, immediately.”

Hilton Logan had never been known for his grace under pressure—or under anything else, for that matter—especially water.

Rees frosted him with a look. “Well, Senator… that is just brilliant. The UN is running around in circles, screaming threats at each other. The world situation is deteriorating hourly. I am anticipating panic in the streets of America once the press learns all that is happening—and will, in all probability, happen. About twenty percent of the military is unresponsive to General Travee’s commands; and mine, I might add. Now, Senator, with all that in mind, what would you have me do that is not already being done? Without your help, sir. And by the way, how in the hell did you get in here? You certainly were not invited.”

“Mr. President, I did not mean to be impertinent. But I might add that I have spoken again and again about those special troops being overtrained and being nothing more than animals. I—”

“Oh, shit, Logan,” General Travee shut him up. “Close your mouth. The special units are all right. Thank God,” he added. “They are all responding to my orders. I’ve got SEALs coming into the city from Camp A P Hill now, just in case the police need a hand. But that is not the immediate problem.” He waved a piece of paper, just handed him by an aide. “This is.”

“What is it?” Rees asked.

“China has ordered all troops ready for full-scale war. Massive build-up along the Russian border. Our snoops say Russia is gearing up for war. Silos ready. And,” he said, looking straight at Logan, “I have ordered ours to do the same.”

“I must protest that order!” Logan said. “I would like to convene Congress to discuss this.”

“Yeah, that’s all we need,” Dowling growled.

“Then Brady was right,” Rees said.

“Brady who?” Logan flapped his arms.

“Sir?” An aide spoke to Travee. “The press is screaming for information. They’re already on the air with a bunch of shit from overseas bureaus. What do I tell them?”

“Where is Fayers’ press secretary?” Logan demanded.

“Gone,” Dowling said. “He was one of the other side.”

“What other side?” Logan almost screamed the words.

He was ignored.

The general smiled. “Tell them…” His smile broadened. “Tell them with all the heartfelt sincerity you can muster, that General Travee is leveling with the members of the fourth estate when he says: ‘GO FUCK YOURSELVES!’” He roared.

The military in the room grinned—to a person. Someone among them finally got to convey to the press what they really felt about them.

“We must tell the American people what is going on,” Logan said. “We must.”

“Time,” President Rees said. “We have to buy a little more time.”

“Why?” Logan demanded.

“So the military can get set up in a defensive posture,” Travee said. “Clear the bases of all those men not loyal to the government.”

A colonel, in civilian clothes, walked into the Oval Office. “Sir, I’ve got General Graham from Fort Campbell on the horn.”

Travee grabbed up the phone. “Go, Mike.”

“I’ve had a little trouble here, C.H.” The sounds of gunfire were faint in the background. “But it’s just about under control. Not too many men involved in the rebellion. I just spoke with Harrison down at Bragg, and Huval out at Carson. They’re secure. Same with Lewis and Stewart. Fort Knox is a hot spot, C.H.—bad over there. You want my boys to go in?”

“Don’t strip yourself bare, Mike. You got my message. You know the balloon is going up.”

“Yeah, I know. O.K., we’ll secure Knox. I got some Green Bennies coming in from Bragg, along with the Rangers from the First, Seventy-fifth. Take care, C.H.”

“Luck to you, Mike.” Travee hung up. He wondered if he’d ever see his friend again.

Admiral Divico said, “I’ve got one carrier and several destroyers out of pocket, C.H. Oh, we know where they are; they’re just not responding to orders.”

“I’ve had some trouble,” General Dowling said, a grim look in his eyes. His jaw was set like a hunk of granite. “My men put it down—hard. I have ordered any rebel survivor shot. Goddamn a traitorous marine!”

“I’ve got some pilots missing,” General Hyde said. “And their planes. A few silos that aren’t answering.”

“Are the planes armed?” Rees asked.

“Yes, sir. All the way. I have given orders to have them destroyed if they don’t set down and surrender.”

“The silos?”

General Hyde shook his head. “We can only hope they will listen to reason and come around.”

Logan said, “General Dowling? Did I understand you to say you ordered your people to shoot any marine involved in this uprising?”

“You damned sure did, Senator.”

“But that’s unconstitutional, sir! Those men are entitled to a trial.”

“Oh, they’ll get a trial, Logan,” the marine assured him. “The shortest judicial proceeding in history.” He turned his back to the senator.

President Rees glanced at Divico. “Admiral, was it… some of your people who brought down the VP’s plane?”

The admiral’s face was gray with exhaustion and tight with anger. “Yes, it looks that way, sir. From the maverick carrier.”

“And…?” Rees pressed him.

“I’ve given the captains one hour to acknowledge my surrender orders and begin steaming to the nearest port. Or”—he sighed—“I will have the ships blown out of the water.”

“All the men on those ships may not be a part of the coup attempt,” Logan said.

“Yes, Senator.” Divico’s gaze was hard. “Believe me, I realize that far better than you.”

“General Travee?” an aide said. “We finally found out why the secretaries of the services have not responded to our calls.”

“Let me have it.” Travee spun around.

“They’re dead, sir. All of them shot to death.”

“Secretary of defense?”

“Still no word, sir.”

Another aide walked into the Oval Office. “The press has put some of the story together, Mr. President. CBN just broke the news of a revolt within the military. Another network added a bit more to that and brought up rumors of a nuclear war. Missing missiles and so forth. It gets worse as it goes along.”

“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 programming 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, Carl—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 worldwide, 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 girlfriends 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.

SIX

“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.”