Out of the Ashes (4 page)

“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.

Monday morning—three days before launch

 

“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 world-wide, 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. D
ESTINATION
: M
AINLAND
C
HINA
.

“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?

“World-wide,” 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?”