Fire in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “I'll step down when Sabra returns, Mr. Brighton,” Roanna replied, shock evident on her face at the promotion to Top Gun in the nation's capital.

  Brighton shook his head. “Sabra died an hour ago."

  * * * *

  “I want this to be the toughest tax bill to ever pass both Houses,” Ben said. “I have no doubt that when I leave the White House it will be repealed, but for my term in office, the tax laws will be as equitable as I can make them."

  “Senator Henson told me yesterday she doubted it will get out of committee,” an aide informed him.

  Ben turned in his chair and fixed the man with a look that would freeze water in the middle of the Mojave in July. At noon. “You will personally inform Senator Henson that if this bill is not out of committee and on the floor by this time next week, I will personally go on radio and television and inform the middle and lower-income citizens of this nation that effective immediately, they may commence paying into IRS what they feel the government is worth. And if Congress doesn't like it, I will station armed troops around every IRS office in this nation with orders to shoot any agent that attempts to harass any non-taxpaying citizen. Is that clear?"

  The aide paled; looked appalled. “Mr. President, you can't mean that!"

  “Try me,” Ben said calmly, but his voice was charged with emotion.

  “Yes, sir,” the aide replied weakly. “I will so inform Senator Henson."

  “Fine.” Ben turned to Steve Mailer, the new head of the Department of Education. “Are you going to be a harbinger of gloom and doom, too?"

  “No,” the ex-college professor laughed his reply. “But I'm running into stiff opposition with your mandatory high school education plans."

  “I expected it. Steve, I hope I don't have to convince you that education is the key that will turn the lock for survival in this nation."

  “You know you don't, Mr. President. But you must know there are any number of ... how do I put this ... ?"

  “...Hillbillies and rednecks who don't want their kids exposed to much education. I am fully aware it all begins in the home, Steve. Because of that, the teachers that will staff our schools will have to be a special breed. Not only will they be teaching the three Rs, this time around they'll be teaching fairness, ethics, honesty, ways to combat and ultimately eradicate all the deadly sins that have plagued this nation for so many years. I know that is in part why the NEA is opposed to me. I understand it, and whether they believe me or not, I sympathize with the teachers; they've never been asked to do anything like this before. How is the mail from parents running?"

  “It's really too soon to tell. But from what we have received so far, it pretty well reinforces what we have known all along: the higher the educational ladder attained, the more in favor of what you are proposing. The lower the educational rungs achieved ... against it."

  “The teacher organizations, Steve—why are they really opposed to this plan?"

  Steve shifted in his chair. An ex-teacher, part of his emotions stayed with his chosen field. But as a highly educated person, he knew the more education a being possessed, the less the chances of that person abusing the children; the less chances of crime; the more apt to stay away from the baser types of music and violent sports ... and so much more. But, just as Ben knew, Steve knew, too, that education without a solid base of ethics supporting it all, without a framework of decency and fair play and honesty and a stiff moral base left a great deal lacking.

  But was it, should it, be on the shoulders of teachers to instill those qualities into the hearts and minds of the young?

  Steve had been appalled when he learned that back in the Tri-States, Ben had ordered children taken from their parents if the parents were teaching the young hatred or bigotry and values that went against the foundation of what the Tri-States was built upon.

  But shock diminished, falling away from him gradually when he gave Ben Raines's plan a deeper study. How could a nation ever do away with the deadly sins if parents continued to practice those sins at home?

  Like father and mother, like son and daughter.

  Steve was conscious of Ben watching him very closely, waiting for his reply.

  “Because many of the teachers are afraid they'll lose their jobs, Ben. They are afraid they will not come up to your expectations."

  Ben smiled. “But Steve, we haven't even discussed guidelines. Aren't they getting a little panicky for no reason?"

  The teacher met the revolutionary's eyes. “All right, Ben—you want to cut right through the grease to the meat. Okay. Many of them know they will lose their jobs. They are fully aware they cannot meet any standards set higher than the ones currently in practice. There it is."

  “That's their problem. They can learn to adjust."

  “What if they are fine teachers but still somewhat, shall we say, immoral outside the classroom?"

  “Get rid of them."

  “Ben..."

  “No! I will not have drunks, womanizers, whores, bigots, playboys, or playgirls shaping the minds of this nation's young people. Damn, Steve! Kids have to have someone they can look up to standing in front of that class. And I mean standing. Unless the teacher is handicapped and unable to stand.

  “The teachers that will staff the public schools of this nation will be of the highest quality, and they will be very highly paid. And their personal lives will be exemplary. Religion has nothing to do with it. I don't care if they are Christian or atheist. Religion is not going to be taught in the public schools.

  “There is a very great difference in religion and ethics. Just do it, Steve. You said you could, I believe you, so do it. Steve, we can't have a government based on common sense without the citizens of that nation openly practicing ethics and honesty and trust. If those qualities are not taught at home, then they must be taught in our schools."

  Steve gave a mighty sigh. “You are going to stir up a hornet's nest, Ben."

  “Steve, I've been making waves for forty years. My daddy said I came out of the womb arguing with the doctor."

  Steve laughed. “I don't doubt that, Ben. I really don't.” He stood up. “All right, Ben. It sounds so easy the way you put it."

  “It's going to be anything but easy, Steve. If it was easy it wouldn't be worth a damn."

  The men shook hands and Steve left to do his task. The intercom buzzer sounded on Ben's desk.

  “A General Altamont to see you, sir."

  “Who?"

  “Representative Altamont's brother, sir."

  Ben was thoughtful for a moment. A sense of alarm sounded silently in his guts. “Susie? We'll be rolling on this one."

  “Yes, sir."

  Which meant everything was to be taped.

  Five

  Just before Captain Dan Gray slit the throat of one of Hartline's mercenaries, the man gasped, “Just outside Pekin."

  Gray took the life from the bullet-riddled man with one expert slash. He looked at his team. “You all heard him. Get on the horn and call the others on tach."

  That done, one of his men said, “Damn sure narrows it some."

  “Damn sure does, lads,” Gray grinned, wiping his bloody knife on the dead man's shirt. “Let's go."

  They were fifty miles south of Pekin.

  * * * *

  Matt let the tortured body of the mercenary fall to the cold white earth. He looked at the mercenary's trussed-up buddy. His eyes were as cold as the snow that was slowly being stained red under the body of the merc.

  “You want to die this hard?” Matt asked.

  “Man—you're nuts!"

  That got him a kick in the teeth. The mercenary spat out pieces of broken teeth and blood. “I'd rather not die at all."

  Matt just looked at him.

  “Outside Pekin—‘bout ten miles."

  “Which direction?"

  “East."

  Matt cut his throat and left him beside his buddy.

  * * * *

  The ex-Green Beret smiled at the m
ercenary. “My granddaddy used to tell me stories about his granddad. He rode with the Comancheros in Texas. Ever seen a man hung up by his ankles with his head ‘bout a foot from a slow fire?"

  Ike and an ex-Marine Force Recon squatted in the cold empty house and waited.

  “You wouldn't do that to me?” the mercenary blustered.

  Ike's team member grinned. It was, the mercenary thought, the ugliest grin he had ever seen.

  “I guess you would,” the mercenary said. “I tell you where she is, I die easy—is that it?"

  “You got it."

  “Tremont. Just outside Pekin.” The mercenary cut his eyes to Ike. “Long time, Mississippi boy."

  “It's growing very short, Longchamp."

  “We went through UDT together, Ike."

  “That don't make us brothers."

  “I don't think you can do it, nigger-lover,” the onetime UDT man said with a grin.

  He was still grinning as Ike shot him through the heart with a silenced .22 Colt Woodsman.

  “I reckon he figured camaraderie went further than it oughtta,” the ex-Green Beret said.

  “He never was worth a shit at figurin,'” Ike said. “Let's go."

  * * * *

  “Let's stop dancing, General,” Ben said. “Sit down and put the cards face up."

  The AF general smiled and removed a small boxlike object from his briefcase.

  Ben ruefully returned the man's smile.

  Altamont began a search with the dial until Ben stopped him with a curt slash of his hand. “I'm taping, General.” He punched a button on his desk. “Stop taping, Susie."

  “Yes, sir,” she replied.

  “Am I to take you at your word, Mr. President?"

  “I don't lie, General."

  The general studied Ben's face for several long seconds. “All right, sir. I believe you."

  “Why so hinky about my taping our conversation?"

  “You have ... ah ... shall we say, more than your share of people who dislike you intensely."

  “To say the least. That isn't news."

  “You are aware of my brother backing Lowry and Cody and Hartline?"

  “Yes."

  “He is not loyal to you, sir."

  “Are you?"

  Altamont smiled. “Yes, sir—believe it or not. I was the one feeding false information to my brother and his ... ah ... colleagues."

  Rain began drumming on the window, the drops mixed with ice and sleet. The winter sky darkened, casting a shadowy pall on the Oval Office and its occupants. Ben waited.

  “I want you to know I am not a traitor to my country, sir. I was one of those who met in the Missouri lodge, back in ‘88. Just before the bombings."

  “Yes, I know."

  * * * *

  Tension, heavy and ominous, hung in the huge room as the room filled with men in groups of twos and threes. Each man seemed to know exactly where to sit, although no name tag designated individual place. The men looked at each other, nodded, and took their places at the huge square table.

  The men were military. Line officers and combat-experienced chiefs and sergeants. Career men.

  There were generals and colonels of all branches; fifteen sergeant majors and master chiefs making up the enlisted complement.

  Guards were sentried around the two hundred acres of Missouri hill country. They wore sidearms in shoulder holsters under their jackets.

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

  “It 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 orders, 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,” General Vern Saunders of the Army said. “That means we've got to move very quickly."

  “Hell, Vern,” General 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.

  The admiral said, “If you have something on your mind, Sergeant Major, say it. We're all equal here."

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

  Laughter.

  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 and damned if we don't. If we do expose the location of the sub—where we think it is—we stand a good chance of war. A very good chance of war. 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. 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 Franklin, of the Navy, looked across the table. “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."

  A Special Forces colonel said, “General? You think some of my people are involved in this?"

  “No,” General Saunders said. “Our intelligence people—of all services—seem to agree on one point: no special troops involved. But this touches all branches of the service, not just in this country, but all countries—Russia included.” His smile was grim. “I take some satisfaction in that. Those men in the sub have friends all over the world. That's why they've been able to hide for so long."

  “Then Bull and Adams are really alive?"

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

  A master chief said, as much to himself as to those around him, “I really don't understand what they have to do with this ... operation."

  “Really ... neither do we,” an admiral admitted. “But we do have these facts, one of which is obvious: Bull and Adams faked their deaths years ago, in ‘Nam; 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 think. 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. We think."

  “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 them—war or peace."

  “I see. So, Bull
came up with the sub plan?"

  General Saunders shook his head. “We don't think so. We believe it was Adams's idea. I couldn't discuss that with Bull; 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. We believe Adams has lost control; 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 had been on the burner for a long time—years. To overthrow the government, I mean. Why have they waited so long?"

  “We don't know,” the general replied. “And we've got dozens of computers working on the problem right at this minute. 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 people on the sub. I think we're staring nuclear 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."

  “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.

  All the men had taken these tests before; all had the highest security rating possible. The machine was a psychological stress evaluator. PSE. Of the most advanced type.

  “Sergeant Mack is the best PSE technician around,” General Driskill said with a smile. He laid a pistol on the table before him. “This won't take long."

  A few seconds ticked by. An Air Force colonel tried to light a cigarette. His hands were shaking so badly he finally gave up the idea of smoking. He met 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!” Driskill snapped at him. “Don't you people realize—or care—you're bringing the world to the brink of holocaust?"