Fire in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “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,” someone muttered.

  The Air Force colonel smiled.

  “I don't believe that's all of it,” General Crowe of the Air Force said, pulling out a pistol. He pointed it at the colonel. “You traitorous son of a bitch. Which one of the Joint Chiefs is it?"

  The colonel was suddenly calm with the knowledge he would never leave the room alive. He was not going to squirm; would not give any of them that satisfaction. He lit a cigarette with steady hands and let his gaze touch each man. “I don't know—and that's being honest with you. I think it's an aide, but I'm not sure. You can test me; I won't fight it."

  He was tested. He knew nothing of substance.

  “Explain what you know!” General Crowe snapped, holding the .38. “I've seen men tortured before, sonny."

  “I don't know who the architect is; neither do the men on the sub. That was deliberate.” 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 colonel glanced at his watch. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He gave the general a Washington, DC, phone number.

  “Trace it,” Driskill told Sergeant Major Rogers.

  “Let's tighten up the loose ends, Colonel. Too many ropes dangling in the breeze."

  The colonel again glanced at his watch. After a slight smile and a deep breath, almost a sigh of relief, he said, “We—those of us in the operation—knew that Brady would eventually put it all together and go to President Fayers."

  “Harold Brady of the CIA?"

  “Yes. We 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 AF commando asked. “You takin’ medicine?"

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

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

  “Now, speak!” the general barked.

  The colonel shook his head, wiped blood from his mouth, then smiled.

  “What do you find amusing about all this?” he was asked.

  The colonel's smile broadened.

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

  “That's right, Admiral."

  “Why?"

  “Because it's 1207, that's why."

  “Explain."

  “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. Even if it's close, too close, no clear majority, it'll be thrown into 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."

  General Saunders leaned close. “Son—don't do it. Don't do this to your country. Logan is just a man.” He grimaced. “Not much of a man, but still a man. We can weather the storm."

  “No, we can't, General.” The colonel's voice was low, his eyes sad. “This country's had it. We're moving back to the left and we can't allow that to happen. This 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 like a tinderbox, the Mideast with it.” His eyes grew wild with fanaticism.

  “And what of America?” General Crowe asked.

  “Oh, we'll take casualties. Somewhere in the seventy-five to ninety-million range; you all know the stats. But we'll come out far better than any major power. When we're back on top, 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 guys are fucking nuts!"

  Rogers came back into the room. “That number in DC's been disconnected. 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 colonel laughed. “Sure, 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 hands tightening on the butt of the .38.

  “There won't be any election,” the turncoat said. “Not for a long, 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 sucked in their guts. One hundred and twenty hours to hell.

  “No one could have stopped us—even if you had found out. You couldn't have gone to the Chinese to tell them the Russians were going to launch against them. No proof. Big international stink was all you would have accomplished. Same if you'd gone to the Russians. It all boils down to this: An American sub will launch American missiles. Both countries would have turned on you. You brass know the 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, that's all. Oh, and don't blame the old Bull—he knows nothing about it. It's Adams all the way."

  “What type of missiles are you using?"

  “Supersnoop missiles,” Admiral Mullens answered the question. “Thunderstrikes. Neither side has anything that will stop them. Needless to say, we're not supposed to have them. When the Russians learned we were building them, they signed SALT 5—that is the only reason they signed it. Neither the president nor Congress know anything about the Thunderstrikes."

  “I can feel the lid being slowly nailed on the coffin,” a Navy man said. He looked at the AF colonel. “What about him?"

  General Crowe jacked back the hammer on the .38 and shot the colonel between the eyes.

  “Good shot, Turner,” General Driskill observed.

  Five days later, the world exploded in germ and nuclear warfare.

  * * * *

  “I often wondered what happened in that room,” Ben said. “I'm glad you cleared it up."

  “I'd hate for anything even remotely resembling that bombing to happen again,” General Altamont said.

  “You're waltzing again,” Ben said. “Come on, General, say it."

  “Do you know what SST means, Mr. President?"

  “Wasn't that a plane?"

  Altamont smiled. “Would that it were. It means Safe Secure Trailers. In 1988, this nation had forty of them. They were used to transport inactive atomic or hydrogen bombs, missile warheads, uranium or plutonium—things of that nature."

  Ben felt a chill surround him. “Go on,” he said softly.

  “When the bombing began back in ‘88, a few of those SSTs were on the road—despite the SALT treaty. The drivers headed for cover. Two of those SSTs took shelter at a secret underground storage depot in New Mexico. They were found last year."

  “I don't think I'm going to like the ending to this story,” Ben said.

  “No, sir,” General Altamont said. “I don't believe you are."

  Six

  Jerre was surprised when she answered the doorbell. Jake Devine and Lisa stood on the porch. She motioned them in.

  Lisa came right to the point, the words exploding from her
mouth in a rush of words. “Me and Jake talked it over last night, Miss Jerre. We'll help you get out and away if you'll let us go with you."

  Jerre looked at the mercenary. He nodded his head. “I've had it with Hartline, Jerre. He was bad when I first met him—I'm no angel myself—but Hartline is nuts. I've told Lisa everything I've ever done. I didn't leave a thing out—including ordering the execution of several civilians over in Indiana. Says that doesn't make any difference to her. Said she loves me. I know I love her."

  Jerre believed him, for Lisa had confided in her more than once about her feelings toward Jake and what he had told her.

  “When?” she asked.

  “It'll have to be in open daylight,” Jake said. “How about tomorrow at noon?"

  “I'll be waiting. What about the guards?"

  “They won't say anything if you're with me,” Jake assured her. “But they'll be on our asses like bears to honey in less than an hour—bet on it."

  “Do we have a chance?"

  The mercenary shrugged. “Fifty-fifty."

  “I'll take it."

  Lisa hugged her. “We'll be here at noon tomorrow."

  Jerre watched them leave. It was growing dark out, spitting snow.

  * * * *

  “Whoa, Colonel McGowen!” Matt fought to keep from screaming the words. “It's me, Matt."

  “Damn, boy,” Ike said, lowering his knife. “You ‘bout bought the farm. What the hell are you doin’ here?"

  “Same thing you're doing here. I came to get Jerre."

  Ike and his team had surprised the young man in the deserted house, just outside of Tremont.

  “Old home week, lads,” the voice came out of the darkness.

  The men spun around, weapons at the ready. Ike grinned when he saw Dan Gray in the dim light that was preceding wintry dusk.

  “Well now,” Ike said, lowering his CAR-15. “I reckon they'll soon be enough ol’ boys here to put what's left of Hartline plumb out of business."

  Dan winced. “Colonel McGowen, you certainly have a way with the English language. How many in your team?"

  “Twenty-one, all told. Rest will group with me in the morning. Hour ‘fore dawn."

  “That gives us just a bit over fifty fighters,” Dan said with a grin. “Oh, my, yes. More than ample for the task ahead. Let's get our teams settled in for the night and make our plans."

  * * * *

  General Altamont removed a piece of paper from his briefcase. The single sheet of white paper had been placed in what looked to Ben an oversized Baggie. “This was delivered to me this morning—at my office at the Pentagon. The messenger was from a courier service. Allied. I tried to find that service listed in the phone book. No such courier service."

  He placed the plastic-enclosed sheet of paper on Ben's desk. Ben read through the plastic.

  WE HAVE THE ULTIMATE WEAPON. CHECK STORAGE AREA OUTSIDE KIRTLAND IF YOU DOUBT US. BEN RAINES BEWARE.

  Ben looked up. “Kirtland Air Force Base?"

  “Yes, sir. I immediately put people checking on any records that still might exist on the movement of old SSTs. We lucked out. A team from New Mexico was dispatched to that storage site. No trace of the drivers, but transport tickets left in the cabs told us what we wanted—wrong choice of word—what we feared. The SSTs were carrying enough materials to make several very large nuclear devices; perhaps a dozen smaller ones."

  “Who sent the message?"

  “We have no idea, sir."

  “You are in charge of Air Force Intelligence, are you not, General?"

  “Yes, sir."

  “Forgive me. I'm still attempting to put faces with job titles."

  “Understandable, sir."

  “Well, someone obviously doesn't like me. But what threat is implied here?” he tapped the plastic-encased note.

  “I don't mean to be flip, Mr. President; but your guess is as good as any."

  “From within or from without? Take a guess."

  General Altamont was thoughtful for a moment. “Sir, you have enemies all around you. I don't believe the Secret Service is in any way involved in this. That's a gut feeling. Since Cody's death, you have purged the FBI.” A very slight smile played around the corners of his mouth. “Demoralized it, might be a better word, if you will forgive me. And you are rebuilding it, or reshaping it, back to what it was intended to be. I don't believe there is any danger there. You have enemies in the armed forces, but none that I am aware of in high or sensitive places. In the House and Senate—yes, surely you know how hated you are among some of those people."

  “Senator Carson,” Ben said with a small smile.

  Altamont glanced at him sharply. Then a look of admiration passed briefly across his face. “Not much escapes you, does it, Mr. President?"

  “Not much. I wouldn't trust that old bastard any further than I can spit. And I never was a chewer or a dipper."

  “I don't have any concrete proof about him. But I can tell you he plays footsie on both sides of the aisle."

  “Don't I know it."

  “My brother, bless his pseudo-liberal heart, never did let me get too close to the inner circle. So I can't give you much on them—except their names, and I'm certain you already know that."

  “True."

  “But before I come down too hard on those who lean left, as compared to our thinking, let me say there are some men and women in both Houses who call themselves conservative that are not what I would call in your camp."

  “Yes, and that troubles me, General. Well,” Ben sighed, “stay with this thing,” he once more tapped the letter of warning. “Keep me informed."

  “Yes, sir.” Altamont stood up, retrieved the letter, and left the Oval Office.

  When he was certain the general was gone, Ben punched his intercom. “Susie? Have Mitchell put a tail on General Altamont."

  “Yes, sir. Want him to report straight back to you, sir?"

  “Yes."

  “Very good, sir."

  * * * *

  “Did he buy it?” Senator Carson asked General Altamont.

  “All the way, Bill,” the general said with a laugh.

  “When do we detonate the first one?"

  “Next week. I'll blow it in a deserted town so no one is likely to get hurt."

  “Lovely,” the old senator said. Then he slapped Altamont on the back. The three men shared a laugh in the night.

  Altamont turned to the Secret Service agent. “When you report back to Raines, tell him I went straight home."

  “Yes, sir,” the agent responded.

  “Does Bob Mitchell suspect anything?"

  “Not a thing, General. He's fat, dumb, and happy."

  “Good. Let's be sure we keep it that way."

  The three men broke apart, walking out of the small park just a few miles from the White House. They got in separate cars and drove away.

  “Cute,” Rosita said, stepping from the shadows. “Con que esas tenemos! Gentlemen, I will show you how my mother's people deal with traitors—very shortly."

  She walked swiftly back to her car, got in, and drove away into the damp night. Not even the president of the United States knew the Spanish-Irish lady had come to Colonel Hector Ramos's command from Captain Dan Gray's Scouts. She was as thoroughly trained in the art of counterinsurgency as a person could be. And she was as lethal as a ticking time bomb.

  * * * *

  Ben sat alone in his office. He had dismissed Susie, sending her home. The White House was quiet, and he was alone with his thoughts. The twins were with their nanny, in their rooms down the hall, but Ben had no desire to go and play with them. They reminded him too much of Jerre. He wished he had someone to talk with.

  He tried Cecil. No, the secretary told him, the VP was out for the evening. A meeting with several department heads.

  He knew Dawn had gone out of town; Ike was off in search of Jerre. Lamar was back in Idaho. So many of the old bunch dead and gone.

  What the hell was he doing here
in the White House? He didn't want this damned job! Loneliest goddamned job in the world.

  And what about those SSTs? The message? Ben Raines beware?

  What the hell was that all about?

  Damn! but he was tired of double crosses and triple crosses and backbiting and the whole scene.

  He wondered if his house in Louisiana was still standing. And suddenly he thought of Salina.

  * * * *

  Ben pulled into his driveway at five o'clock in the afternoon. He had been wandering for almost a year since the bombings. Nothing had changed except the lawn had flowers where none had been before. A station wagon parked in the drive.

  Since the outskirts of Shreveport, Ben had seen hundreds of blacks. No one had bothered him; they had all been friendly, waving to him and chatting with him when he stopped.

  But the vague and somewhat amusing—to him—thought was: he knew how Dr. Livingstone must have felt.

  Ben got out of the truck thinking: there is a lot of land to be had. I'm not going to spill any blood for an acre of land in Louisiana.

  He felt kind of silly knocking on his own front door. But as he raised his hand to tap on the door, it swung open.

  “Come on in, Ben Raines,” Salina said. “I've been waiting for you."

  “Hello, Salina.” Ben revised his original appraisal of her: she was not just good-looking. She was beautiful.

  “I was about to invite you in, Ben, but that would be rather silly of me, wouldn't it? This is your house.” She looked at Juno. “What a beautiful animal. What's his name?"

  “Juno."

  She held out her hands and Juno and Ben stepped into the house. Not much had been changed except the house was a great deal cleaner and neater than when he'd left it. He said as much.

  She smiled. Lovely. “Most bachelors aren't much on housekeeping. ‘Sides,” she said, a mischievous light creeping into her eyes, “us coons have been trained for centuries to take care of the master's house while he's away seein’ to matters of great import."

  “Knock it off, Salina,” he said, then realized she'd been ribbing him. He gave back as much as he got. “You're only half-coon. So the house should be only half-clean."

  She laughed. “Call this round a draw. Dinner's at seven. Guests coming over. We knew you were coming."