Out of the Ashes ta-1

by William Wallace Johnstone

  “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 qui
et, 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.