William Johnstone - Fire in the Ashes

“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.”