William Johnstone - Out of the Ashes

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.”