William Johnstone: Out of the Ashes

“Honestly, Sam? You really don’t know what’s happening?”

“I’m leveling with you, Ben. To tell you the God’s truth, I can’t find anybody who knows what’s going on. Or at least who will talk about it.”

Ben felt a chill move around in his belly. “Take care of yourself, Sam.”

“Will do. You hunt a hole, partner,” the Hell-Hound said. “Keep your head down.” He broke the connection.

Or somebody did it for him.

“It’s firm, Hilton,” the senator’s chief aide told him. “The military is up to something. Lots of moving around and quiet talk. And I can’t even get in the front door at Langley. Certain units of the military are on some kind of low alert.”

“Why?” the senator demanded.

“I don’t know.”

“President Fayers?”

“He’s fat, dumb, and happy.”

“You mean he doesn’t know what’s going on?”

“Apparently not.”

“Jesus Christ!”

The banquet hall of the lodge had been cleared of all furniture not essential to the meeting. The building had been electronically swept for listening devices. Long tables had been placed end to end, side to side, forming a huge square, capable of accommodating fifty people in comfort. Pitchers of water, drinking glasses, pads and pencils, and briefing books were placed on the dark blue cloth, the items neatly arranged before each chair. A shredding machine stood silent in the corner.

Tension, heavy and ominous, hung in the huge room as the room filled with men in groups of two or three. Although no nametag designated individual place, there was no confusion; each man seemed to know exactly where to sit. There was no unnecessary chatter, few social amenities were exchanged. The men looked at each other, nodded, then sat down.

All of the men were military. That would have been evident to even the most uneducated in military bearing. Neatly trimmed hair, out of style; eyes that gave away nothing; erect bearing; no wasted motion.

To the more knowledgeable, the men were line officers and combat-experienced sergeants and chiefs. All career men.

The Army general and colonels, had they been in uniform, would have had Airborne/Ranger/Special Forces tabs on their shoulders. The generals and colonels of the Marine Corps are Force Recon—trained—Raiders. The general and colonels of the Air Force are combat pilots and Air Force commandos. The Navy men are UDT, SEAL, pilots, ships’ captains. The Coast Guard men are all career; they have all seen combat. There were fifteen sergeant majors and master chiefs making up the complement.

During the past twenty-four hours, the men, all having arrived at night, had traveled various routes to get to the lodge. The real-estate agent who had rented them the lodge knew only that he was renting the place for a top-level think tank.

Keep your mouth shut about this and we’ll be back next year. A handsome bonus for you. And don’t disturb us.

Yes, sir, the agent had replied instinctively. Guy looked like his old drill sergeant.

Guards were sentried about the two hundred acres. They were in civilian clothes and their sidearms were out of sight.

Cigars, pipes, and cigarettes smoking, water glasses filled, the men waited for someone to open the ball.

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

“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 order, 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,” Gen. Vern Saunders of the Army said. “That means we’ve got to move very quickly.”

“Hell, Vern,” Gen. Tom 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.

“You got something on your mind, Sergeant Major,” the admiral said, “say it. We’re all equal here.”

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

Laughter erupted.

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, damned if we don’t. If we expose the location of the sub—where we think it is—we stand a good chance of a war. A very good chance. 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.” He shook his head. “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 of the Navy Franklin looked across the table, disgust in his eyes. “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.”

“I wondered why I was jerked out of Italy so fast I didn’t even have time to zip up my pants,” the Ranger colonel smiled.

“Well, you’d better zip ’em up, Pete,” a SEAL laughed at him. “You don’t have that much to brag about.”

“How the hell do you know?” A marine chuckled. “You two guys queer for each other?”

“I ain’t free,”—the Ranger grinned—“but I’m reasonable.”

An AF commando laughed. “He bends over in the shower a lot, lookin’ for the soap.”

The rough humor touched all the men. After the laughter had died, the men seemed more relaxed, able to talk without constraint. A Special Forces colonel said, “General? You think some of my men are involved in this?”

“No,” General Saunders said. “Our intelligence people”—he waved his hand—“all services, seem to agree on one point: no special troops are involved. But”—he held up a warning finger—“this touches all branches of the service, not just in this country, but all countries. Russia included.” He smiled grimly. “I take some satisfaction in that. Those men in that sub have friends all over the world. That’s why they’ve been able to hide from us for so long.”

“The Bull and Adams are really alive?”

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

“I… don’t really understand what they have to do with this… operation,” a master chief said, as much to himself as to the men around him.

“Really… neither do we,” an admiral replied. “But we do know these facts, one of which is obvious: Bull and Adams faked their deaths years ago; 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 know for a fact that many ex-members of the Hell-Hounds turned them down cold.”