William Johnstone - Out of the Ashes

“How many men do they have?”

“Five to six thousand—at the most.”

“That’s still a lot of people. And knowing Bull and Adams, those men are trained guerrilla fighters. How have they managed to keep that many people secret for so long?”

The admiral allowed himself a tight smile. “You didn’t know the Bull, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“If you had known either of them, you wouldn’t have asked.”

“I knew both of them,” a Ranger colonel said. “If they even suspected a member of any of their units was a traitor, they would not hesitate to kill him—war or peace.”

“I see,” the man said softly. “So… Bull came up with the sub plan?”

General Saunders shook his head. “No. It wasn’t his plan. We believe it was Adams’ idea. But I couldn’t discuss this with Bull. I only had two minutes with him. Besides, he and Adams have been friends for twenty-five years. But I did manage to plant a seed of doubt in his mind. Yes, we believe Adams has lost control; he’s slipped mentally. Mr. Kelly of the CIA shares that belief.”

“There is something I don’t understand,” a Coast Guard officer said. “Obviously, this plan has been on the burner for a long time—years. To overthrow the government, I mean. Why have they waited so long?”

“That’s what we don’t know. And we’ve got dozens of computers working on the problem right at this moment.” The general rubbed his face with his hands. “I didn’t get a chance to ask the Bull that. So many questions I wanted to ask. Men, I don’t think we have a prayer of stopping those men on the sub. I think we’re staring nuclear and germ warfare right in its awful face and there isn’t a goddamned thing we can do about it.”

“I gather,” a Marine officer said, “the Joint Chiefs don’t know about this?”

“We don’t know if they do or not,” Admiral Mullens said. “But we can’t approach any of them for fear one of them is involved.”

“One or more. And which ones?”

“That is yet another point to consider.”

“And we can’t do to them what we’re about to do to each other,” General Driskill said, as an aide, as if on cue, wheeled in a cart with a machine on it.

No one had to ask what it was; all the men present held the highest security ratings in America. They had all taken these tests before. The machine was the most highly advanced of the psychological stress evaluators. PSE. The same type the Bull and Adams used to ferret out informers.

“Each of us will submit to a PSE test. Sergeant Mack is the best around.” General Driskill smiled as he laid a pistol on the table, in front of him. “This won’t take too long.”

A few seconds ticked past. An Air Force colonel tried to light a cigarette. His hands were shaking so badly he finally gave up the effort. He looked into the hard eyes of the Marine general. “Save yourself the trouble, General. I don’t know where the sub is; I don’t know who on the JCs—if anyone—is involved in this operation; and I don’t know anyone who does know.”

“You damned fool!” General Driskill snapped at him. “Don’t you people realize—or care—you’re bringing the world to the brink of holocaust?”

“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,” a man muttered.

The Air Force colonel smiled.

“I don’t believe that’s all of it,” General Crowe of the Air Force said. He pulled a pistol from his waistband and pointed it at the colonel. “You traitorous son of a bitch. Which one of the Joint Chiefs is it?”

The Air Force colonel was suddenly calm with the knowledge that he would never leave this room alive. He was not going to give the men in the room the pleasure of seeing him squirm. His gaze touched each man, then he lit his cigarette with steady hands. “I don’t know. And that’s being honest. I think it’s an aide, but I can’t be sure. You can test me; I won’t fight the machine.”

He was tested. He did not know the name of the man on the Joint Chiefs, and his hunch that it was a top aide showed positive. He did not know the location of the sub, and had no further knowledge of it.

“Explain it all!” General Crowe snapped. “I’ve seen men tortured before, sonny.” He still held the .38 in his right hand.

“General, I don’t know much about the operation. That was deliberate on the part of the top man, or men. Not even the men in the sub know who the architect is. Least I don’t believe they do.” 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 Air Force colonel glanced at his watch. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He gave the general a Washington, D.C. phone number.

“Trace it,” Driskill told Sergeant Major Rogers.

The colonel’s eyes hardened.

“Let’s tighten up all the loose ends, Colonel. Too many ropes dangling, flapping in the breeze.”

He looked at his watch once again and said, after a slight smile and a deep breath, almost a sigh of relief, “We—those of us in the operation—knew that Brady would eventually put things together and go to Fayers.”

“Harold Brady of the CIA?”

“Yes. We had 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 Air Force commando asked. “You takin’ medicine?”

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

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

“Now, speak!” the general barked.

The Air Force colonel shook his head to clear away the cobwebs and wiped blood from his mouth. He smiled.

“What do you find amusing about all this?” Admiral Mullens asked.

The colonel’s smile broadened.

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

The man’s smile faded. “That’s right, Admiral.”

“Why?”

He again glanced at his watch. “Because it’s 1207, that’s why.”

“What?” Driskill barked. “What the hell has the time to do with anything?”

“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. It—they—have concluded that even if it’s close, too close, no clear majority, it’ll be thrown into the 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.”

“Son,”—General Saunders leaned forward—“don’t do this. Don’t do it to your country. Logan is just a man. Not much of one,” he grimaced, “but still a man. He’s not going to dismantle the nation. We’ll weather it.”

“No, General. No, we won’t. This country’s had it.” His eyes were sad, his voice low when he spoke. “We’ve had eight years of conservatism, but everything Fayers has pushed through has been a battle. People aren’t interested in the long run; they’re only interested, concerned, with now . The gun-control legislation proved it; we’re moving back to the left, and we can’t allow that to happen. This way 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 up like a tinderbox, the Mideast with it.” His eyes grew wild with fanaticism.