William Johnstone - Out of the Ashes

“Missouri, sir.”

“Vern flew eight hundred miles to go fishing?” In a pig’s ass, he did. “You’re sure of this, Major? No room for any doubt?”

“None, sir. I’d stake my life on it.”

Or mine, Travee thought. Or the entire world.

“Something else, sir.”

“Say it, Major.”

“Driskill of the Marine Corps and some of his senior sergeants were in Missouri, too. As were Admiral Newcomb, some special troop commanders and senior sergeants, and General Crowe and some of his people.”

“I have to ask, Major. Are you sure of this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Major.”

“Yes, sir.” The ASA man wheeled and left the office.

Travee phoned General Fowler, head of Army Intelligence. They arranged to have lunch that day. The two men had graduated from the Point together. Their paths had gone in different directions after that, but they remained friends. Or so Travee thought… until today.

Who do I trust? he mused.

“You’re picking at your food, C.H.,” General Fowler noted. “Don’t you feel well? Have something on your mind?”

How about holocaust? Travee looked at the food on his plate. Or treason? He lifted his gaze to his friend.

The men sat in the rear of the plush Washington restaurant, in a private dining area where they could not be heard or seen.

Unless Fowler is wearing a bug, Travee thought.

“Monk.” Travee used the general’s nickname. “I want you to tell me something.”

“If I can, C.H., sure. Shoot.”

Travee took a small sip of coffee, glanced around him, then shot straight, the words pouring from his mouth. Monk Fowler dropped his fork in his lap. Two minutes later, his face ashen, he tried to take a sip of water. His hands shook so badly he spilled water down the front of his shirt.

Travee finished by saying, “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the rumors, Monk. Don’t insult my intelligence by saying you haven’t seen bits and pieces of this crop up in reports. And don’t tell me you haven’t put it all together—or you’re not a part of it. Talk, Monk. And make it good.”

“C.H.! I… ah… I don’t know what you’re—”

Fowler heard the almost inaudible click of an Army-issue .45 automatic pistol jacked back to full cock, under the table. He looked into his friend’s eyes. Cold.

“God, C.H.! Don’t let that thing go off.”

“I ought to kill you right here, Monk. You’re a treasonous snake. Damn you! You were my friend. Were! As head of Army Intelligence, you have to be involved in this up to your butt!”

“Please put the pistol away, C.H.”

“You’re a part of it, aren’t you, Fowler?”

General Fowler’s eyes were wide with fright. “I don’t want to die, C.H.”

“We’re all going to die in a matter of days, you son of a bitch! My God—who can I trust?” Travee stood up, shoving the pistol back into his belt. “Get up, you slime, and don’t get hinky or you’re dead. And I’ll gut shoot you, Monk. Takes a lot longer to die that way. Painful.” He dropped money on the table for the meal and shoved Fowler toward the rear door. “Move!”

“Where… are we going?”

“To the White House.”

Behind them, Washington diners ate and gossiped and flirted, unaware that nuclear and bacteriological horror lurked only hours away.

“And that’s all you know?” Fayers asked, speaking through the roaring pain in his head.

“Yes, sir,” Fowler said. “I don’t know all the details, but I do have suspicions.”

“Bull Dean?”

Fowler shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so. I haven’t been able to contact him for several days, but the Bull fronts up the rebels, that’s all. Adams said he’d never go along with something like this.”

“Is it worldwide, Fowler?” Travee asked.

Fowler hesitated. “I… can’t say, C.H.”

“ General Travee, Fowler. Sir. With a sir. Put a sir on it when you speak to me.”

“Yes, sir. I won’t say, sir.”

“Oh, yes, Monk—you’ll say, all right.”

“I will say I’m glad it’s over.”

“It isn’t over, Fowler,” Travee said, then knocked the general out of his chair with a short right punch. “You’re going to tell us all you know, or you’re going to die hard.” He turned to General Hyde. “Put a pistol on that warrant officer in the hall. Don’t let him get gone with those codes. We’ve got to buy us some time… if we can.”

“Good Lord, General!” Fayers said. There was an odd look in his eyes. The president laughed out loud.

Hyde paused at the door to glance at the president. He lifted his gaze to Travee. Travee shook his head slowly, sadly.

“God! My head hurts.” Fayers rubbed his temples.

General Hyde stepped out into the hall and motioned the young warrant officer inside. The W.O.’s mouth dropped open at the sight of Fowler, struggling to get to his feet, his mouth bloody.

“What’s… sir?” He looked at the president.

Fayers looked at him. “Beware the ju-ju bird, son.”

“Sir?” The W.O. stared at his commander in chief.

Travee held out his hand. “Give me those codes, Mr. Anderson. And please bear in mind General Hyde has a .45 aimed at your back.”

The W.O. did not hesitate. He stepped forward and handed the briefcase to General Travee. “Has it hit the fan, sir?”

“Yes, son,” the general replied. “ It most certainly has.”

Fowler was sitting in a chair, holding his head in his hands. “Don’t hurt me, C.H. You know I have a low pain tolerance.”

Travee’s smile was ugly. “I’ll bear that in mind—traitor.”

Monday afternoon

In a warehouse on the waterfront in New York City, the Russian agent looked at the gleaming shape of the Thunder-strike, lying in its long crate, marked: AXLES.

The Russian shook his head. Leave it to the Americans, he thought. The most secret weapon in the world, and they dump it in a wooden crate, mark it AXLES, and stick it in an open warehouse.

The missile did not look dangerous; it looked beautiful and sleek. It was minuscule compared to a huge ICBM. But when the warhead was placed inside the nosecone, it became the most advanced missile in the world. Even God—if He existed, thought the Russian—would need clearance to view this missile. The agent knew he was looking at the reason his country signed SALT 5.

The Thunder-strike suddenly appeared very ominous. The Russian began to perspire, knowing he was looking at, in all probability, the object that would be the cause of his death. Very soon.

He nailed the lid back on the crate, sighing as he looked at the markings on the crate. DESTINATION: MAINLAND CHINA.

“Little yellow bastards!” he muttered.

“Hey, you!”

The Russian turned. A man dressed in jeans and hard hat stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at him.

“What the hell you doin’ in here?”

“Waiting for a man.”

“Yeah? Well, wait somewheres else. You ain’t supposed to be in here. Git outta here!”

The worker had apparently not seen him place the hammer back on the workbench. “Of course. I beg your pardon. Is there a place where I may wait, nearby?”

“Yeah. Right down the pier. A little beanery. Move!”

When the Russian had gone, the man walked to a phone, quickly dialed a number, and said, “He bought it; everything is go.”

President Fayers looked in disbelief at the body of General Fowler. He was dead! Fayers could not believe this was happening. Not here! Not in the Oval Office. His head hurt. He felt reality slipping from him; he was sliding through the most intense pain he’d ever experienced. Through his daze and pain, he could hear the military people talking, but their words were incomprehensible; he didn’t even know who those men were. He began to hum, very quietly.