“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—
“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.”
No. He shook his head. We weren’t wrong. Not at the outset. It was basically a good plan, restoring America to her constitutional roots.
He sighed as he looked at the cooling body of Adams. You got too big for your boots, partner. Went off the deep end. I think, toward the end, you were crazy.
He picked up the phone, telling the operator, “Get me the White House, miss. Tell whoever answers that Col. Bull Dean wants to speak with Crazy Horse Travee.” He laughed. “That should get his attention.”
Only hours before the press broke the rumors of a nuclear war looming worldwide, in almost every state in America, people who knew how to survive, were ready for war, were vanishing.
Prof. Steven Miller disappeared from the campus of USC. The quiet, soft-spoken professor of history, a bachelor, could not be found. His apartment was unlocked, but nothing appeared to be missing or even out of place. An associate professor thought it strange, though, when a box of .223 ammunition was found in a bureau drawer.
“M-16 ammunition,” a policeman observed.
“But Steven didn’t like guns,” his colleague said. “Least he said he didn’t like them. Come to think of it, he never joined us in any gun-control activity.”
The policeman shrugged.
An hour later, the policeman had vanished.
Jimmy Deluce, a crop-duster from the Cajun country of Louisiana, and a dozen of his friends did not report for work. No one seemed to know where they went.
Nora Rodelo and two of her girlfriends were last seen shopping together in Dodge City, Kansas. They dropped out of sight.
Anne Flood, a college senior in New Mexico, and a half-dozen of her friends, male and female, got in their cars and vans and drove away. A neighbor told his wife to come quick, look at that. Those kids are carryin’ guns, Mother. Look like machine guns. Don’t that beat all?
