James Riverson, a huge, six-foot, six-inch truck driver from the boot heel of Missouri, and his wife, Belle, were last seen getting into James’ rig and heading west.
A neighbor had called to him, “What’re you haulin’ this trip, James?”
James had smiled, answering, “A load of M-16s and ammo.”
His neighbor had laughed. “M-16s! James, son, you are a card.”
Linda Jennings, a reporter for a small-town Nebraska weekly, did not show up for work. No one had seen her since the day before. She had received a phone call and immediately begun packing.
“Young people!” her boss had snorted.
Al Holloway, a musician in a country and western band, did not make rehearsal. A friend said he saw him getting into his car and heading out. Said it looked like he was carrying a submachine gun.
Jane Dolbeau, a French Canadian living and working in New York, was seen leaving her apartment. A young man she had dated had waved at her, but Jane had not acknowledged the greeting. He said she seemed preoccupied.
Ken Amato and his wife and daughter locked up their house in Skokie, outside of Chicago, and drove away.
Ben Raines sat in his den, listening to classical music and getting drunk. He had no idea that the gods of fate were laughing wildly, shaping his destiny.
SIX
“General Travee? There is a man on the phone claiming to be Col. Bull Dean. He says he wants to speak to Crazy Horse Travee. Begging your pardon, sir.”
Travee laughed. “So the ornery ol’ Bull is alive.” He jerked up the phone. “Speak, you snake-eater!”
Bull laughed. “It was Adams, sir. Not me. The rebels are out of it. I can’t tell you everything Adams did, ‘cause I don’t know it all. But I’ll tell you what I do know.”
“Give it to me fast, Bull. I don’t think we have much time.”
Travee listened for several minutes, nodding and grunting every now and then. Finally, he said, “What are you going to do, Bull?”
“I’m going to sit right here on my front porch and watch the ICBMs come in and go out. Fort Drum will surely take one nose-on, so I’ll just sit here quietly until my time comes. I can’t think of a better way for a worn-out old soldier to go out. Give ’em hell, Crazy Horse.” He hung up.
Travee stood for a precious moment, his thoughts flung back over the years, his memories of a wild young Ranger named the Bull—the most decorated man in the history of America.
“It sounded to me, General,” Logan said, “as though you were genuinely glad to speak with that traitor.”
Travee glared at him. “Shut your goddamned liberal mouth, you prick! Bull Dean is ten times the man you’ll ever be. Now sit down, shut up, and stay out of the way, or I’ll tear your head off and hand it to you.”
Logan sat down in a corner, crossed his legs primly, and closed his mouth.
“VP Mills’ wife is dead,” General Hyde said, walking into the room. “California Highway Patrol just found her body.”
“How did she die?” Rees asked. “And why? Killing Ruth was an unnecessary act of violence.”
“She was shot in the head.” General Hyde shrugged. “As to who killed her, we’ll probably never know. We don’t have that much time left us.”
“Sir.” An aide spoke to President Rees, his face white with strain and exhaustion. “The Russians have just formally broken off diplomatic relationships with the United States. Their embassy is closed and they are boarding planes to go home.”
“Their UN ambassador?”
“He is airborne. Most of the ambassadors from the Soviet bloc countries are gone as well.”
“Do we have contact with our embassy in Moscow?”
“No, sir. Everything is being jammed by the Russians.”
“Damn,” Rees cursed. “Have you spoken with the Chinese?”
“Yes, sir. The Chinese were unusually blunt. They said to pick a side and do it quickly.”
“Did you give them our reply?”
“Yes, sir. They seemed pleased.”
Brady limped into the room. “We have reports of massive riots in Turkey, India, Iran, a dozen other countries. Three embassies have been burned to the ground, our ambassadors killed.”
“My men?” General Dowling asked.
“All dead, sir. This time they died fighting.”
“Good,” Dowling said, clenching his fists. He and General Travee locked eyes for a few seconds. “It’s time, C.H.,” the Marine Corps commandant said. Travee nodded. Dowling turned to an aide. “Tim, order all marines on full alert. Battle gear. Tell them to stand by. I’ll be goddamned if I’m going out with my thumb stuck up my ass.”
Each man of the Joint Chiefs followed suit with his branch. Rees was not consulted, and his face mirrored his immense relief. Senator Logan jumped to his feet.
“None of you can give those orders without first consulting Congress.” Hilton Logan was scared. The military scared him. Guns frightened him. Violence made him nauseous.
He was ignored.
General Travee spoke to his president. “Sir, I am declaring a national state of emergency—martial law. The Constitution of the United States is hereby suspended. I am assuming full control.”
PART TWO
ONE
War is a contagion.
Shooting, faint and far away, drifted to the men sitting on the park bench in New York’s Central Park. A hard burst of gunfire followed, from automatic weapons. There were cars and trucks backed up for miles on the expressways around the city: a mass exodus.
“It’s no longer safe in the city.” The Albanian grinned, and the Chinese laughed at him.
“How many warheads and what kind?” the Chinese asked. “Not that it will do my country any good. I can’t get through to them.”
“Too many warheads. The gas is a form of Tabun, highly refined now, in a mist form. A half-drop on bare skin, or inhalation of the mist causes death within seconds.”
“Tabun. Another of Hitler’s brainchildren.”
“That is correct.”
“Do the Americans know of this Tabun form?”
“A few of them.”
“How long have they known?”
“Years. Their nerve gas is similar.”
