Out of the Ashes

The Emergency Action Notification System—ENS—was ordered activated. It is an expensive and bothersome mess that has never worked, and many (if not most) DJs did not have the vaguest idea of what to do when the bells started clanging and the buzzers began buzzing and the tones began howling and whistling.

More panic.

Then the first missile was fired. It was not clear (and never would be) just who started the dance with whom, or why, but India and Pakistan exploded, and that part of the world began burning.

South America had erupted in warfare, as had the Mideast, and Africa. The world had, for years, balanced on the edge of insanity. The slender tightrope had snapped, and the world went berserk.

General Travee was attempting to talk reason with acting Premier Malelov, actually a general, of Russia. In that country, as in America, the military had been forced to take control. Prime Minister Larousse of Canada was listening in. The satellite hotline was humming—for the last time.

“Missiles have been fired, Travee,” Malelov said, “from your sub. At us.” His voice sounded tired, strained. “China has invaded our borders, the little yellow bastards pouring across like ants toward honey. Sadly enough—or is the word ironic?—it seems that many of my own countrymen have decided to forgo communism in favor of your form of government. We have a small revolt on our hands. What an inopportune time for that to occur, since it appears democracy is not working in either of your countries, da? Ah, well,”—he sighed, the sigh very audible over the miles—“perhaps it is time. Yes, I believe it is, and I think you do, too, Travee.”

“Time for what?” Travee asked, knowing full well what the Russian general meant.

Malelov laughed. “Time to knock down all the pretty buildings and toy soldiers and many-worded diplomats and all forms of government—none of which appear to be working.”

“Then what do we do?” Larousse asked.

“We won’t do anything, Canadian. We shall be dead.” Malelov chuckled. “But… perhaps out of the ashes, eh?”

“Fatalistic son of a bitch!” Larousse cursed him. “You could, we could, stop all this before it starts.”

“That’s what the English just told me moments ago.” Malelov laughed, his dark humor tumbling through the miles of cold space. “I told them to pour a spot of vodka in their tea.”

“We are not invading your borders,” Travee reminded the Russian.

“Oh, hell, Travee!” Malelov replied impatiently. “Don’t be so naive. You know perfectly well—as I do—it’s time. We’ve been rattling sabers and growling at one another for more than forty years. Isn’t that right, Crazy Horse?” He chuckled. “I do so envy you Americans your nicknames. We Russians have to be so damned formal. I used to be known as the Wolf, but the central committee frowned on that nickname.”

“Liked the ladies, eh?” Travee said.

“Oh, yes, Crazy Horse. But, like you, I’m getting old. Content with just one woman, even if she does look like a baked potato.”

Travee had to laugh at the man. “Just enough time for some chitchat, eh, Malelov?”

“Just about, Travee,” the Russian replied. “Yes, I think that is aptly put. No more time for serious talk… well, maybe a bit of talk before we enter that long sleep. Larousse, you silly Frenchman—I have some firecrackers for you. Coming your way very soon, now. What do you think about that, you who are—or were—always so afraid of helping your southernmost neighbor in her times of stress. Cowardly Canadians.”

A moment of silence and outrage, then the PM spoke. “Batard!” He spat the word with all the venom he could muster.

Malelov laughed, the sounds of his howling echoing through the miles. “So I am a bastard, eh? Well, that would come as a considerable shock to my poor mother.” The Russian then said something neither American nor Canadian could understand. Then, “I am glad my mother is in her grave, so she does not have to witness Russian fighting Russian.”

Travee felt, after the Russian had spoken in his native tongue, that Malelov was up to something, buying time while he got the jump on the American missiles. The soldier in him surfaced. “Are we going to have war or a debating society?”

“Ah, American,” Malelov spoke softly. “Can we not have a few moments of camaraderie before we explode the world? Are you that anxious to die—I am not.”

“No.” Travee’s voice was emotion-charged as he thought of his wife of thirty-five years, and of his sons and daughters and his grandchildren. He had sent them all to his birthplace—where he owned land—up in the far north of Wisconsin. Perhaps they would be safe there, but he doubted it. “No, I’m not that anxious to die. Malelov, you seem to be overcome with philosophical meanderings… Perhaps you can tell us what brought the world to this point?”

“But of course,” Malelov said. “General Travee… oh, excuse me, you are President Travee now, aren’t you?” He laughed. “As I am now premier. As to the cause of this… misfortune we are about to bring to the world—or did we bring it? Oh… anger, frustration, helplessness, greed. No one cause. It was our country meddling in your business; your country meddling in everybody’s business. And… perhaps it was the fact that both of our governments neglected a middle ground: something between the extremes. Not communism or socialism or democracy—but, well, I don’t know. I will admit, now, that I am having serious doubts about my own political philosophies. One can only enslave a people for so long, be it physically, mentally, socially, or economically; then they revolt.” He chuckled. “Is that not correct, Mr. President-General?”

“That is correct,” Travee said.

“Your Constitution is a most interesting document,” the Russian said. “I have read it many times. Interesting, but vague. And totally unworkable to the satisfaction of all the people it must encompass. I believe, Travee, that from out of the ashes both of us will produce with our missiles, there will arise a great number of small nations—including many within the United States. That is what I believe. Nations, small ones, that will serve their own people—those being willing to live under the particular laws of that nation. All, in the main, answering to some degree to one central flag, but not in the whole. Yes, that is what I believe. Have you ever given that any thought, Travee?”

“Yes,” Travee admitted. “I have. But it won’t work, Malelov.”

“How do we know?” the Russian challenged. “Have either of our countries ever tried it?”

“Could we try it now?” Prime Minister Larousse suggested hopefully.

“No!” Malelov said, flatly and quickly. “It is too late. Too late for us. Ah! Enough small talk.”

Travee was in constant communication with his northernmost tracking stations. No blips had yet appeared.

“No,” Malelov said, his voice holding sadness. “It is too late. Crazy Horse knows. We are both soldiers. We know what we must do. Our generation, in both our countries, brought all this on: your country, Travee, with its maze of conflicting laws and rules; mine with its repression—I will admit it. So, our world is closing around us. However,”—he sighed—“from out of the ashes… and all that nonsense.”

The men were silent for a time, their breathing heavy over the miles.

Suddenly, Malelov laughed. A great, booming laugh. “All right, you silly Frenchman. I have a present coming your way. Not many, but enough.”

The PM cursed the Russian general.

“And you, President-General of the United States. Good joke, eh? United States? With your little secret army of rebels. Well, are you afraid, Travee? Are you holding your water well? Are you trembling with fear?”

“I’m not afraid of anything!” Travee thundered, the soldier in him rearing up.

“Good, good!” the Russian said. “We shall all be brave men to the end, da?” He laughed, but it was a sad laugh. “Well, American, Canadian—there seems to be nothing left to say… except, and as odd as it seems, I mean this: good luck, Crazy Horse.”

“Good luck, Wolf.”

The connection was broken.

“May God smile on our countries,” Larousse said, then hung up.

Travee very gently set the hotline receiver into its cradle. He turned to a colonel standing nearby. “Codes activated?”

“Yes, sir. Tapes running, all systems go. Missiles ready for launch.”

“Patch me through to General Hyde.”