FOUR
“You know this for a fact?” the Russian asked.
“I know it for a fact.” The man spoke from the shadows of the room.
“The Chinese have developed a low-level missile, capable of sliding through our defenses undetected?”
“That is true, sir. Our mole in the Pentagon reported this to me.”
“I find it most difficult to believe,” the Russian agent said. “I find it incredible that Chinese technology in the field of nuclear weaponry would surpass ours, much less that of America.”
“They were working together, sir.”
“China and America?”
“Yes.”
“That I can believe. So these reports, rumors, we’ve been hearing for months—they are true?”
“Yes, sir. I am afraid so.”
“These missiles… we thought were solely American… Thunder-strikes—how many do the Chinese possess?”
“Hundreds.”
“No! Hundreds?”
“Yes, sir. Our mole said several hundred, at least. All armed and aimed—at us.”
“And many are of the germ type?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d like to see one.”
“I know where one is stored, ready for shipment to China.”
“Message coming in, sir,” an aide informed the president.
Fayers jerked up the phone. “Speak!”
Admiral Divico’s voice was calm. “You wanted the count on the missiles, sir?”
“I didn’t send you out there to pick cantaloupes!” Fayers was angry, his angry mood made worse by the dizzy spells he’d been suffering all night and most of the morning. His head ached, throbbed with pain. He had said nothing about it.
“One hundred, sir.”
“
“One hundred, sir.”
“How many does the sub carry?”
“Twelve, sir.”
“Thank you very much, Admiral.” Fayers spoke through the pain in his head. “That only leaves thirty-eight unaccounted for.” He broke the connection.
Major Bass stood before Travee’s desk. He thought the general looked tired… haggard. Maybe worried about something. “General Saunders was fishing with the CG of Fort Leonard Wood, sir. On the morning in question.”
“Fishing? Vern hates fishing. Where were they fishing?”
“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.
“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.”
“
