Out of the Ashes

“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.

“When they learn Fowler talked,” General Hyde said, “we won’t have much time.”

Fayers looked up and for a moment ceased his humming. Who were these men? Where had they come from?

“Worldwide,” Dowling said. “Fowler must have named a dozen or more countries. Including Russia. I can’t believe they are planning armed revolt in Russia.”

“C.H.,” Admiral Divico said, “we can’t just carry a body out the front door. There must be a dozen press types hanging around.”

“Did anyone see or hear you waste Captain Bingham?” Travee asked Divico.

“No,” the admiral said, the taste of betrayal bitter on his tongue. “A traitor on my own staff. I left the son of a bitch sitting in his chair, behind his desk, with half his head gone.” He had locked the door and put a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob, Bingham’s own signal that he did not wish to be disturbed.

“This thing is growing like a cancer,” Travee said. “Touching all branches. I’ve been in contact with Saunders and they confirm they were at a special meeting Saturday, all branches present, trying to decide if we were behind this mess. Our own men didn’t even trust us. God!”

“Can you blame them?” Dowling asked. “Hell, C.H., put it out of your mind—we’ve got to buy some time. It’s getting precious.”

Fayers’ intercom buzzed. The president looked up, glanced at it, then giggled.

“He’s out of it.” General Hyde looked at Fayers. “Why do I envy him his bliss?”

Travee punched the “talk” button. “Yes?”

“Ed? You sound funny. Look, I’ve got to tell the press something. They want to know why all the brass are here.”

Tell them it’s none of their goddamned business, Travee thought. He glanced at the Joint Chiefs. “Get in here.”

“Who is this?” the aide questioned.

“Get your ass in here!” Travee snapped.

The aide, James Benning, came to a sliding halt on the carpet, his eyes wide as he looked at the body of General Fowler. The man’s fingers were all broken, twisted into grotesque shapes. He looked at the president. Fayers returned his gaze, but it was an empty look, void of any understanding.

The room stank of sweat and of urine from a suddenly relaxed bladder.

“That man’s been tortured,” the aide said lamely. “There is a gag in his mouth. My God—he’s dead!” He put his hand on Fayers’ shoulder and gently shook him. “Ed?”

“He’s out of it, James,” Dowling said. “Get the VP.”

“I… uh…” The aide shook his head. “I can’t. He is right now”—he looked at his watch—“approaching the Mideast. Conference that was set up months ago.”

“Damn!” Dowling said. “Where’s the Speaker?”

“The Speaker’s on a junket. President pro tem of the Senate is in the hospital, recovering from surgery.”

“Goddamn it!” Travee roared. “Then get Secretary Rees in here.”

The aide picked up the phone, then looked at Travee. “Did you do that to General Fowler? You’re an American general, sir. What in the hell is going on?”

“Get fucking Rees in here!”

“Yes, sir!” The aide snapped to, punching out the number, contacting State.

Fayers sat in a chair in the corner, out of the way. He was softly humming his old college fight song.

“Rees is on the way,” James said. “I’ll get the secret service in here. General, sir, what is going on?”

“There is a coup attempt going down, son. Among other… issues. Can we trust the secret service?”