Out of the Ashes

“Yes, sir.”

“The weapon is very powerful?”

“Yes, sir. Some are equipped with germ-type warheads.”

Fayers slammed his hand on the table top, startling the men. “Well, that is just dandy. Yes, indeed. That is just fucking wonderful!”

And the president seldom used profanity.

Divico defended his missiles. “We had to have the edge, sir. Had to stay ahead of them. Without the missiles, the Russians would have never signed the new SALT. We talked of telling you, but...” His voice trailed off.

“Where are the Thunder-strikes stored?” Fayers asked.

“California.”

Fayers pointed a finger at Divico. “Admiral, you will—personally, tonight—transport yourself to that depot and count each Thunder-strike. Report back to me as soon as possible. Within hours. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm certain that all one hundred and fifty will not be at the depot,” Secretary Rees opined. “But of those that are, do we ready them for launch?”

“Yes,” Fayers said.

“I may take that as a direct order, sir?” Divico asked.

“Yes,” Fayers said.

“Dear God!” Ringold whispered.

FOUR

Monday morning—three days before launch

“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? You said we had a hundred and fifty.”

“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.”