Out of the Ashes

“Luck to you, Mike.” Travee hung up. He wondered if he'd ever see his friend again.

Admiral Divico said, “I've got one carrier and several destroyers out of pocket, C.H. Oh, we know where they are; they're just not responding to orders.”

“I've had some trouble,” General Dowling said, a grim look in his eyes. His jaw was set like a hunk of granite. “My men put it down—hard. I have ordered any rebel survivor shot. Goddamn a traitorous marine!”

“I've got some pilots missing,” General Hyde said. “And their planes. A few silos that aren't answering.”

“Are the planes armed?” Rees asked.

“Yes, sir. All the way. I have given orders to have them destroyed if they don't set down and surrender.”

“The silos?”

General Hyde shook his head. “We can only hope they will listen to reason and come around.”

Logan said, “General Dowling? Did I understand you to say you ordered your people to shoot any marine involved in this uprising?”

“You damned sure did, Senator.”

“But that's unconstitutional, sir! Those men are entitled to a trial.”

“Oh, they'll get a trial, Logan,” the marine assured him. “The shortest judicial proceeding in history.” He turned his back to the senator.

President Rees glanced at Divico. “Admiral, was it ... some of your people who brought down the VP's plane?”

The admiral's face was gray with exhaustion and tight with anger. “Yes, it looks that way, sir. From the maverick carrier.”

“And ...?” Rees pressed him.

“I've given the captains one hour to acknowledge my surrender orders and begin steaming to the nearest port. Or"—he sighed—"I will have the ships blown out of the water.”

“All the men on those ships may not be a part of the coup attempt,” Logan said.

“Yes, Senator.” Divico's gaze was hard. “Believe me, I realize that far better than you.”

“General Travee?” an aide said. “We finally found out why the secretaries of the services have not responded to our calls.”

“Let me have it.” Travee spun around.

“They're dead, sir. All of them shot to death.”

“Secretary of defense?”

“Still no word, sir.”

Another aide walked into the Oval Office. “The press has put some of the story together, Mr. President. CBN just broke the news of a revolt within the military. Another network added a bit more to that and brought up rumors of a nuclear war. Missing missiles and so forth. It gets worse as it goes along.”

“How are the American people reacting?”

“Just as we expected, sir. Panic. Riots starting in some of the cities; many trying to flee the cities.”

“Where in the hell do they think they're going?”

The aide shook her head. “They don't know, sir. They're just running scared.”

President Rees shook his head in frustration. He glanced at his watch. “Do we have the secret service clean?”

“Yes, sir. That's positive.”

“Then the White House is secure?” he asked.

“Until the birds fly,” he was told. With that, President Rees puked all over the carpet.

Ben Raines sat in his den and watched the TV news. Regular programming had been abandoned. Ben drank his whiskey and was sourly amused at the panic building within the U.S.

He arrogantly toasted the TV newswoman with his whiskey glass and said, “I always wanted to screw you, honey.”

Then he rose from his chair, turned off the TV, and put on a symphony. Wagner's Ring.

The pistol in Bull Dean's hand never wavered. The hammer was jacked back to full cock, the muzzle pointed at Adams’ belly. “I should have put it together months ago, Carl,” he said to his longtime friend. “You've been playing me for a fool. Worse than that, Carl—you've been playing God.”

“You're wrong, Bull!” Adams protested. He kept his hands at his side. He made no quick moves; he knew the Bull too well to try to jump him. The Bull was an old man, but still as deadly as a black mamba. “It was now or never, Bull. The only way.”

“You gave the orders for those units to revolt—knowing they would be killed.”

“I had to start it rolling, Bull!”

“You gave the orders to shoot down the VP's plane. Leak the Thunder-strikes to the press.”

“I had to!”

Bull Dean shook his head. “You fool—you poor misguided fool. You didn't really think the special troops would fall in with you, did you? Commit an act of treason?” He shrugged, but the pistol never wavered. “Well, it's over. Hours to go. Worse than being a fool, Carl, you're a traitor. Since three o'clock this afternoon, I've been in contact with more than ninety-five percent of the rebel commanders. They're out of this; keeping their heads down.”

“They'll follow my orders!” Carl screamed.

Bull shook his gray head. “No, they won't, Carl. They're Americans, not traitors. Their only reason for rebelling was for this nation—we saw it going back to the left. They were doing it for their country, not for you or me. You don't have an army.”

“Maybe you're right, Bull. O.K., so you are. But I've won, Bull. Even though I'm seconds away from being dead—I've won after all.”

“How do you figure that, Carl? We've been underground for eighteen years. Lost our families, everything. How have you won?”