Out of the Ashes

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.”

After a few seconds, the scratchy voice of Paul Hyde popped into the room. “We made it, C.H. The old bird held together and we're through Russian air defenses. I'm going to shove this payload right down their throats.”

“Luck to you, Paul.”

“Thanks, Charlie.” The speaker went dead.

Blips appeared all over the Alaskan screen. “Russia has pushed the button, General. We're going to take a few. Eighteen minutes to impact on American soil. God! China is really getting creamed.”

Travee nodded. “First launch intercept. Now! Now!”

The men were deep in the bowels of Weather Mountain, not too many miles outside of Washington, D.C.

Travee said, “Condition Red—strike. No turning back. No verbal orders to be obeyed past this point. Get me Admiral Divico.”

Divico's voice rang through the room, clear and loud from his flagship. “It's still a beautiful sight, Charlie—launching these jets. Last time I'll get to see it, that's for sure.”

“How's it look, Ed?”

“Awesome.” He was very calm.

“General Malelov was very philosophical about the situation,” Travee said.

“He should be standing where I'm standing,” Divico said. “He might change his tune. Well, Charlie, here they come, dead at me. I—”

The speaker screamed an electronic outrage. Travee knew the flagship had taken a hit.

“Sir?” an aide said. “Word from Cuba is General Dowling's marines are really raising hell on the island. Kicking ass all over the place.”

Travee grinned. “With Dowling personally leading a charge, I'm sure.”

“MIGs dogfighting with our people over the Keys, sir.”

Travee nodded. “Order those designated subs to hit the bottom and stay there. Roll their DD tapes and be quiet. Order those designated silos to roll doomsday tapes and sit it out.” He looked at the aide. “May God forgive me for what I'm about to do. Launch missiles! Fire! Fire! Fire!”

TWO

Ben awoke a few minutes before noon, his mouth cotton-dry. He stumbled into the kitchen, drank a glass of water, and took two aspirin. He looked out the window and grinned.

“World's still in one piece,” he muttered. “Guess it was a false alarm.” He opened the back door and stepped out on the porch, letting the screen door bang behind him. An angry buzzing followed the slamming of the screen door.

Ben looked around just in time to see a dozen or more yellowjackets charging out of the nest—at him. He threw up his hand and one stung him in the center of the palm. Wincing from the sudden pain, Ben struggled with the door. It had a habit of sticking, and chose this time to become obstinate. Several more of the wasps hit him, on the neck and face. Another stung him just below the left eye. His world began to spin. Just as he got the door open a wasp buried its stinger behind Ben's right ear and Ben slumped to the kitchen floor, his feet hanging outside, holding the door open.

Yellowjackets swarmed him, stinging him on the arms, face, and neck. Using the last of his fading strength, Ben pulled his feet inside and the door closed. He slapped at his face, knocking several wasps spinning. He crawled into the den and there, fell to the tile, unconscious. His face was swelling rapidly. He shuddered as the venom raced through his system; his breathing became shallow and his skin was clammy.

Ben slipped deeper into unconsciousness.