Out of the Ashes

“I gather,” a Marine officer said, “the Joint Chiefs don't know about this?”

“We don't know if they do or not,” Admiral Mullens said. “But we can't approach any of them for fear one of them is involved.”

“One or more. And which ones?”

“That is yet another point to consider.”

“And we can't do to them what we're about to do to each other,” General Driskill said, as an aide, as if on cue, wheeled in a cart with a machine on it.

No one had to ask what it was; all the men present held the highest security ratings in America. They had all taken these tests before. The machine was the most highly advanced of the psychological stress evaluators. PSE. The same type the Bull and Adams used to ferret out informers.

“Each of us will submit to a PSE test. Sergeant Mack is the best around.” General Driskill smiled as he laid a pistol on the table, in front of him. “This won't take too long.”

A few seconds ticked past. An Air Force colonel tried to light a cigarette. His hands were shaking so badly he finally gave up the effort. He looked into the hard eyes of the Marine general. “Save yourself the trouble, General. I don't know where the sub is; I don't know who on the JCs—if anyone—is involved in this operation; and I don't know anyone who does know.”

“You damned fool!” General Driskill snapped at him. “Don't you people realize—or care—you're bringing the world to the brink of holocaust?”

“Oh, the hell with that!” the colonel said. “Let Russia and China fight it out. Let them destroy each other. We'll pick up the pieces and be on top once more.”

“So that's it,” a man muttered.

The Air Force colonel smiled.

“I don't believe that's all of it,” General Crowe of the Air Force said. He pulled a pistol from his waistband and pointed it at the colonel. “You traitorous son of a bitch. Which one of the Joint Chiefs is it?”

The Air Force colonel was suddenly calm with the knowledge that he would never leave this room alive. He was not going to give the men in the room the pleasure of seeing him squirm. His gaze touched each man, then he lit his cigarette with steady hands. “I don't know. And that's being honest. I think it's an aide, but I can't be sure. You can test me; I won't fight the machine.”

He was tested. He did not know the name of the man on the Joint Chiefs, and his hunch that it was a top aide showed positive. He did not know the location of the sub, and had no further knowledge of it.

“Explain it all!” General Crowe snapped. “I've seen men tortured before, sonny.” He still held the .38 in his right hand.

“General, I don't know much about the operation. That was deliberate on the part of the top man, or men. Not even the men in the sub know who the architect is. Least I don't believe they do.” No one in the room believed him. “My orders are to report what I heard here, that's all.”

“He's lying!” a master chief said.

General Crowe said, “Colonel, make it easy on yourself. We can do this one of several ways. We're not savages, but the fate of the world may very well rest in this room.”

The Air Force colonel glanced at his watch. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He gave the general a Washington, D.C. phone number.

“Trace it,” Driskill told Sergeant Major Rogers.

The colonel's eyes hardened.

“Let's tighten up all the loose ends, Colonel. Too many ropes dangling, flapping in the breeze.”

He looked at his watch once again and said, after a slight smile and a deep breath, almost a sigh of relief, “We—those of us in the operation—knew that Brady would eventually put things together and go to Fayers.”

“Harold Brady of the CIA?”

“Yes. We had hoped he wouldn't put it together until after the elections.” He glanced at his watch.

“Why are you always lookin’ at your goddamned watch?” an Air Force commando asked. “You takin’ medicine?”

“He's stalling!” a SEAL said. “Playing for time.”

The Army Ranger hit the colonel in the mouth with a short, hard right, slamming him out of his chair. General Driskill kicked the man to his feet and shoved him back in his chair.

“Now, speak!” the general barked.

The Air Force colonel shook his head to clear away the cobwebs and wiped blood from his mouth. He smiled.

“What do you find amusing about all this?” Admiral Mullens asked.

The colonel's smile broadened.

“Because,” Admiral Newcomb said quietly, “there aren't going to be any elections—right, Colonel?”

The man's smile faded. “That's right, Admiral.”

“Why?”

He again glanced at his watch. “Because it's 1207, that's why.”

“What?” Driskill barked. “What the hell has the time to do with anything?”

“Brady put it all together much sooner than we expected. I should have received a phone call before 1145 hours. I didn't. That means our computers have concluded that no one can beat Hilton Logan in the fall elections. It—they—have concluded that even if it's close, too close, no clear majority, it'll be thrown into the House. Logan will come out on top, and that liberal son of a bitch will find out we've built new nukes and order them destroyed.”