Out of the Ashes

Then he heard rumors that General Crowe was seen climbing into the cockpit of a fighter and taking off for parts unknown. Odd. Crowe was entirely too old to go roaring off into the wild blue yonder like a young buck, cutting didos in the sky.

And General Driskill always worked in his office for a couple of hours on Saturday mornings. But not this Saturday morning.

Travee punched a button on his desk.

“Yes, sir?”

“Get me Major Bass from ASA. Tell him I want him in my office in thirty minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Army Security Agency major was standing in front of the general's desk in exactly twenty-nine minutes. There were questions in his calm eyes.

“What's going on, Major?”

“Sir?”

“Come on, Major—you're in the know. You've heard the whispers all over the town. Now you tell me."

“I ... don't know, sir. We can't even pinpoint who gave those low-alert orders.”

“But yet it came from the Joint Chiefs?”

“Yes, sir. Sir? We think it was an aide. But the one we have in mind has ... disappeared.”

“I won't ask you who you suspect. Just this: why would he do such a damned fool thing?”

“I don't know, sir.”

Travee nodded, then said, “I want you to do me a personal favor, Major. Find out where Gen. Vern Saunders was this morning. Pronto. And report your findings only to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sunday—four days to launch

President Fayers looked out the window of his office, wondering why any man would want the thankless job of president of the United States.

“It's such a lousy job,” he said to his chief aide and good friend. “Damned if you do, damned if you don't. The massive responsibility for running a country this size should not be dumped onto the shoulders of one man. It's too much.”

“Yes, sir,” the aide agreed, not really knowing what his boss was talking about. The president hadn't been himself lately. He'd been depressed, complaining of sleeplessness, and the aide was worried the press would discover it and blab it all over the nation. Not that it was any of their goddamned business. No—the president is supposed to be perfect. Can't ever be sick in private. Can't be a human being. No, the president has to be superman.

“Ed,” the aide said, “are you all right?”

“Yes, of course I am. No, I'm not. Hell, I don't know. I'm getting old, that's what.” He sighed heavily. “What is on the agenda for this afternoon?”

“The meeting with the analytical and statistical chief of the CIA's overseas intelligence operation.”

“Hal Brady, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Titles. Everybody has to have a title,” Fayers muttered. “When is the meeting?”

“Right now.”

“Send him in.”

Harold Brady limped into the Oval Office, carrying a thick briefcase jammed with papers. His limp was the result of his days with the old OSS during World War II; a leg broken during a jump into France and never properly set.

Brady glanced at the aide. “In private,” he said shortly, as was his manner. Abusive-sounding until one got to know the man.

The aide left the room.

“You look exhausted, Mr. President,” Brady said. “I thank you for seeing me on Sunday afternoon. I know you like to rest on this day. Are you feeling well, sir?”

“As well as could be expected,” Fayers replied, pouring them coffee. “Hilton Logan is privately saying he is unbeatable; he is our next president. God help us all, for he's probably correct. The unions are bitching and striking—as usual. Every minority group in this nation is complaining—loudly—that I am discriminating against them ... and my wife has had a headache for three weeks. At night. Calls me a horny old goat.” President Fayers smiled. “And you think you've got troubles.”

Brady laughed along with his boss. “Well, sir, at least you've managed to keep your sense of humor.”

“Only by straining, Hal. And by keeping in mind that in a few months I will be out of this office. Now then, what glad tidings have you to offer?” He lifted his coffee cup to his lips.

“I believe certain factions within the U.S. are preparing to start a war between Russia and China.”

Fayers dropped cup and saucer to the carpet. “That's a rotten joke, Hal!” He knelt to pick up the broken bits of chinaware.

“It isn't a joke,” the CIA man said, opening his briefcase, spreading papers on the president's desk. “You'd better sit down, sir.”

Behind his desk, his face ashen and suddenly shiny with sweat, Fayers asked, “When is ... all this supposed to occur?”

Brady shrugged. “I don't really know, but I would guess within a week. Maybe less. I just put together the remaining bits and pieces of evidence and supposition this morning.”

“Do you want the secretary in on this?”

“Not just yet. You listen first, sir.”

A half-hour later, President Fayers told his aide, “I don't want to be disturbed the rest of the evening. I'm going to Camp David to rest and to spend the night. That's all anybody needs to know.”

Sunday evening—Camp David

“Begging your pardon, Mr. President,” General Travee said, after recovering from his initial shock, “but I ... just can't believe it.”