Fire in the Ashes

A few seconds ticked by. An Air Force colonel tried to light a cigarette. His hands were shaking so badly he finally gave up the idea of smoking. He met 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!” 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,” someone muttered.

The Air Force colonel smiled.

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

The colonel was suddenly calm with the knowledge he would never leave the room alive. He was not going to squirm; would not give any of them that satisfaction. He lit a cigarette with steady hands and let his gaze touch each man. “I don't know—and that's being honest with you. I think it's an aide, but I'm not sure. You can test me; I won't fight it."

He was tested. He knew nothing of substance.

“Explain what you know!” General Crowe snapped, holding the .38. “I've seen men tortured before, sonny."

“I don't know who the architect is; neither do the men on the sub. That was deliberate.” 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 colonel glanced at his watch. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He gave the general a Washington, DC, phone number.

“Trace it,” Driskill told Sergeant Major Rogers.

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

The colonel again glanced at his watch. After a slight smile and a deep breath, almost a sigh of relief, he said, “We—those of us in the operation—knew that Brady would eventually put it all together and go to President Fayers."

“Harold Brady of the CIA?"

“Yes. We 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 AF commando asked. “You takin’ medicine?"

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

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

“Now, speak!” the general barked.

The colonel shook his head, wiped blood from his mouth, then smiled.

“What do you find amusing about all this?” he was asked.

The colonel's smile broadened.

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

“That's right, Admiral."

“Why?"

“Because it's 1207, that's why."

“Explain."

“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. Even if it's close, too close, no clear majority, it'll be thrown into 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."

General Saunders leaned close. “Son—don't do it. Don't do this to your country. Logan is just a man.” He grimaced. “Not much of a man, but still a man. We can weather the storm."

“No, we can't, General.” The colonel's voice was low, his eyes sad. “This country's had it. We're moving back to the left and we can't allow that to happen. This is the only way we can get back on top. China will give Russia every missile she's had hidden for years, then pour half a billion troops across the border. They'll destroy each other. The two-bit countries will blow each other off the map once we start the dance. Africa will go like a tinderbox, the Mideast with it.” His eyes grew wild with fanaticism.

“And what of America?” General Crowe asked.

“Oh, we'll take casualties. Somewhere in the seventy-five to ninety-million range; you all know the stats. But we'll come out far better than any major power. When we're back on top, this time, by God, we'll stay there."

“You're crazy!” Sergeant Major Parley blurted. “My God, man—think of all the innocent people you're killing. You guys are fucking nuts!"

Rogers came back into the room. “That number in DC's been disconnected. What's happening here?"

“Holocaust,” a buddy informed him.

Driskill looked at the colonel. “I believe the colonel is about to give us all the details, aren't you, superpatriot?"

The colonel laughed. “Sure, why not. There isn't a damned thing any of you can do about it."