“You are aware of my brother backing Lowry and Cody and Hartline?”
“Yes.”
“He is not loyal to you, sir.”
“Are you?”
Altamont smiled. “Yes, sir—believe it or not. I was the one feeding false information to my brother and his… ah… colleagues.”
Rain began drumming on the window, the drops mixed with ice and sleet. The winter sky darkened, casting a shadowy pall on the Oval Office and its occupants. Ben waited.
“I want you to know I am not a traitor to my country, sir. I was one of those who met in the Missouri lodge, back in ‘88. Just before the bombings.”
“Yes, I know.”
* * *
Tension, heavy and ominous, hung in the huge room as the room filled with men in groups of twos and threes. Each man seemed to know exactly where to sit, although no name tag designated individual place. The men looked at each other, nodded, and took their places at the huge square table.
The men were military. Line officers and combat-experienced chiefs and sergeants. Career men.
There were generals and colonels of all branches; fifteen sergeant majors and master chiefs making up the enlisted complement.
Guards were sentried around the two hundred acres of Missouri hill country. They wore sidearms in shoulder holsters under their jackets.
“Who ordered this low alert the press is talking about?” the question was tossed out.
“It came out of the Joint Chiefs. It’s confused the hell out of a lot of units and caused several hundred thousand men to be shifted around, out of standard position. Goddamn, it’s going to be days before they get back to normal. We not only don’t know who issued the orders, but why.”
“Maybe to get us out of position for the big push?”
“I thought we had more time—months even?”
“Something’s happened to cause them to speed up their timetable,” General Vern Saunders of the Army said. “That means we’ve got to move very quickly.”
“Hell, Vern,” General Driskill of the Marine Corps said, “what can we do… really? We’re up against it. We all think we know where ‘it’ is. But we’re not certain. Do we dare move? If we do, what will be the consequences?”
Admiral Mullens of the Navy looked around him, meeting all eyes. “I don’t think we dare move.”
Sergeant major of the Army, Parley, stirred.
The admiral said, “If you have something on your mind, Sergeant Major, say it. We’re all equal here.”
“Damned if that’s so!” a Marine sergeant major said.
Laughter.
Parley said, “I don’t believe we can afford to move. But if we don’t, what do we do—just sit on our hands and wait for war?”
“I think it’s out of our hands,” Admiral Newcomb of the Coast Guard said. “We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t. If we do expose the location of the sub—where we think it is—we stand a good chance of war. A very good chance of war. I think we’re in a box. If we expose the traitors, they’ll fire anyway. And we’re not supposed to have that type of missile.”
“Which is a bad joke,” Sergeant Major Rogers of the Marine Corps said in disgust. “Russia’s still got us outgunned two to one in missiles of the conventional nuclear type. God only knows how many germ-type warheads they have.” He forced a grin. “Of course, we have a few of those ourselves. Jesus! Thirty damned guys control the fate of the entire world. Even worse than that, if our intelligence is correct, it’s a double double cross.”
Master Chief Petty Officer Franklin, of the Navy, looked across the table. “Admiral? Do you—any of you—know for sure just who we can trust?”
The admiral shook his head. “No, not really. We don’t know how many of our own people are in on this… caper.”
“You mean, sir,” a colonel asked, “one of us might be in on it?”
“I would say the odds are better than even that is true.”
A Special Forces colonel said, “General? You think some of my people are involved in this?”
“No,” General Saunders said. “Our intelligence people—of all services—seem to agree on one point: no special troops involved. But this touches all branches of the service, not just in this country, but all countries—Russia included.” His smile was grim. “I take some satisfaction in that. Those men in the sub have friends all over the world. That’s why they’ve been able to hide for so long.”
“Then Bull and Adams are really alive?”
“Yes. I talked with Bull. It came as quite a shock to me.”
A master chief said, as much to himself as to those around him, “I really don’t understand what they have to do with this… operation.”
“Really… neither do we,” an admiral admitted. “But we do have these facts, one of which is obvious: Bull and Adams faked their deaths years ago, in ‘Nam; we know they are both superpatriots, Adams more than Bull when it comes to liberal-hating. All right. We put together this hypothesis: Adams and Bull had a plan to overthrow the government—if it came to that—using civilian… well, rebels, let’s call them, along with selected units of the military. Took years to put all this together. But the use of civilian rebels failed; couldn’t get enough of them in time. We think. We know for a fact that many ex-members of the Hell Hounds turned them down cold.”
“How many men do they have?”
“Five to six thousand, at the most. We think.”
“That’s still a lot of people. And knowing Bull and Adams, those men are trained guerrilla fighters. How have they managed to keep that many people secret for so long?”
The admiral allowed himself a tight smile. “You didn’t know the Bull, did you?”
“No, sir.”
“If you had known either of them, you wouldn’t have asked.”
“I knew both of them,” a Ranger colonel said. “If they even suspected a member of any of their units was a traitor, they would not hesitate to kill them—war or peace.”
“I see. So, Bull came up with the sub plan?”
General Saunders shook his head. “We don’t think so. We believe it was Adams’s idea. I couldn’t discuss that with Bull; only had two minutes with him. Besides, he and Adams have been friends for twenty-five years. But I did manage to plant a seed of doubt in his mind. We believe Adams has lost control; slipped mentally. Mr. Kelly of the CIA shares that belief.”
“There is something I don’t understand,” a Coast Guard officer said. “Obviously, this plan had been on the burner for a long time—years. To overthrow the government, I mean. Why have they waited so long?”
“We don’t know,” the general replied. “And we’ve got dozens of computers working on the problem right at this minute. I didn’t get a chance to ask the Bull that. So many questions I wanted to ask. Men, I don’t think we have a prayer of stopping those people on the sub. I think we’re staring nuclear germ warfare right in its awful face and there isn’t a goddamned thing we can do about it.”
“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.”
“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.
All the men had taken these tests before; all had the highest security rating possible. The machine was a psychological stress evaluator. PSE. Of the most advanced type.
“Sergeant Mack is the best PSE technician around,” General Driskill said with a smile. He laid a pistol on the table before him. “This won’t take long.”
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.”
Only blow your fucking head off when you’re through flapping your gums, General Crowe thought, his hands tightening on the butt of the .38.
“There won’t be any election,” the turncoat said. “Not for a long, long time. The military is going to be forced into taking over the country: suspending the constitution and declaring martial law. That’s all we wanted, all along. All we were doing, once we learned Brady was onto us, was buying time—getting set. We’re five days from launch.”
The men in the room sucked in their guts. One hundred and twenty hours to hell.
“No one could have stopped us—even if you had found out. You couldn’t have gone to the Chinese to tell them the Russians were going to launch against them. No proof. Big international stink was all you would have accomplished. Same if you’d gone to the Russians. It all boils down to this: An American sub will launch American missiles. Both countries would have turned on you. You brass know the type of missiles we’re going to fire. Missiles so top secret not even the president knew of their existence. You clever boys got too clever, that’s all. We used your cleverness against you, that’s all. Oh, and don’t blame the old Bull—he knows nothing about it. It’s Adams all the way.”
“What type of missiles are you using?”
“Supersnoop missiles,” Admiral Mullens answered the question. “Thunderstrikes. Neither side has anything that will stop them. Needless to say, we’re not supposed to have them. When the Russians learned we were building them, they signed SALT 5—that is the only reason they signed it. Neither the president nor Congress know anything about the Thunderstrikes.”
“I can feel the lid being slowly nailed on the coffin,” a Navy man said. He looked at the AF colonel. “What about him?”
General Crowe jacked back the hammer on the .38 and shot the colonel between the eyes.
“Good shot, Turner,” General Driskill observed.
Five days later, the world exploded in germ and nuclear warfare.
* * *
“I often wondered what happened in that room,” Ben said. “I’m glad you cleared it up.”
“I’d hate for anything even remotely resembling that bombing to happen again,” General Altamont said.
“You’re waltzing again,” Ben said. “Come on, General, say it.”
“Do you know what SST means, Mr. President?”
“Wasn’t that a plane?”
Altamont smiled. “Would that it were. It means Safe Secure Trailers. In 1988, this nation had forty of them. They were used to transport inactive atomic or hydrogen bombs, missile warheads, uranium or plutonium—things of that nature.”
Ben felt a chill surround him. “Go on,” he said softly.
“When the bombing began back in ‘88, a few of those SSTs were on the road—despite the SALT treaty. The drivers headed for cover. Two of those SSTs took shelter at a secret underground storage depot in New Mexico. The
y were found last year.”
“I don’t think I’m going to like the ending to this story,” Ben said.
“No, sir,” General Altamont said. “I don’t believe you are.”
Six
Jerre was surprised when she answered the doorbell. Jake Devine and Lisa stood on the porch. She motioned them in.
Lisa came right to the point, the words exploding from her mouth in a rush of words. “Me and Jake talked it over last night, Miss Jerre. We’ll help you get out and away if you’ll let us go with you.”
Jerre looked at the mercenary. He nodded his head. “I’ve had it with Hartline, Jerre. He was bad when I first met him—I’m no angel myself—but Hartline is nuts. I’ve told Lisa everything I’ve ever done. I didn’t leave a thing out—including ordering the execution of several civilians over in Indiana. Says that doesn’t make any difference to her. Said she loves me. I know I love her.”
Jerre believed him, for Lisa had confided in her more than once about her feelings toward Jake and what he had told her.
“When?” she asked.
“It’ll have to be in open daylight,” Jake said. “How about tomorrow at noon?”
“I’ll be waiting. What about the guards?”
“They won’t say anything if you’re with me,” Jake assured her. “But they’ll be on our asses like bears to honey in less than an hour—bet on it.”
“Do we have a chance?”
The mercenary shrugged. “Fifty-fifty.”
“I’ll take it.”
Lisa hugged her. “We’ll be here at noon tomorrow.”
Jerre watched them leave. It was growing dark out, spitting snow.
* * *
“Whoa, Colonel McGowen!” Matt fought to keep from screaming the words. “It’s me, Matt.”
“Damn, boy,” Ike said, lowering his knife. “You ‘bout bought the farm. What the hell are you doin’ here?”
“Same thing you’re doing here. I came to get Jerre.”
Ike and his team had surprised the young man in the deserted house, just outside of Tremont.
“Old home week, lads,” the voice came out of the darkness.
The men spun around, weapons at the ready. Ike grinned when he saw Dan Gray in the dim light that was preceding wintry dusk.
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