Out of the Ashes

President Fayers looked in disbelief at the body of General Fowler. He was dead! Fayers could not believe this was happening. Not here! Not in the Oval Office. His head hurt. He felt reality slipping from him; he was sliding through the most intense pain he'd ever experienced. Through his daze and pain, he could hear the military people talking, but their words were incomprehensible; he didn't even know who those men were. He began to hum, very quietly.

“When they learn Fowler talked,” General Hyde said, “we won't have much time.”

Fayers looked up and for a moment ceased his humming. Who were these men? Where had they come from?

“Worldwide,” Dowling said. “Fowler must have named a dozen or more countries. Including Russia. I can't believe they are planning armed revolt in Russia.”

“C.H.,” Admiral Divico said, “we can't just carry a body out the front door. There must be a dozen press types hanging around.”

“Did anyone see or hear you waste Captain Bingham?” Travee asked Divico.

“No,” the admiral said, the taste of betrayal bitter on his tongue. “A traitor on my own staff. I left the son of a bitch sitting in his chair, behind his desk, with half his head gone.” He had locked the door and put a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob, Bingham's own signal that he did not wish to be disturbed.

“This thing is growing like a cancer,” Travee said. “Touching all branches. I've been in contact with Saunders and they confirm they were at a special meeting Saturday, all branches present, trying to decide if we were behind this mess. Our own men didn't even trust us. God!”

“Can you blame them?” Dowling asked. “Hell, C.H., put it out of your mind—we've got to buy some time. It's getting precious.”

Fayers’ intercom buzzed. The president looked up, glanced at it, then giggled.

“He's out of it.” General Hyde looked at Fayers. “Why do I envy him his bliss?”

Travee punched the “talk” button. “Yes?”

“Ed? You sound funny. Look, I've got to tell the press something. They want to know why all the brass are here.”

Tell them it's none of their goddamned business, Travee thought. He glanced at the Joint Chiefs. “Get in here.”

“Who is this?” the aide questioned.

“Get your ass in here!” Travee snapped.

The aide, James Benning, came to a sliding halt on the carpet, his eyes wide as he looked at the body of General Fowler. The man's fingers were all broken, twisted into grotesque shapes. He looked at the president. Fayers returned his gaze, but it was an empty look, void of any understanding.

The room stank of sweat and of urine from a suddenly relaxed bladder.

“That man's been tortured,” the aide said lamely. “There is a gag in his mouth. My God—he's dead!” He put his hand on Fayers’ shoulder and gently shook him. “Ed?”

“He's out of it, James,” Dowling said. “Get the VP.”

“I ... uh...” The aide shook his head. “I can't. He is right now"—he looked at his watch—"approaching the Mideast. Conference that was set up months ago.”

“Damn!” Dowling said. “Where's the Speaker?”

“The Speaker's on a junket. President pro tem of the Senate is in the hospital, recovering from surgery.”

“Goddamn it!” Travee roared. “Then get Secretary Rees in here.”

The aide picked up the phone, then looked at Travee. “Did you do that to General Fowler? You're an American general, sir. What in the hell is going on?”

"Get fucking Rees in here!"

“Yes, sir!” The aide snapped to, punching out the number, contacting State.

Fayers sat in a chair in the corner, out of the way. He was softly humming his old college fight song.

“Rees is on the way,” James said. “I'll get the secret service in here. General, sir, what is going on?”

“There is a coup attempt going down, son. Among other ... issues. Can we trust the secret service?”

“We have to,” Dowling said.

Travee turned to the young W.O. “Who relieves you?”

“Myers, sir.”

“You know him well?”

“I don't know him at all, sir. Sir? This is America. This can't be happening here!”

“Well, it is happening, and not just here. Why don't you know this Myers?”

“He was just assigned this duty.” The W.O. paused. “And that's odd, too, sir. All the guys who normally handle this job have been replaced over the past few months. I'm the only one of the original bunch left. Their orders came in so fast, and there just wasn't any reason for them.”

Travee handed him his briefcase full of war codes. “Sit down, son—out of the way. If anybody other than the men in this room attempt to take that briefcase ... shoot them. You're armed. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

The chief of White House Secret Service walked in. He stood in shock for a few seconds. “What in the hell is going on?”

Travee told him, bluntly and quickly. “Get all your older men in here. I don't give a damn where they are or what they're doing. Just get them.”

“I don't take orders from you,” he was informed by the secret service man.

Travee lifted his .45, cocked it, and pointed it at the man's head. “You have five seconds to obey my orders.”