Out of the Ashes

“Tabun. Another of Hitler's brainchildren.”

“That is correct.”

“Do the Americans know of this Tabun form?”

“A few of them.”

“How long have they known?”

“Years. Their nerve gas is similar.”

The Chinese chuckled without mirth. “They must know, then, that Russia is saving most of her missiles for us.”

“That is correct; but they know that Russia has a dozen Tabun-armed ICBMs pointed at America. No telling how many other types of missiles.”

“It is my understanding that America has chosen a side in the upcoming confrontation.”

“All of their missiles—so I have heard—will be directed at Russia and the eastern-bloc nations.”

The Chinese stood up. Just before he walked away, he said, “Good luck to you.”

Miami—eleven hours before launch

“A meeting in the open is dangerous,” the Russian said to the Cuban.

The Cuban shrugged. “So is crossing the street—even in normal times. The Chinese know of your Tabun.”

“So they will have a few days to perspire heavily from fear.”

The Cuban looked out over the waters. So pretty and calm. His thoughts were of his family in Cuba. Those he would never see again. “How much of the world will survive?”

“What difference does it make?” the Russian said, rising to his feet. “We won't be here to see it.”

“I do not share your tolerant view of death ... comrade. I also do not understand why, since the KGB has known of this coup attempt for months, and also of the American double cross—if that's what it is—all parties involved do not just sit down and put a stop to it. Before the world explodes.”

The Russian laughed. “Because it is time, that's why. When the missiles fly, Saul, just close your eyes and pray to whatever god you believe in. You will have approximately eighteen minutes to tremble and wet your drawers.”

The Cuban looked up at the Russian, contempt in his eyes. “At least I have a god, Peter.”

“Better not let Castro hear you say that,” he replied with a chuckle. He walked away.

Saul lit a cigar with hands that trembled. He watched the retreating back of the Russian. Everything was set ... in motion. He could not stop it.

No one could.

The men in the sub waited. They had no fear of being detected, for they knew, as the Russian in Miami did, that it really made no difference who fired the first missile. It was time for a war. They knew, from monitoring Russian broadcasts, that the Red Bear was aware they were going to fire the Thunder-strikes. Had been for months; certain leaders had known of the coup attempt for almost a year, but had remained quiet. Communism was not working in Russia; more and more of its citizens were discontent, rumbling. They knew there would be an attempted revolt inside the mother country, had known of the plans for months.

General Malelov had said it was time for war.

General Travee knew it was time for war.

Premier Su knew it was time for war.

So let it begin.

Brady sat with the Joint Chiefs, having a last cup of coffee, smoking, talking. Time was running out; down to hours, minutes. They talked of the panic in America, and in the world, and of the inevitability of armed conflict. They spoke of the burning, the looting, the savagery.

“We're going to have ICBMs coming at us from all directions,” Travee said, glancing at his watch. “Very soon.” He lit a cigarette and the men looked at him in surprise.

Brady said, “I thought you quit smoking years ago?”

“I did,” Travee said, smiling, sucking satisfying smoke deep into his lungs. “But what the hell difference does it make now?” He laughed.

The men chuckled with him, watching him smoke and sigh with obvious satisfaction. “Well, boys,” he said, “what about it?”

“I'm leaving for Gitmo in about an hour,” General Dowling said. “I'm going to take my marines and fulfill a twenty-five-year-old dream. I'm going into Cuba proper, find Castro, and kick the balls off him.” He looked at Admiral Divico. “You, Ed?”

Navy smiled, then sighed. “I've said good-by to my wife. She understood why I have to do what I'm doing. She's military as much as I am. I'm flying out of Edwards in just a few moments. I'll be on a flagship. You know what, though? God, would I love to have my shoes planted on the deck of the old Missouri when the ball starts rolling.” He looked at Air Force. “You, Paul?”

General Hyde spat on the ground. “I'm leaving in just a second or two. I'll be in the left seat of one of our lumbering, antiquated old B-52s, trying to penetrate Russian air space, hoping a goddamned wing doesn't fall off from old age.” He glanced at Travee. “Well, old warrior, looks like that leaves the country in your hands.”

“Thank you all very, very much,” Travee said dryly. “Since the flying White House was sabotaged, I'll be in Weather Mountain, directing our attack.” He coughed. “Brady will be with me.” He coughed again. “Goddamned cigarettes are gonna kill me!”

The men laughed, rose to shake hands, then parted, each going his own way to meet the enemy. They did not say another word. There was nothing left to say.