Out of the Ashes by William W. Johnstone

said.
    â€œOh, yes, Crazy Horse. But, like you, I’m getting old. Content with just one woman, even if she does look like a baked potato.”
    Travee had to laugh at the man. “Just enough time for some chitchat, eh, Malelov?”
    â€œJust about, Travee,” the Russian replied. “Yes, I think that is aptly put. No more time for serious talk... well, maybe a bit of talk before we enter that long sleep. Larousse, you silly Frenchman—I have some firecrackers for you. Coming your way very soon, now. What do you think about that, you who are—or were—always so afraid of helping your southernmost neighbor in her times of stress. Cowardly Canadians.”
    A moment of silence and outrage, then the PM spoke. “Bâtard!” He spat the word with all the venom he could muster.
    Malelov laughed, the sounds of his howling echoing through the miles. “So I am a bastard, eh? Well, that would come as a considerable shock to my poor mother.” The Russian then said something neither American nor Canadian could understand. Then, “I am glad my mother is in her grave, so she does not have to witness Russian fighting Russian.”
    Travee felt, after the Russian had spoken in his native tongue, that Malelov was up to something, buying time while he got the jump on the American missiles. The soldier in him surfaced. “Are we going to have war or a debating society?”
    â€œAh, American,” Malelov spoke softly. “Can we not have a few moments of camaraderie before we explode the world? Are you that anxious to die—I am not.”
    â€œNo.” Travee’s voice was emotion-charged as he thought of his wife of thirty-five years, and of his sons and daughters and his grandchildren. He had sent them all to his birthplace—where he owned land—up in the far north of Wisconsin. Perhaps they would be safe there, but he doubted it. “No, I’m not that anxious to die. Malelov, you seem to be overcome with philosophical meanderings. . . . Perhaps you can tell us what brought the world to this point?”
    â€œBut of course,” Malelov said. “General Travee ... oh, excuse me, you are President Travee now, aren’t you?” He laughed. “As I am now premier. As to the cause of this . . . misfortune we are about to bring to the world—or did we bring it? Oh . . . anger, frustration, helplessness, greed. No one cause. It was our country meddling in your business; your country meddling in everybody’s business. And . . . perhaps it was the fact that both of our governments neglected a middle ground: something between the extremes. Not communism or socialism or democracy—but, well, I don’t know. I will admit, now, that I am having serious doubts about my own political philosophies. One can only enslave a people for so long, be it physically, mentally, socially, or economically; then they revolt.” He chuckled. “Is that not correct, Mr. President-General?”
    â€œThat is correct,” Travee said.
    â€œYour constitution is a most interesting document,” the Russian said. “I have read it many times. Interesting, but vague. And totally unworkable to the satisfaction of all the people it must encompass. I believe, Travee, that from out of the ashes both of us will produce with our missiles, there will arise a great number of small nations—including many within the United States. That is what I believe. Nations, small ones, that will serve their own people—those being willing to live under the particular laws of that nation. All, in the main, answering to some degree to one central flag, but not in the whole. Yes, that is what I believe. Have you ever given that any thought, Travee?”
    â€œYes,” Travee admitted. “I have. But it won’t work, Malelov.”
    â€œHow do we know?” the Russian challenged. “Have either of our countries ever tried it?”
    â€œCould we