Out of the Ashes by William W. Johnstone Page A

try it now?” Prime Minister Larousse suggested hopefully.
    â€œNo!” Malelov said, flatly and quickly. “It is too late. Too late for us. Ah! Enough small talk.”
    Travee was in constant communication with his northernmost tracking stations. No blips had yet appeared.
    â€œNo,” Malelov said, his voice holding sadness. “It is too late. Crazy Horse knows. We are both soldiers. We know what we must do. Our generation, in both our countries, brought all this on: your country, Travee, with its maze of conflicting laws and rules; mine with its repression—I will admit it. So, our world is closing around us. However,”—he sighed—“from out of the ashes . . . and all that nonsense.”
    The men were silent for a time, their breathing heavy over the miles.
    Suddenly, Malelov laughed. A great, booming laugh. “All right, you silly Frenchman. I have a present coming your way. Not many, but enough.”
    The PM cursed the Russian general.
    â€œAnd you, President-General of the United States. Good joke, eh? United States? With your little secret army of rebels. Well, are you afraid, Travee? Are you holding your water well? Are you trembling with fear?”
    â€œI’m not afraid of anything!” Travee thundered, the soldier in him rearing up.
    â€œGood, good!” the Russian said. “We shall all be brave men to the end, da?” He laughed, but it was a sad laugh. “Well, American, Canadian—there seems to be nothing left to say . . . except, and as odd as it seems, I mean this: good luck, Crazy Horse.”
    â€œGood luck, Wolf.”
    The connection was broken.
    â€œMay God smile on our countries,” Larousse said, then hung up.
    Travee very gently set the hotline receiver into its cradle. He turned to a colonel standing nearby. “Codes activated?”
    â€œYes, sir. Tapes running, all systems go. Missiles ready for launch.”
    â€œPatch me through to General Hyde.”
    After a few seconds, the scratchy voice of Paul Hyde popped into the room. “We made it, C.H. The old bird held together and we’re through Russian air defenses. I’m going to shove this payload right down their throats.”
    â€œLuck to you, Paul.”
    â€œThanks, Charlie.” The speaker went dead.
    Blips appeared all over the Alaskan screen. “Russia has pushed the button, General. We’re going to take a few. Eighteen minutes to impact on American soil. God! China is really getting creamed.”
    Travee nodded. “First launch intercept. Now! Now!”
    The men were deep in the bowels of Weather Mountain, not too many miles outside of Washington, D.C.
    Travee said, “Condition Red—strike. No turning back. No verbal orders to be obeyed past this point. Get me Admiral Divico.”
    Divico’s voice rang through the room, clear and loud from his flagship. “It’s still a beautiful sight, Charlie—launching these jets. Last time I’ll get to see it, that’s for sure.”
    â€œHow’s it look, Ed?”
    â€œAwesome.” He was very calm.
    â€œGeneral Malelov was very philosophical about the situation,” Travee said.
    â€œHe should be standing where I’m standing,” Divico said. “He might change his tune. Well, Charlie, here they come, dead at me. I—”
    The speaker screamed an electronic outrage. Travee knew the flagship had taken a hit.
    â€œSir?” an aide said. “Word from Cuba is General Dowling’s marines are really raising hell on the island. Kicking ass all over the place.”
    Travee grinned. “With Dowling personally leading a charge, I’m sure.”
    â€œMIGs dogfighting with our people over the Keys, sir.”
    Travee nodded. “Order those designated subs to hit the bottom and stay there. Roll their DD tapes and be quiet. Order those designated silos to roll doomsday tapes and sit it out.” He looked at the aide.