Free Out of the Ashes by William W. Johnstone Page B

any problem getting them. Shots were fired, fires were started, the flames and the gunfire and the screaming heightening an already near-impossible situation.
    And the worst was yet to come.
    A wire service reported that America was under attack from foreign countries. Flash. DJs hit the air with the news. More panic.
    And, just as America has agents in every country around the globe, gathering intelligence and waiting to strike in case of open hostilities, most other countries have agents in America, waiting to do the same. They all have their orders: in case of attack, knock out communications and create panic and confusion. And that they did. They could not reach their home countries, and most of their embassies were closed, so they followed the earlier orders. The U.S. had begun jamming frequencies—as many as they could, and that created even more problems and confusion.
    The Emergency Action Notification System—ENS—was ordered activated. It is an expensive and bothersome mess that has never worked, and many (if not most) DJs did not have the vaguest idea of what to do when the bells started clanging and the buzzers began buzzing and the tones began howling and whistling.
    More panic.
    Then the first missile was fired. It was not clear (and never would be) just who started the dance with whom, or why, but India and Pakistan exploded, and that part of the world began burning.
    South America had erupted in warfare, as had the Mideast, and Africa. The world had, for years, balanced on the edge of insanity. The slender tightrope had snapped, and the world went berserk.
    General Travee was attempting to talk reason with acting Premier Malelov, actually a general, of Russia. In that country, as in America, the military had been forced to take control. Prime Minister Larousse of Canada was listening in. The satellite hotline was humming—for the last time.
    â€œMissiles have been fired, Travee,” Malelov said, “from your sub. At us.” His voice sounded tired, strained. “China has invaded our borders, the little yellow bastards pouring across like ants toward honey. Sadly enough—or is the word ironic?—it seems that many of my own countrymen have decided to forgo communism in favor of your form of government. We have a small revolt on our hands. What an inopportune time for that to occur, since it appears democracy is not working in either of your countries, da? Ah, well,”—he sighed, the sigh very audible over the miles—“perhaps it is time. Yes, I believe it is, and I think you do, too, Travee.”
    â€œTime for what?” Travee asked, knowing full well what the Russian general meant.
    Malelov laughed. “Time to knock down all the pretty buildings and toy soldiers and many-worded diplomats and all forms of government—none of which appear to be working.”
    â€œThen what do we do?” Larousse asked.
    â€œWe won’t do anything, Canadian. We shall be dead.” Malelov chuckled. “But . . . perhaps out of the ashes, eh?”
    â€œFatalistic son of a bitch!” Larousse cursed him. “You could, we could, stop all this before it starts.”
    â€œThat’s what the English just told me moments ago.” Malelov laughed, his dark humor tumbling through the miles of cold space. “I told them to pour a spot of vodka in their tea.”
    â€œWe are not invading your borders,” Travee reminded the Russian.
    â€œOh, hell, Travee!” Malelov replied impatiently. “Don’t be so naive. You know perfectly well—as I do—it’s time. We’ve been rattling sabers and growling at one another for more than forty years. Isn’t-that right, Crazy Horse?” He chuckled. “I do so envy you Americans your nicknames. We Russians have to be so damned formal. I used to be known as the Wolf, but the central committee frowned on that nickname.”
    â€œLiked the ladies, eh?” Travee