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God!” Ringold whispered.

FOUR
    Monday morning—three days before launch
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    â€œYou know this for a fact?” the Russian asked.
    â€œI know it for a fact.” The man spoke from the shadows of the room.
    â€œThe Chinese have developed a low-level missile, capable of sliding through our defenses undetected?”
    â€œThat is true, sir. Our mole in the Pentagon reported this to me.”
    â€œI find it most difficult to believe,” the Russian agent said. “I find it incredible that Chinese technology in the field of nuclear weaponry would surpass ours, much less that of America.”
    â€œThey were working together, sir.”
    â€œChina and America?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat I can believe. So these reports, rumors, we’ve been hearing for months—they are true?”
    â€œYes, sir. I am afraid so.”
    â€œThese missiles . . . we thought were solely American
    ... Thunder-strikes-how many do the Chinese possess?”
    â€œHundreds.”
    â€œNo! Hundreds?”
    â€œYes, sir. Our mole said several hundred, at least. All armed and aimed—at us.”
    â€œAnd many are of the germ type?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œI’d like to see one.”
    â€œI know where one is stored, ready for shipment to China.”
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    â€œMessage coming in, sir,” an aide informed the president.
    Fayers jerked up the phone. “Speak!”
    Admiral Divico’s voice was calm. “You wanted the count on the missiles, sir?”
    â€œI didn’t send you out there to pick cantaloupes!” Fayers was angry, his angry mood made worse by the dizzy spells he’d been suffering all night and most of the morning. His head ached, throbbed with pain. He had said nothing about it.
    â€œOne hundred, sir.”
    â€œOne hundred? You said we had a hundred and fifty.”
    â€œOne hundred, sir.”
    â€œHow many does the sub carry?”
    â€œTwelve, sir.”
    â€œThank you very much, Admiral.” Fayers spoke through the pain in his head. “That only leaves thirty-eight unaccounted for.” He broke the connection.
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    Major Bass stood before Travee’s desk. He thought the general looked tired ... haggard. Maybe worried about something. “General Saunders was fishing with the CG of Fort Leonard Wood, sir. On the morning in question.”
    â€œFishing? Vern hates fishing. Where were they fishing?”
    â€œMissouri, sir.”
    â€œVern flew eight hundred miles to go fishing?” In a pig’s ass, he did. “You’re sure of this, Major? No room for any doubt?”
    â€œNone, sir. I’d stake my life on it.”
    Or mine, Travee thought. Or the entire world.
    â€œSomething else, sir.”
    â€œSay it, Major.”
    â€œDriskill of the Marine Corps and some of his senior sergeants were in Missouri, too. As were Admiral Newcomb, some special troop commanders and senior sergeants, and General Crowe and some of his people.”
    â€œI have to ask, Major. Are you sure of this?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œThank you, Major.”
    â€œYes, sir.” The ASA man wheeled and left the office.
    Travee phoned General Fowler, head of Army Intelligence. They arranged to have lunch that day. The two men had graduated from the Point together. Their paths had gone in different directions after that, but they remained friends. Or so Travee thought . . . until today.
    Who do I trust? he mused.
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    â€œYou’re picking at your food, C.H.,” General Fowler noted. “Don’t you feel well? Have something on your mind?”
    How about holocaust? Travee looked at the food on his plate. Or treason? He lifted his gaze to his friend.
    The men sat in the rear of the plush Washington restaurant, in a private dining area where they could not be heard or seen.
    Unless Fowler is wearing a bug, Travee thought.
    â€œMonk.” Travee used the general’s nickname. “I want