by Jerry Ahern
"Thanks," Rourke muttered, then leaned back again.
"You're not—" the major started.
"Why not?"
"Well—the snow! The cold out there—you want to get to the flight you're scheduled for in one piece, and—"
"I want to get home. That's my big concern right now and sitting here for another hour or more isn't going to do than—it won't get me home," he added. "Now, maybe my flight can't get off the ground in this storm—I don't know. But we both listened to that radio. A couple minutes ago we both heard about those two submarines colliding. What if that wasn't a collision?" he asked. "What if the reports were lies? What if those were missile exchanges that caused the explosion under the icepack? What about that ultimatum by India, and that unconfirmed report that China plans to side with us against the Soviets?"
"But, surely—"
Rourke, leaning into the flame of his cigarette lighter and firing up a cigar, squinted into the smoke and looked at the RCMP inspector. "Major, I've got a wife. I've got a son and a daughter. I've got a survival retreat that just might save their lives if we get into a world war. Now, my wife Sarah doesn't know how to find the place. I've checked it all very carefully." Rourke's voice was low, almost menacing. He stared at the major. "If the Russians go after big targets, the section of northeast Georgia where my farm is should be safe from direct hits. Residual fallout should be light there. You can check air flow charts yourself and confirm that. But I'm still gonna have to get them out of there pretty fast, or else it'll all be no good." Rourke pushed the power button on the window and looked outside, then turned back to look at the man beside him. "I'm no good to anyone just sitting here. If I were you," Rourke said, pointing to the red flasher on the dashboard, "I'd have Masterson there flick on that little Mars light you've got, turn this thing around, grab your families, and get the hell out of the urban area. You might be sitting smack-dab in the middle of a ten-mile radius of ground zero right now."
The car had come to a complete stop in the snow and traffic.
Rourke opened the door of the Mercedes sedan and stepped out, shouldering into his down parka. "Trunk unlocked?"
"Corporal Masterson, help Mr. Rourke," the major ordered.
As Rourke started to turn away, the major said, "You really think it's going to happen, John? War, I mean."
Rourke leaned into the car, pulled his right glove off and extended his hand. The major took it. "Yes," Rourke said. "I hope we'll see each other again sometime."
Rourke walked around to the trunk. Already—though no vehicles were moving in the traffic jam and heavy snow—motorists immediately behind them were honking, as if the trunk being opened and a man taking his luggage was somehow adding to the delay.
As Rourke leaned down for his aircraft aluminum gun cases, he heard a man's voice behind him. "Hey—what are you doin', Mac?"
Rourke turned around, looking up. The voice belonged to a man in a worn brown leather jacket. He was burly and bearded. A stocking cap was cocked on the back of his head.
"You talkin' to me?" Rourke asked, quietly.
"You're the only bloody fool standing around out here gettin' your grips from a damned Mercedes—yeah. I'm talkin' to you."
"Just wanted to be sure," Rourke said, his voice low and even as he set down his gun cases. Rourke's right hand flashed out then, his fist connecting with the side of the bigger man's lantern jaw. The blow was a quick, short jab, and Rourke followed it with a shortarm left into the man's midsection, then a quick right crossing into the jaw.
As the big man started to go down, Rourke caught him under the armpits and eased him into the snow. "Watch your head," he muttered.
Turning back to Masterson, Rourke took his two gun cases, the smaller, attache-sized one under his left arm, the longer case for the rifles in his left hand. Rourke extended his right hand to Masterson, saying, "Pardon the glove. Good luck, friend."
"And—and to you, sir. You're really going to walk over there, across that?"
"No," Rourke said, the corners of his mouth raising slightly, his lean facing cracking into a smile. "No, I figure that even with the luggage and all, I can still jog it over there—except when the snow gets deep in the drifts. Be see'n ya!"
Rourke boosted his large flight bag into his right hand and threaded his way across the next lane of traffic and onto the shoulder and over to the guard rail. There was—as best as he could make out with the snow cover—a sloping drop of about fifteen feet to the ground level below. He squinted against the glare of headlights and the blowing snow. Across the open space, he could make out the edge of a parking lot. Beyond it was what looked like a hotel, and beyond that, the nearest of the airport terminals. "A little over a mile," he muttered to himself. He lifted his flight bag over the guard rail and let it drop over the side. It slid over the snow. "Not too deep," he muttered again. The long gun case was next. His Colt semiautomatic collapsible stock sporter and the 7.62 mm SSG special rifle, both locked securely in its foam-padded interior.
The long gun case slid down almost like a toboggan, Rourke thought. "Should have ridden it down," he laughed to himself. He stepped over the rail. Losing his footing halfway down the gentle slope, he intentionally let himself fall backward, skidding to the bottom of the slope on his rear end. He stood and dusted the snow from his clothes. Then he looked back up to the level of the highway. He could see Masterson and the RCMP inspector standing at the guard rail.
Rourke made a long, exaggerated wave and, without waiting for them to return it, picked up his rifle case and his flight bag, and started out in a slow jog across the snow.
The snow was drifted heavily near the center of the open expanse as Rourke jogged on. The height of the drifts forced him to slow to a broad stride, a deliberate commando walk. At times, when the drifts were above his knees, he fought the snow, raising his feet high, placing them down slowly to test the footing. His trouser legs were soaked and plastered cold against his skin, but, mercifully no snow had entered his cowboy boots. As he passed the center of the field, the drifts got smaller. As he neared the edge of the snow, he spotted a high fence, snow piled on the other side, apparently from plowing. This separated the parking lot from the open field. It was easy going for him again, and he broke into a jog as he neared the fence.
The snowbank on the opposite side of the fence cushioned the impact for his baggage when he heaved the three cases over. He took a step back and jumped against the fence after he had tossed a snowball against it to be sure it wasn't electrified. Catching the toe of his boot in the chainlinks and holding on with his gloved fingers, Rourke pulled himself up to the top of the barrier and jumped over, coming down in the snow bank. Brushing himself off again, he gathered up his things and started across the parking lot. Climbing the fence had tired him, and now he heard the noise of a vehicle behind him. Turning, Rourke spotted a pickup truck with airport maintenance markings on the door. He stopped as the truck skidded to a halt beside him.
Rourke could see the driver leaning across the front seat and pushing open the passenger side door. "Need a lift? American, ain't you?"
"Yeah, I'm American," Rourke said, nodding. "But, no thanks—good night for a walk—terminal's not too far. Probably faster on foot. Thanks anyway.
"Suit yourself, mate," the driver said, nodding and muttering something Rourke didn't quite catch.
Rourke reached into his pocket, snatched a cigar, and lit it with his Zippo. Looking over the glowing tip and across the lot, he could see the entrance to the hotel—like building he'd spotted from the roadside. "Half a mile," he muttered to himself, picking up his flight bag and walking on.
Chapter Sixteen
"So, we talk again, Mr. President. I, too, prefer the voice link rather than the standard hot line. Now, what troubles you?"
The president of the United States, his coat hung on the back of his chair, his vest unbuttoned, his tie at half-mast, leaned back and put the heels of his shoes on the edge of his desk. He stared at the c
eiling of the Oval Office a moment, then began. "Mr. Premier, you are right. We have talked a great deal in these last few hours. I am happy we are of like minds regarding the voice link. When this crisis has passed—as I know that it will," the president said emphatically. Too emphatically, he wondered? "When this has passed," he began again, his tone milder, "I look forward to the voice link as a means of broadening the dialogue between your desk and mine."
"Mr. President?"
"Yes, Mr. Premier?"
"I think you are about to remind me that less than six hours remain before you introduce troops into the Pakistan affair. And you wish to inquire if I personally know about the unfortunate situation between your Benjamin Franklin undersea boat and the Volga. I do—and I know your deadline, too."
"Sir," the president began. "Ambassador Stromberg and I had a long talk when he was here not long ago. I asked him his personal assessment of you—as a person. You might be surprised to learn how highly he speaks of you."
"You have a good man in Ambassador Stromberg. I would like to hire him from you. But we do not agree politically."
"I don't agree politically with all my ambassadors all the time, either, Mr. Premier. But the point I'm trying to make is that he says you are a man of good will. Well, so am I, sir. I want us to settle this thing here and now if we can. I think we can both agree that we're pushing things a little far this time. Those men aboard your submarine and ours—regardless of how it happened—let's let their deaths become a bond between our peoples. Let's learn from that tragedy to avoid an even greater tragedy. Do you agree, sir, that we should do that?"
The connection was silent a moment. The president could hear the premier—quite a bit older than he—breathing heavily on the line. Then: "In principle, of course, I agree. But coming from principle into fact must be our goal. I would be a madman if I wished to have our two nations linger on the brink of war. But there are other variables—ones which you either wish to ignore or about which you are sincerely less than informed."
"These are, sir?" the president said, swinging his feet from the desk and craning forward in his chair.
"Our particle beam weapon. We have ringed Moscow with these. We have—and this is perhaps something I should maintain as secret information but I choose to reveal it—just completed a test to eradicate the one minor shortcoming of the system. We have tested it against varying altitude high-speed targets in multiple sequence. Four targets, Mr. President. All of them vaporized."
"No disrespect intended, Mr. Premier, but the system would be useless against multiple reentry vehicles. You must know that. We have our sources.
"We have our sources too, Mr. President. We know what is necessary about your MRVs—we can defeat them. I have, though, no desire to see which of us is correct. You must see that."
The president ripped open his "conscience" pack of cools from his center desk drawer, lighting the first cigarette he had smoked in three months. He sucked the mentholated smoke deep in his lungs, then spoke again. "I see, sir, that you must realize we are not bluffing. I have already taken steps—which your own intelligence can verify—to interject our tactical response forces at the time the deadline comes about. I have also placed all American forces on alert, prepared for massive intervention in the Pakistan area should Soviet troops not withdraw."
"Then," the Soviet premier said, his voice very tired, "we are like two young fellows trying to prove themselves over a young woman. We will push at each other, brandish our fists, give the angry glances—and see who backs down or fights. The Soviet Union will not back away. I had entertained the hope that your ambassador could convince you of the sincere motivations for our move into Pakistan. Apparently, you chose to ignore this. My hands are tied. I will not be the first to start a war, if that gives you any comfort, nor will I immediately react with Soviet nuclear forces if your American troops do indeed move into Pakistan. But if Soviet lives are threatened, then I must take whatever action conscience dictates as necessary. Please call me again if there is some new development—I shall do the same. The interview is almost over, I think?"
"Yes," the president sighed. "Yes, I'll keep in contact with you, sir."
"But one thing more, Mr. President."
"Yes, Mr. Premier?"
"I wish to make a demonstration. We are using, if I understand correctly, the primary satellite for our talk. The others are still operative?"
"Yes—but I fail to see what you're driving at, sir."
"The voice you will hear on the line is a technician—he cannot hear our conversation though we can hear him. Do not be alarmed. This is a mere test."
The president sat bolt upright as he heard a heavily accented voice-young sounding, either a woman or a boy, droning, "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four—"
"Mr. Premier! What is going on? I demand—"
"Zero. Mark"'
The president sat back in his chair, the communication link dead, a loud buzzing sound having started before the connection automatically cut out. He hung up the phone. In a moment, his intercom buzzed. "Sir?" It was one of the secretaries.
"Yes, what is it?"
"I have the premier on the line again." Clicking the intercom off, the president snatched up the red phone. "Yes?"
"The particle beam weapon. We will reimburse your country for the satellite if you feel that it will prohibit any tension resulting from this demonstration. But, please, check with your communications and electronics intelligence personnel. The satellite was vaporized by a high-frequency particle beam."
"That Proves noth—"
"That is sad," the premier remarked. "I had hoped that it would." And the line went dead, the premier's phone clicking in the president's ear.
"Marian!" the president rasped into his intercom.
"Yes, Mr. President?"
"Get Mr. Antonais, my science advisor."
"Sir, he's already on line six."
"Put him on," the president said, lighting another cigarette.
"Mr. President?" the Greek-accented voice said.
"Dmitri—did they really—?"
"Yes, Mr. President. The Con-Vers One was vaporized at precisely—"
"Never mind that," the president said. "Get over here. I'll need you."
The president hung up the phone, leaned into his intercom, and said, "Hold all calls for about two minutes. I've got to think."
He switched off, stood, and walked toward the window, looking out into the rose garden. At this time of year, he thought, it wasn't terribly pretty.
Chapter Seventeen
"Some sort of policeman, are you?"
"What? Rourke said, turning away from the window and his view of the snow-littered runway and looking at the blond, ruddy-cheeked man beside him.
"I asked if you were some sort of policeman?"
"No," Rourke said, starting to turn away. "Saw you back in the terminal—so covered with snow, looked almost like you'd walked," the man began, laughing.
"I did walk—what's so funny?" Rourke said.
"Well—I meant with the aluminum cases and all. I'm a shooter myself, you know. Gun cases, weren't they?"
"So what?" Rourke said. Then noticing the belligerence in his own voice he forced a smile then as he did.
"Well, not the ordinary person can take guns in and out of Canada. Rifles, yes, but not handguns. That was what you had in that smaller case, wasn't it?"
"I was up here doing some teaching with the Mounties," Rourke explained. "Brought the guns along for a short thing with one of their special units." He did not mention the counterterrorist squad.
"Going to Atlanta on business. How about you?" the man said, changing the subject.
"I have a place down there, and a farm in the northeast part of the state. So I'm going home."
"Oh. Well, I won't be home for two weeks. Things to do, a living to make, all that."
"It sounds fascinating," Rourke said, turning away to glance back out onto the runway. He turned back and stare
d toward the front of the first-class cabin, hearing the speakers coming to life. "This is the captain speaking. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry for all the delays caused by the snow, but it looks like we'll finally be getting off the ground in just another few minutes. I've just been in radio contact with the tower, and we're cleared for approach onto runway four. Looks from here like there are about four planes ahead of us, so it shouldn't be long before we get final clearance for that long-awaited takeoff.
Weather reports just south of here show gradual clearing, and once we're over the Great Lakes area, then heading down toward the Smokey Mountains, the weather moderates quite a bit. Atlanta's Hartsfield Airport, our destination, shows clear conditions, present temperatures of high forties with a morning low of the low forties and clear and warming for tomorrow.
Since we will be getting underway, if you may have loosened or undone your seat belts, we ask that at this time you check that they are secure. And that all trays and seats are in the upright position. I'll leave the no-smoking signs off for now, but please observe them once we actually get underway. Should you have any questions now or later, please check with the stewardesses as they pass by. Management tells me because of the delays here, cocktails will be complimentary for this trip once we're airborne. So please enjoy your flight and thanks for traveling with us."
Rourke stared back out the window, automatically tugging at his seatbelt. He realized almost bitterly that if the war came, his lifelong battle of nerves with his wife would be ended. His position would be vindicated. A smile crossed his lips as he remembered something someone had said about the bitter taste of victory—he would have rather lived a lifetime in peace, his time and money invested in survival equipment, and the retreat itself having been all part of being foolishly over-prepared.
"You know, I've spent a long time analyzing world affairs," Rourke said. The ruddy-cheeked businessman beside him turned and looked at him, saying, "What? I'm sorry?"
