by neetha Napew
"Aye, Captain," a voice sang back.
There was a muted humming, Rourke feeling nothing in the way of movement.
"Periscope depth, sir," the same voice called out.
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"Good, Charlie—let's take a look here. Sonar give me a readout on anything that
gets near us."
"Aye, sir," another voice called,
The periscope tube raised, Gundersen flipping out the handles on its sides.
"Always like to take a look at the pack before we go under—wanna look yourself,
Doctor?"
Rourke stepped toward the periscope—noticing now it was the largest of several.
He stepped nearer as Gundersen stepped back and turned the periscope handles
toward him.
Rourke pressed his eyes to the subjective lenses, his nose crinkling at the
faint but distinctive smell of the rubber eye cups. "Makes you want to say
'Torpedo Los,' doesn't it?" Rourke said, studying the white rim at the far edge
of his vision—the icecap.
He heard Gundersen laugh. "First civilian I've ever met with the guts to say
that—it does make you want to say that the first time. Crank her around back and
forth a little and take a look at the world before we go under."
Rourke only nodded, turning the periscope slowly. Massive blocks of ice floated
everywhere in the open water leading in the distance to the edge of the icepack.
Small waves—wind whipped Rourke judged—would momentarily splash the objective
lens. Without looking away, he asked, "Has there been as much change in the
icepack as you'd suppose?"
"Another good remark, Dr. Rourke. Apparently a great deal of change."
Rourke stepped back from the periscope, looking at Gundersen. "Spreading?"
"Rapidly—I mean we can't really measure with any sophistication now because all
the satellites are gone. But as best we can judge the icepack is advancing."
"That's just marvelous," Rourke nodded. He leaned back on the side of an
instrument console.
"Down periscope," Gundersen ordered, flipping the
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handles up. "Ed—you've got the con. I'd say take her down a little more than we
normally do and ride herd on the ice machine—split the shifts so the operators
will keep on their toes."
' 'Prepare to blow,'' a man standing opposite Gundersen ordered. "Rig for full
negative."
"Aye, sir," a crewmen called back.
Gundersen stepped up to Rourke. "Doctor—like to join me in my cabin—talk a bit?"
"Fine," and Rourke followed Gundersen out. They walked the way Rourke and the
lieutenant JG had come, turning off into a cabin with a wooden door, the
lettering there reading, "Commander Robert Gundersen, Captain."
"Got my name on the door and everything," Gundersen smiled, holding the door for
Rourke. As Rourke entered the cabin he realized it was actually two
cabins—Gundersen's office with a decent-sized desk comprised the main cabin and
there was a door off to Rourke's left as he faced the desk—sleeping quarters?
Rourke decided that they were.
"Sit down, Doctor," Gundersen said, nodding toward a couch on the far interior
wall.
Rourke said nothing, but started toward the couch.
"Coffee?" Gundersen asked, pouring into a large mug from a hotplate on the
bookcase behind his desk.
"Sure," Rourke answered. "Mind if I smoke?"
"No—we can scrub the air. Go ahead."
Rourke took one of his small, dark tobacco cigars from the pocket of his blue
chambray shirt, found the Zippo in the pocket of his jeans and rolled the
striking wheel under his thumb.
"Where do you find lighter fluid?"
"Gasoline, usually—lighter fluid currently."
"Thought I recognized a survivor in you. Here," and Gundersen handed Rourke a
truck-stop sized white mug,
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the coffee steaming hot and smelling good as Rourke sipped at it. "So,"
Gundersen sighed, sitting down opposite Rourke in a small leather chair. "You're
the mar everybody was so hot to find. Ex-CIA, I understand."
"Yeah," Rourke nodded, inhaling on his cigar, ther exhaling a cloud of gray
smoke. He watched as the ventilation system caught it, the smoke dissipating
rapidly.
"And the president needed you."
"That's what Cole tells me," Rourke nodded.
"That's what he tells me too."
*'Where'd you bump into Cole?" Rourke asked suddenly.
"We'd been surfacing at nights, trying to make contacl with a U.S. base—stumbled
onto the U.S. II frequenc} after threading our way through a lot of Russian, if
you know what I mean. With the satellites gone, the laser communication network
was out. Just luck I guess."
"Did you talk with President Chambers?"
"Spoke with a guy named Colonel Reed—all in code. Never really spoke at all. You
know. But he was named on the communiques—all Reed under orders from Chambers.
Said they were sending out a man named Cole and a smal] patrol for an urgent
mission we could help with." Gundersen laughed. "Didn't have anything else to
do, Fired all our missiles. All we had left were torpedoes—nc enemy submarines
around to shoot 'em at. I think most ol the Soviet Fleet that wasn't destroyed
is fighting in the Mediterranean."
"Used to be a beautiful part of the world," Rourke nodded.
"Used to be—not now. It's a bloodbath ovei there—and a lot of radiation, I
understand. You know, being a submarine commander and having a nuclear war—I
feel like that guy in the book."
"But this isn't Australia," Rourke smiled.
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"No—but I wonder. The icepack advancing— understand the weather up above," and
he jerked his thumb upward., "has been pretty screwy. End of the world?"
"Maybe," Rourke shrugged.
"You said that awful casually," Gundersen said, lighting a cigarette.
"Yeah—maybe I did. If it is, I can't stop it. Just try to survive it after I
find my family."
"Wife and two children, right?"
"Right," Rourke answered. "What are Cole's orders?"
"Pretty much like I imagine he told you. Find this air base if it is still
there—supposed to be. We get you in as close as we can, then shanks mare all the
way and Cole uses whatever available transportation there is to get the warheads
out and back to the submarine. Then we deliver them to U.S. II Headquarters or
wherever—that last part hasn't been spelled out yet. I guess it will be."
"What do you do after that?"
"I don't know. Keep going. We can run for a long time yet—a long time.
Provisions should hold up for a long time as well. Then I guess we'll die like
everybody else if the world ends. I don't know. Can't plan too far in advance
these days."
"What do you think about Cole?"
"He's a prick—but he's got the President's signature on his written orders. I
can't argue with that."
"Do you trust him?"
"No—but he's got orders and I'm supposed to help him carry them out. I disarmed
you and your Mr. Rubenstein simply to keep the peace. We get topside, regardless
of what Cole says, I'll re-arm you both. Can't have you guys shooting holes in
my submarine, though—my engineer complains like an old lady about it. See,"
and
Gundersen jerked his thumb upward again, smiling, "the roof leaks."
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"Ohh," Rourke nodded. "Wouldn't have suspected that."
Gundersen laughed, leaning forward, gesturing with his cigarette. "To answer
your question before you ask—I've got no plans at all for Major Tiemerovna.
She's a pretty woman—I think the guys giving blood and everything to keep her
alive pretty much caused my crew to look at her that way, not as a Communist
agent. She minds her manners once she's up and around and as far as I'm
concerned, she's free as a bird. I understand she was pretty heroic herself
when—the Florida thing. Jesus—" and Gundersen inhaled hard on the cigarette, the
tip glowing brightly near the flesh of his yellowed first finger and thumb.
"Yeah—she was. Saved a lot of American lives. Saved a lot of lives period."
"I'm not planning to rearm Major Tiemerovna, though—I realize she's a loyal
Russian and I guess that's just as it should be. And I'm not inviting her
unescorted onto the bridge, into the torpedo rooms, the reactor room—anywhere
sensitive. Couldn't risk her opening a torpedo tube on us and sending us to the
bottom. Not that I'm saying necessarily that she would."
"She would if she had to," Rourke smiled.
"Exactly—but beyond that, I don't care what Cole wants. She stays on my ship, my
word's-lhe law here, not his."
"Thank you," Rourke nodded.
"I got a present for you—figured you might use it—I can't anymore."
Gundersen got up, walked across his room to his desk and sat down behind it.
Rourke stood up, following him, stopping then in front of the desk. From a large
locked drawer, Gundersen produced a black leather pouch, snapped closed with a
brass fitting. He opened the pouch—inside it were six Detonics stainless
magazines, the
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magazines empty as Rourke looked more closely, the magazines ranked side by
side, floorplates up.
"I've seen these," Rourke commented, shifting the cigar along his teeth into the
left corner of his mouth.
"It's called a 'Six Pack'—Milt Sparks made 'em before the Night of The War.
Mostly for Government Models, but I had him make one for my Detonics. But then I
lost the gun—it fell out of my belt and went overboard. Without the gun, the
magazines are useless. So, unless I can trade you out of one of yours, you may
as well have it."
"Thank you," Rourke nodded, turning the heavy black leather Six Pack over in his
hands. "You can't trade me out of one of my Detonics pistols."
"Sort of figured that—use it in good health—ha," and Gundersen laughed.
Rourke got the joke.
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Chapter 19
John Rourke sat quietly, listening. What he listened to was the regular sound of
Natalia's breathing. She was still sleeping. He had sat beside the bed for
nearly an hour, ever since leaving Gundersen. Paul was being shown about the
submarine—Rourke had postponed the grand tour until later. He had wanted to
think, and the quiet of Natalia's room in sick bay had been the best place, he'd
thought.
What would happen when he found Sarah and the children?
He had not thought of an answer—for over the weeks since the Night of The War
and his meeting with Natalia he had formed new bonds, in some ways stronger
bonds than he had ever had. There was Paul Rubenstein—once a man who could do
nothing for himself, now a man who could do most things—and most things well.
There was Natalia herself—Rourke looked at her, her eyelids fluttering. She was
awakening.
He stood up, walked to beside her bed and touched her, reaching out his left
hand to her left shoulder.
Her eyes opened, the brilliance of the blue somehow deeper in the gray light of
the room.
A smile tracked on her lips, her voice odd sounding. She whispered, "I love
you," then closed her eyes.
John Rourke stood beside the bed for a time, watching her as she slept.
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Chapter 20
Sarah Rourke rammed the fresh thirty-round magazine into the M-16—for one of the
thousands of times since she'd acquired the gun, she was grateful the previous
owner (a brigand) had somehow gotten hold of the selective fire weapon. She
pumped the trigger, making a professional three-round-burst—she was a
professional by now, she realized. The nearest brigand biker fell back. But
there were more coming.
The first attack in the early morning had waned quickly, and since then there
had been sporadic gunfire from the other side of the field, but the distance too
great. Then had come the second attack—a dead-on assault across the field. Her
own weapon firing, Mary Mulliner firing the AR-15 and the hired hand—old Tim
Beachwood—firing his own rifle—they had repelled the attack.
Beachwood was in the front of the house now, his rifle booming and audible over
the roar of gunfire. "Michael!" Sarah shouted. "Go up and see if Tim needs
anything—hurry but stay low."
"Right," the boy called out, then—as she looked back—he was gone. Annie, just
six, sat under the heavy kitchen table, chairs stacked between the open wall
side and herself just visible as Sarah looked for her. She was loading magazines
for the Colt rifles. Her counting wasn't perfect yet, and as Sarah had fired
through some of the
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magazines counting her shots with the bursts, she'd found magazines with thirty
rounds, twenty-seven rounds, twenty-eight and even one that somehow the child
had forced an extra round into—thirty-one,
Sarah pumped another burst, missing the brigand firing from the back of a fast
moving pickup truck. "Annie—keep those magazines coming," Sarah called out.
"I'm hurrying, Mommie!"
"Good girl," Sarah called back. She was the unofficial leader—she realized that.
Old Tim Beachwood had said it right after the shooting started. "I never fought
no war," he'd said. "Too old for the last one—way too old for this one. But I
hunted all my life—you point me the right winder and I'll start a killin'!"
She had shown him the right "winder" then. The gun—he had told her what it
was—was something she'd already recognized. It was a lever action Winchester,
the caliber .30-30. She had watched cowboy heroes using them in every Western
film she'd ever seen.
Another brigand truck—the truck cut a sharp curve through the back yard, across
Mary MuUiner's vegetable garden, a man in the truck bed waving—it wasn't a
rifle, but a torch. Sarah snapped off a three-round burst, the man's body
crumpling, the torch falling from his hands and to the ground, the body doubling
forward and rolling off the truck bed, bouncing once as it hit the ground. Sarah
tucked down, a stream of automatic weapons fire hammering through the shot out
windows and into the cupboards on the far wall. "Stay down, Annie," Sarah
screamed. She could hear the cups shattering in the cabinets, the glasses
breaking.
"They mean to burn us," Mary Mulliner gasped, sucking in her breath audibly.
"Yes—they mean to burn us," Sarah nodded.
When this third attack had
begun, Sarah had resigned
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herself to the fact that there was no hope of victory. She had told Mary to
shoot as little as possible. There had been three hundred and seventy-nine
rounds of .223 ammo available when the battle had begun. There was less than
half of that remaining, firepower the only means of holding the superior brigand
numbers away from the house. Old Tim had had one hundred and three rounds of
ammo for the .30-30. How much he had remaining she couldn't guess. There was an
even hundred rounds of .45 ACP, only one pistol available to handle it—hers. She
would save that until the rifle ammo was nearly gone, then use it to repel as
many brigands as long as she could. She had decided—she would save at least four
rounds—one for the Jenkins girl, hiding with Tim, helping him, Sarah hoped. One
for Mary Mulliner. Two for her own children. She had seen what brigands could do
to children—young boys, little girls. She had seen them do things to older
women. She shivered—she had seen what they did to women like herself. Gang
