by Jerry Ahern
Rourke nodded, that he knew.
"Anyway— they killed their victims by burning em on crosses—"
"How did this man escape?" Natalia asked, putting out her cigarette against the concrete steps on which she sat, her M-16 across her knees.
"Cut to pieces with some kind of spear— least that's what he said it was. Thought he was dead and stripped him, then rolled him down a hillside. Came to— freezing, bleeding. Crawled along the bottom of the hill. He could see the crosses burning, hear the other men screaming. He was a tough guy— had the survival training course. Found a stray wildman— killed him with a rock. Took some of his clothes, used the guy's spear like a cane or a staff— he hobbled in, almost dead already." Teal paused, lighting another cigarette, looking up at Rourke standing beside him.
"Fletch's age, John— just a kid. Died in my arms."
Rourke ran his tongue over his lips, nodding.
"That gave me eleven men," Teal said, his voice low. "I wasn't gonna risk anybody else. Figured to wait and see. That was three weeks ago. One of the guys— an officer. He went insane, I guess— shot himself in the mouth with a 45. Another guy— Airman Cummins. Got what we all figured was appendicitis— boy, we could have used you, John. We don't have a doctor. I tried—
got the medical books out— tried. He died."
"If it ruptures and you don't know what to do— the poison spreads pretty quick," Rourke said soberly.
"Yeah— it was kinda quick— I guess. So I got nine men and myself. I got five sleeping right now, one man guarding 'em. Three others— sentry posts around the base with the best excuses for sniper rifles we could come up with. Lotta guys had personal weapons we had logged in and locked up. Picked the best we could find outa those. These aren't so good for long distance stuff," and he tapped the butt stock of the M-16 on Natalia's lap.
"We held the base though," Teal concluded, then fell silent.
"The wildmen," Natalia said, half to herself. "They must think there is still radiation here. That must be why they haven't attacked."
"But with us coming in— they'll probably figure it's safe," Rubenstein added.
"To attack," Rourke almost whispered.
"To attack," Teal nodded.
Cole spoke then. "I came for the missiles you store here— and wildmen crazies or not, I've gotta have 'em, colonel. I've gotta."
Rourke studied Cole. For the first time— "I've gotta have 'em"—he thought Cole had spoken the truth.
Chapter Five
"Russians all over the road," Bill Mulliner whispered hoarsely, sliding down into the rocks beside her.
Sarah looked at him, saying nothing for a moment, then, "What started this?"
"Maybe the supply convoy we hit— bunch of junk. Like they was hoardin' stuff, Mrs. Rourke."
Sarah looked at him. "Like what?" she asked at last.
"Everythin'— M-16s, even old .45s. Pharmaceutical stuff. Medical gear. You name it, they had it— even golf carts."
"Golf carts?"
"Yeah— the battery-operated kind. Don't know why they'd want themselves golf carts. I used to tinker with one of 'em when I was a kid. Never could get the damn thing to run— 'scuse my language, ma'am."
Sarah only nodded, looking away from Bill Mulliner and down below the rocks where the children stayed with Mary, Bill's mother. "Golf carts," she nodded, incredulous. "Guns, drugs, golf carts— that's crazy."
"Yes, ma'am— but they had themselves a ton of guys round 'em. The trucks, I mean. Big fight—
we beat hell out of 'em— there I go again with my language."
"Never mind," and she smiled at him, patting his right hand with her left.
"Had 'em on the run we did— set fire to some of the trucks— carted off some stuff— then more Russians came. Helicopters— shot us all to— well. You know, ma'am."
"Mmm," she nodded, thinking.
"Maybe we can hole up here in the mountains."
"Sure," Sarah laughed. "No food except what you had on you in your pack. Some stuff I had. Enough ammunition maybe for one good ten minute fight. Two children, a sixty-two-year-old woman, you and me— I don't think so," she told him, smiling again, not knowing why she was smiling.
"There's Russians all over like flies on a horse tur—" He looked at her, shook his head at himself as he cut himself off, then looked away. "Ya hang around men all the time— no womenfolk around," he said. "Well— you know, ma'am."
"I know," she nodded. "Can't expect to sound like a saint when you're a soldier," and she hugged his shoulders with her left arm. "Ohh, Bill— I wish—"
"I wish we had about fifty people could fight— we could knock out them Russians down there on the road— steal what we need from em."
"But we don't," Sarah sighed...
Chapter Six
Paul Rubenstein felt almost civilized again, he thought. Riding in a truck cab with someone else doing the driving wasn't exactly a taxi ride in Manhattan— although the bumpiness made for similar moments— but it was a definite improvement over walking out the distance to get Lieutenant O'Neal and the others from the shore party. There were two trucks— Rubenstein looking back in the sideview mirror through the dust cloud— and an ambulance following behind. The driver was Airman Standish— he was black, and Colonel Teal had told Rubenstein Standish was the man who had worked at the fireworks factory in Kentucky, the man who had taken on the grim task of setting fire to the corpses from the Night of The War.
"What's this Dr. Rourke fella like, Mr. Rubenstein?"
"Paul— my first name's Paul."
"Right— mine is Art. So what's he like?"
"Quiet— sometimes you get the feeling there's a lot boiling over inside him, but he never lets it get out. Self-control— that's what it is, I guess. That's what he's like."
"Some of the fellas was talkin'— you know. Sayin' this Rourke was in CIA or somethin'."
"Before The War— lot of clandestine operations in Latin America. Then after some big fiasco down there— he talks about it every once in a while. Figures he was set up by a double agent, maybe. But he got disgusted with it. Freelanced his services in survival and weapons training—
all over the world, really. He wrote a bunch of books on survival, medical aspects of survival training, survival weapons use. Probably the top man in the field. Had everything goin' for him. I read a lot of his books— good writer. Not a half-bad sense of humor— shows up in his writing more than his talking."
"What the hell you guys doin' out here?" And Standish worked the two-and-one-half ton truck's transmission down, the gears grinding loudly, O'Neal and the others in the box canyon less than two hundred yards ahead.
"What are we doin' here? Looking for six missiles."
"The experimental ones?"
"Yeah—"
"They're a long way from here, fella," and Standish laughed, gesturing up toward the high rocks beyond the boundary of the valley. Rubenstein saw what he pointed at— wildmen.
Chapter Seven
Rourke sat in the cockpit of the prototyped FB-111 HX, running the preflight check, Armand Teal on the access ladder beside him, coaching him. Rourke had never flown an F-111-type aircraft, he'd told Teal. "That's your targeting computer— there," Teal gestured, pointing past Rourke.
Rourke nodded. "Where are those missiles Cole wants?"
"About seventy-five miles away from here— past the wildmen, like you call 'em." Teal's voice echoed across the otherwise still hangar. "You're never gonna get 'em out with those crazies out there."
"Maybe you're right," Rourke sighed.
"They've got enough megatonnage to totally blot out a city the size of Moscow— and then some. Maybe that's what U.S. II wants 'em for."
"Never get through their particle beam defenses," Rourke noted absently, studying the fuel management panel in the control console to his left.
"Reconnaissance should tell the story, John— from what I figure and what you and the Russian woman told me— well. T
hose crazies are all over. We're trapped here unless we get out by air—
and I can't leave this base intact. Goes against everything I was taught, everything I believe. Leave it to fall into enemy hands. Never. The President could even order something like that—
and I wouldn't. Only way to get those missile warheads out is by air. And that means helicoptering 'em here at least. Then put 'em aboard a B-52 and take 'em out."
"The Soviets have to have radar systems going— they could pick off a B-52."
"Fine— then that damn submarine. But you'll still need to use helicopters to get them out to the submarine. The Russian woman flies?"
"Yeah " Rourke nodded, looking at him.
"Well, there's your answer."
"I haven't seen a helicopter anywhere on this base."
"Three of 'em in the last hangar on the end. Army choppers— Bell OH-58A Kiowas. Had 'em flown in here just before the Night of The War. There was a joint services exercise being planned— never got all the details."
"That hangar locked up?" Rourke asked him.
"You're thinkin' of Cole, right? I don't trust him either. And, yeah— it's locked." Rourke looked back to the instrument panels.
He studied the counter-measure warning lights on the upper right. "Counter-measures," he murmured...
Rourke looked behind him, the action awkward feeling in the borrowed pilot's helmet, Natalia sitting there, one more seat in the fighter bomber empty. He heard her voice coming through the headset built into the helmet. "You've been wanting to ask me something." The voice sounded odd— oddly near, yet different because of the radio link.
"I didn't know how to ask you," he told her, working the controls for the television optical unit positioned almost directly beneath where he sat, in the base of the fuselage. "I wasn't certain how I could ask this without somehow making you think I distrusted you— but I don't."
"Is Cole a Russian?"
"Yes," Rourke nodded, saying into his helmet radio. "Yes— that was the question. I think I asked it before."
"And you want to know if anything he might have said, might have done— might have jogged a memory or made me change my mind?"
"Yes."
"He isn't a Russian— I suppose he could be a clever GRU agent, but he isn't KGB— and I do not think he is Russian at all. Not working for my Uncle, or for Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy either—"
"Rozhdestvenskiy," Rourke repeated, watching the television monitor, rolling the name on his tongue. "The man who replaced—"
"Yes," she interrupted.
"Karamatsov."
"Yes."
"Then who the hell is Cole?" Rourke said, exasperated, still watching the monitor. He had the camera set to high-resolution zoom, manipulating the angle now to scan the ground thousands of feet below them. He saw movement, men— women likely, as well. Wildmen. They appeared like ants. He started to bank the fighter bomber, rolling over into a dive to drop his altitude.
"I don't know who he is— not an American officer, I think. I have met many people in your American military— and if he is an officer, he doesn't act like one."
Rourke switched the television optical unit to off as he leveled out, skimming the ground now, consulting the fuel management panel cursorily, then glancing to his right and down, checking the compass control panel. "The signature on those orders," Rourke said finally. "It was Chambers's signature— I've seen it before."
"Yes— so have I."
"And I could see Chambers wanting the missiles as a bargaining tool against your people."
"Yes— so could I."
"But there's just something—"
"He would have needed Chambers's help to get the submarine," he heard her voice saying in his headset. "I mean, Commander Gundersen— he is very nice. He seems just as he should seem."
"Yes," Rourke agreed. "No— if Cole is trying to fool us, he's already fooled Gundersen at least enough to get his help."
"I sometimes get very sick of this— this War. The weather, the color of the sky— I think it all means something. And now this thing— this crazy man sent to obtain four hundred eighty megatons in thermonuclear warheads. All is madness, I think."
"You're thinking in Russian, speaking in English."
He heard her laugh then. "You know me so well— perhaps we two are the ultimate madness, John— aren't we?"
Rourke said nothing.
There was nothing he could say. Beneath them, shaking hands and arms and clubs and spears, were the wildmen— hundreds of them. He started the jet climbing as he saw assault rifles raised skyward, on the off chance a stray shot might hit something vital. As the fighter bomber left a black shadow on the ground beneath them— Rourke watching now through the television optical unit again— he saw more of the wildmen— or whoever they were.
"You talked about madness," he whispered into the radio in his helmet. But Natalia didn't answer.
Chapter Eight
Paul Rubenstein adjusted the power wattage selector, then checked the modulation indicator, Airman Stephensen sitting beside him. "You know," the airman laughed, "for a couple amateurs, we're doin' okay with this old radio."
"The U.S. II frequency for contact is easy to find— but they'll have to contact us after they pick up our signal— if they pick up our signal," Rubenstein told him, trying to fine tune the squelch control.
"Where'd you learn about radios?" Airman Stephensen asked.
"I was gut shot a while back— in the infirmary where I was there were lots of military manuals— I started reading up on radios— only thing I had to do. Then I took it easy for a while at John's Retreat— read about radios there, too— and lots of other stuff."
Rubenstein stood up from the antiquated radio set, pushing the metal folding chair back and walking across the room in the lower level of the bunker, stretching, his hands splayed against his kidneys, the small of his back aching.
"What's this Retreat thing you keep mentioning?" Stephensen asked, turning his chair around, making a scraping noise where the rubber cups on the legs of the chair rubbed against the tile on the floor. Stephensen— tall looking even when seated, carrot-haired and broad-faced— lit a cigarette with a match, flicking the match into the ashtray on the table beside the radio.
"The Retreat," and Rubenstein shrugged. "Well— John planned ahead for a war— or whatever. He was a survivalist for a long time. I guess he was a sharper reader of the times than most people— I don't know. But he's got this place in the mountains— in Georgia. Worked on it for years— comfortable, all the conveniences— must've cost him a fortune—"
What'd Dr. Rourke do before The War— I mean? Just a doctor— like a surgeon or something?"
"No," and Rubenstein realized he was smiling.
"No— he never practiced medicine. He was in the CIA—"
"Central Intelligence—"
"Yeah— but he went out of that. Got into teaching survival training, about weapons, writing books about it— I guess some of the books sold really well. He was in demand all the time. Spent every dime he could get free on the Retreat. He told me once he was always hoping his wife would be able to say, 'I told you so,' and the Retreat wouldn't prove out to be anything except an awful expensive weekend place. Told me once it was the only time in his life, the only thing he did in his life that he wanted to be proved wrong about. Guess he wasn't," Rubenstein added, thinking it sounded lame.
"Yeah— well— I figure the world's gonna end."
"Yeah? Why?"
"Well," and Stephensen raised his eyebrows, smiling, then suddenly looking down into his hands, his high-pitched, Midwestern-sounding voice dropping a little. "Well— God said in the Bible he'd end the earth again— but by fire, you know? And nuclear weapons— they're fire. Probably all of us'll get radiation sickness. If there's any babies born, probably be deformed and all— ya know? I think it's God punishing us for gettin' too smart, maybe. Too smart for our own good— like Adam and Eve did— you got Adam and Eve, don't ya?
"
Rubenstein nodded. "Yes— Adam and Eve— Jews have Adam and Eve, too— and Noah like you were talking about with God's promise after the flood. We've got 'em."
"Then you know what I mean," Stephensen nodded, looking up at him.
"Yeah— then I know what you mean," Rubenstein nodded, going back to the radio set, turning his chair around, straddling it, then flicking the switch and staring at the transmit light. "Let's see if this sucker works," he sighed.
Rubenstein turned in the chair, hearing the door opening behind him.
Cole and his two men, the men holding M-16s, Cole holding his .45 automatic. Rubenstein stared at the muzzle of the gun, his right hand by the radio, not near enough to his body to reach the butt of the High Power in the tanker holster across his chest.
He started to speak, his right hand very slowly moving across the receiver to the frequency dial— he would need to feel three clicks right on the dial to be on Rourke's frequency. By moving his left elbow he could jam the push-to-talk button down at the base of the candlestick microphone. He did that, saying, "What do you want, captain?"
"It's what I don't want, Mr. Rubenstein— you and this guy contacting U.S. II headquarters."
Rubenstein felt one click. "Why not?"
"Might be embarrassing— they don't understand."
Two clicks— one more remaining until he reached the frequency for Rourke's fighter bomber.
"Where the hell is Colonel Teal?"
"You came back ahead of the wounded— we were waiting for them. Got 'em all—"
Rubenstein wanted to push up, out of his chair— but he kept his left elbow against the push-totalk button at the base of the microphone— and he felt the third click.
