by Jerry Ahern
"Where's Armand Teal— you kill him, too, Captain Cole?" He made the question to instantly brief Rourke— if he was listening. He didn't want to hear the answer himself because he knew it would be a death sentence.
Chapter Nine
"Teal's got a bump on the head and his hands tied. We lined up everybody else and shot 'em. And with Teal as a hostage, once Rourke and that Russian bitch land, they won't be able to go after us in a plane— couldn't risk killing Teal. I got the ball and I'm keepin' it now."
Rourke listened, glancing back to Natalia as he already began banking the plane to starboard, then glancing back to his instrument.
He heard Paul's voice and Natalia's voice simultaneously. "He's got Paul—"
"— can't think John'll let you get your grubby hands on those missiles."
"Doesn't bother me if he tries. Once I get to them, they don't go anywhere but up— all away." Rourke' s ears rang, a loud burst of static.
Paul's voice, Rourke checking the altimeter, then glancing to his left and up at the airspeed/mach indicator. "You just— you just shot Airman Stephensen— in cold blood, damn you!" Cole's voice then, "Cold blood, hot blood— what the fuck's the difference." Another noise that made Rourke' s ears ring.
Natalia's voice. "He shot Paul!"
Static, then the sound of a door closing, then more static.
Rourke's right fist bunched on the control stick, his left fist hammering into his left thigh. He squinted into the sunlight through his visor— not the sun, but the tears welling up in his eyes making him do it.
Chapter Ten
He felt something. touching at his shoulder, the voice not part of a dream at all.
"Comrade General— Comrade General!"
He opened his eyes, raising his head, his right hand stuck to a memorandum in an open file folder. He looked up. "What— it— what is it, child?"
"Comrade General," Catherine began. "You have been sleeping— it is late. You should go to bed, Comrade General."
He felt himself smile at her as he sat up fully, shaking loose the memorandum, watching as it fluttered from his hand to the floor, Catherine stooping in her overly long skirt and picking it up.
"You are my secretary, Catherine— you are not my mother. Although I remember my mother having eyes like yours."
He felt himself smile again, Catherine blushing. "What time is it?"
"It is almost eight-thirty, Comrade General."
Varakov nodded to her, looking at his own watch, confirming it. "Yes— has there been any word since I—"
"Since six o'clock there has been no word, Comrade General— neither on Comrade Major Tiemerovna or the American Rourke, or the other American, Rubenstein."
Varakov looked about his office without walls in the far side of the Museum of Natural History, the figures of the mastodons dominating the center of the great hall, the hall mostly in shadow now, only the yellow light on his desk and a light by the guard post just inside the brass doors leading from the outside disturbing the shadowy darkness. The mastodons— he stood, stuffing his feet into his shoes with considerable effort, walking toward them now— seemed somehow more ominous. He could hear the click of Catherine's heels beside him, slightly behind him.
"A man tries, Catherine," he murmured.
"Comrade General?"
"A man tries. I have knowledge— knowledge I wished to share, to save as much of mankind as possible. Now I cannot. There is so little time left. If this Rourke can be found, and my niece still lives— then perhaps a few—"
"I do not understand, Comrade General."
Varakov turned, smiling toward her, watching her face, the uncertainty at the corners of her mouth— her lips thin and pale, cast partially in shadow— raised slightly.
Varakov reached out to her, touching her hands, the steno pad she habitually carried falling to the floor between them, the pencil making a tiny sound as he heard it bounce on the stone floor.
"That you do not understand— count this a blessing, child."
He closed his eyes, still holding her hands, in his mind seeing the mastodons— extinct— more vividly than ever.
Chapter Eleven
Rourke worked the right fuel shutoff handle, continuing the shutting down procedure as Natalia spoke to him. He removed his own helmet to hear her better. "What if Cole is waiting for us—
what if he knew Paul had tuned the radio set to our frequency?"
Rourke flipped his last switch, then began opening the canopy. "He isn't that smart— and in case he is, I'll kill him," he rasped, his voice little over a whisper, the rush of cooler air on his face causing him to suck in his breath. He pushed the release for the safety harness, starting to climb out. "I'll kill him," he said again...
Rourke reached under the armpits of his flight suit, drawing first one, then the second stainless Detonics .45, thumb cocking each pistol as they approached the first hangar, glancing to his left, Natalia beside and slightly behind him, the Metalife Custom L-Frame Smith .357s already drawn in her fists, sunlight dully glinting off the slab-sided barrels and the American eagles there. The flight suit was the smallest man's flight suit that could be found, short for her in the legs, though that was hardly noticeable with her boots, loose-fitting at the waist, yet the outline of her breasts under the upper portion of the flight suit distinct.
He turned away, concentrating on the hangar— if Cole were waiting it would either be on the field in one of the hangars or in the radio room where Paul and the other man had been shot, Rourke realized.
The hangar doors were open.
"You wait here."
"The stitches in my abdomen are fine— I don't have to run a race to shoot a gun anyway— the hell with waiting here," she told him.
Rourke looked at her, smiling. Sometimes he liked that about her— she didn't take orders well.
"Suit yourself," he said noncommittally, then continued walking.
"I can go around back."
"Only three of them," he nodded. "Stick with me." Three of them— with assault rifles at the very least.
He stopped beside the hangar doors, the pistols tight in his hands— he half-wanted Cole to be waiting there, waiting for him. It would give him the excuse.
Natalia looked at him, Rourke nodding, diving through the doorway, Natalia beside him. He went into a crouch, both weapons poised at hip level.
"My God," Natalia whispered.
Rourke didn't look at her. He looked at the bodies along the far wall instead. "I thought good Communists didn't believe in God." He started walking, his eyes scanning across the concrete base of the vaulted-ceilinged metal structure— no sign of Cole.
"If I were a good Communist, I wouldn't be here," he heard her say, hearing the sound of metal against leather, one of her guns being holstered.
He stopped, ten yards from the wall— dead men. The landing party, the survivors of Filmore Air Force base, bodies lurched over one another, the arms and legs in bizarre positions, heads cocked back, eyes wide open, glassy. The blood was on the concrete floor in small puddles, blood spattered over all the victims as well, hands covered with it. Rourke started nearer, watching the hands, the faces— for any sign of movement.
He stopped, beside the nearest edge of the pile of dead men, the bodies heaped upon one another as though those still living but shot had tried shielding their comrades with their bodies— a hand touched gently at the face of another man, the cuticles of the fingernails clotted red-brown.
"That butcher," Natalia's voice murmured.
Rourke looked at her. "Yes— butcher." He looked back at the dead men— his eyes suddenly catching something.
His left thumb hooked behind the tang of the Detonics in his left fist, upping the safety, his right thumb upping the safety of the second pistol, both pistols ramming into his leg pockets on the flight suit as he dropped to his knees in the blood. "Help me."
He shifted at the body weight of a black man— dead, eyes fixed. "Watch your stitches—"
"I will," Natalia answered.
A seaman, shot three times in the chest, then once in the head. An airman, twice in the neck, twice in the abdomen and once in the head. "They came afterward and shot each one in the head."
"Yeah," Rourke rasped.
He moved the last body aside— at the base of the pile, one of the first shot apparently, lay Lieutenant O'Neal. His neck pumped blood. "He's alive."
Natalia was running, Rourke looking back at her. "Must be a first aid kit here!" she shouted back.
Natalia Tiemerovna walked briskly, her stitches itching her, her crotch itching her where the hair was starting to grow back after being shaven for the surgery. She wondered if Rourke had shaved her there— it was his way, not to let someone else see her, perhaps. She didn't have the nerve to ask him, she realized, smiling at her own embarrassment.
He was in the first hangar still, trying to keep Lieutenant O'Neal from bleeding to death.
She walked— an M-16 taken from the hangar in her hands, spare magazines stuffed in the pockets of her flight suit, awkward feeling as she walked. She stopped walking now— the command bunker doors were closed, and on the third level down would be the radio room. And Paul— almost certainly dead...
Fluorescent lights burned in the hallway as she entered it from the stairwell, no living thing in sight. The radio room was at the far end— she had looked at the set before going airborne with Rourke. She sucked in her breath hard— she had been in a hurry, told Paul good-bye. She wished she had kissed him. Rourke was something besides a friend, beyond a friend— but Paul was her friend, a confidant, someone she admired and loved. She felt her throat tightening as she approached the doorway.
She reached her left hand to the knob, the right fist balled on the pistol grip of the M-16— her trigger finger was inside the guard. She turned the door handle, her right foot snapping out, her left hand slapping hard against the front handguard of the M-16 as she stepped through the doorway.
The lights were still on on the radio— Cole was "careless," she murmured. She started across the room, the airman on the floor, the top of his skull blown away and splattered across the far wall, clearly, undeniably dead.
She stopped beside the radio, her left hand going out, blood on her fingers as she touched the head. Her right thumb worked the selector of the M-16 to safe as she set it on the table holding the radio set, both hands touching Paul Rubenstein' s head.
There was much blood. She smudged at it, watching as the eyelids fluttered.
A scalp wound. Despite the blood, she hugged his head against her chest, whispering, "Paul—
thank God." Her own words startled her...
O'Neal would live, the wound to his neck deep and bloody but packed now and the bleeding stopped. But he would be very weak. Rourke studied the man's face, O'Neal still not conscious, but sleeping rather than in a coma. Rourke heard the noise of the Jeep behind him, reaching to the shoulder holsters where he'd transferred the Detonics .45s from the side pockets of his flight suit.
On his knees, he wheeled into a crouch, both pistols coming up, feeling a smile cross his lips as he aborted thumb-cocking the hammer spurs. Natalia drove the Jeep and beside her, hands rubbing his head— "Paul," Rourke whispered. That Natalia had brought his friend back alive, Rourke counted a minor miracle— but Cole was no less culpable. And Cole would die.
"Paul!" This time Rourke shouted the name, the guns suddenly awkward in his hands but no time to reholster them as he ran to meet the oncoming Jeep, Natalia cutting into a slight curve to her right, the Jeep skidding on the concrete hangar flooring with a squeal of brakes, bouncing as it stopped. She jumped from the driver's seat, Rourke handing her his pistols— nothing else to do with them— and stepping up into the Jeep to inspect Paul's wound.
Rourke had encountered something similar once before he remembered as he studied Rubenstein's wound, gingerly pulling back the bandage Natalia had improvised. "You have a hard head, Paul," Rourke told his friend, watching as Rubenstein forced a smile. "There was a case in Chicago years ago of a police officer shooting at a man who was rushing him with a broken bottle or something. Tried the standard things— calling halt, firing a warning shot. Finally he didn't have a choice. He fired, the shot went high and the man with the bottle had a high forehead. The bullet hit the man's forehead and glanced off. It was a .45. The man with the bottle got scared to death and ran and the cop probably died of a heart attack— a headshot with a
.45 not putting a man down. Same thing happened with you— bullet hit the right side of your head— back here," and he touched lightly at the wound, Rubenstein wincing. "Then it just glanced off. What they call a scalp wound in the movies."
"Shit— I— I feel like somebody— somebody hit me with a sledgehammer."
Rourke laughed, still inspecting the wound. "Two hundred thirty-grains of gilding-metaljacketed lead traveling slow and steady isn't something you should expect to feel good. Now tell me all you can about Cole— anything that didn't get on the radio. But wait a minute." Rourke turned and looked behind him, Natalia smiling strangely. "What are you laughing at?"
"Men— you two are like brothers and you tell macho stories to one another and joke when you'd really in your hearts like to hug each other. Crazy."
Rourke swallowed hard, feeling his eyes smiling at her. "Just shut up and get that medical kit."
"Hmm," she smiled.
Rourke closed his eyes, shaking his head...
"So I guess he either got Colonel Teal to tell him where the missiles were or figured he could sweat it out of him."
"You've been reading too many American detective stories, Paul," Natalia said, Rourke watching her smile. " 'Sweat it out of him'— really!"
Rourke rolled the thin, dark tobacco cigar across his teeth to the left corner of his mouth, saying,
"But the fact remains, figures of speech aside, that what Paul said is a pretty accurate description of the situation."
"But this Teal— he seems tough," Natalia began, looking at Rourke, sitting between them on a long, low tool chest at the far side of the hangar. "If I had a complete drug kit and the time, I could get the information out of Teal. But this Cole— he is so inept—"
"So inept that he waited for the optimum chance to strike, got himself transported on faked or stolen orders aboard a nuclear submarine, so inept that we can't go after him or he'll kill Teal, so inept he'll wind up with control of six missiles—"
"Why the hell would somebody make missiles with such big warheads?" Paul chimed in.
"Should I tell him?" Natalia asked, not smiling at all.
Rourke only nodded.
"You see, Paul," she began, patient sounding, as though explaining to a child, Rourke thought,
"you see— for a time it was thought that the larger the warhead, the greater and more formidable a weapon. This was before your country began searching for greater accuracy in delivery systems— like the MX missile, which caused so much controversy. A smaller warhead that could reach to a target with virtual pinpoint accuracy had less residual effect and greater destructive capability on hard targets than something huge and dirty. These were soft-target warheads—"
"Soft target?" Rubenstein, his eyes still pained— seeming, pain-filled, repeated.
"A soft target is a population center," Rourke said emotionlessly. "A hard target is a missile silo, a command bunker— something made to withstand everything except a virtual direct hit."
"And if Captain Cole is so knowledgeable as to be able to take control of these missiles and their eight megaton warheads—"
"Then we must assume," Rourke interrupted her, "that he knows how to fire them and already has targets in mind."
"Why are we sitting here, then?"
"He wouldn't kill Teal until he knew where the warheads were," Natalia added.
"We have to wait," Rourke answered. "Teal told me there were helicopters here, in a locked hangar. After I checked your wound and while I bandaged it, I
told Natalia to take a look through the rest of the hangars."
"And one was locked— the windows were shuttered. Helicopters— OH-58A Kiowas. I checked them after I shot off the lock. The choppers had been repaired— their circuitry had been burned out during the electromagnetic pulse, but apparently Teal had repaired it. There were three machines, and two of them would start. The third was partially stripped down. Apparently Teal hadn't completed repairing it."
"So, after Cole gets what he wants out of Teal, he'll keep Teal alive just in case— just in case Teal deceived him or a special access code is needed— just for insurance, and as insurance against Natalia and me— and now you. Jeeps were missing— seventy-five miles cross country, with time out to work over Armand Teal, watching out for the wildmen to attack— sometime tonight he should be there. We go airborne after dark and look for signs of Cole and the others—
then we do whatever the situation allows—"
"Or demands," Natalia interrupted.
"When we were airborne," Rourke said, standing, shifting the stump of burned-out cigar in his teeth, "we saw signs of masses of the wildmen— they're going to attack here." Rourke glanced at the black-faced Rolex on his wrist. "Probably in an hour, maybe an hour and a half. Natalia is going to preflight two of those helicopters— you stay here with Lieutenant O'Neal, Paul. I'm taking a fighter out of here— it's a three-seater. I'm going to strafe the wildmen just to let them know we're interested, kill as many of them as I can since they'll all be so conveniently assembled, then land the thing somewhere nearby with a nearly full fuel load. Fighter bomber really— an FB-111HX. Carry the three of us eventually. Our ticket out of here. Then I'll land, camouflage the plane and get Natalia to pick me up with a chopper. You and O'Neal'll be on your own for a little. She'll fly me back, we'll take both helicopters and search for Cole and the others. Natalia'll show you what to do after she preflights the choppers— so you and O'Neal— he should be awake enough to keep an eye on your back— can sabotage all the remaining aircraft on the field here— don't want those wildmen crazies getting any aircraft going. This base is a loss. When Natalia and I get back, we'll rig the ammo dump and the arsenal to blow—"
