The Prophet ts-7

by Jerry Ahern

  She advanced toward the squat wildman with the bearskin wrapped around him, a knife the size of a short sword appeared in his blood-covered right hand.

  He lunged, Natalia feigned, backed off a halfstep and rolled the knife closed, then open, lunging as she rolled the knife closed again, then open again, lunging and parrying as she closed the knife, then rolled it open, the man with the bearskin lunging, her blade open, her fist clenched tight around it, her right arm punching out, the Wee-Hawk blade's tip punching into the carotid artery on the right side of the neck, ripping, tearing— the man fell away, dead.

  Natalia did another roll of the knife, closed and open, then leaned down, smearing the blade clean of blood against the bearskin, then rolling it closed and turning the knife end over end in her fist, then closing the lock shut. She dropped it in her hip pocket, the others of the wildmen dead around her, some of the shore party still standing beside her, gunfire from near the helicopter, but mostly the fire from the M-60 machine gun being used.

  "Paul— it is Natalia— I must get inside!"

  She glanced at the gold lady's Rolex on her left wrist— she judged perhaps five minutes remained until launch.

  And if she and Rourke were in the access tunnel trying to confuse or disarm the system when the first missile hit ignition— they would be vaporized.

  "Paul!"

  "Come ahead, Natalia!" Again, she started to run.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Rourke used the small stainless steel screwdriver on his key ring to remove the last of the bolts over what he hoped was the master electrical panel cover. He tugged at the ends— it was jammed. He withdrew the Black Chrome Sting IA from its sheath, using it to pry against the cover— the cover snapped loudly, echoing in the tunnel as the mechanical voice droned on—"T

  minus five minutes twenty-five seconds and counting— T minus five minutes twenty-seconds and counting— T minus five minutes fifteen seconds and counting."

  "Shut up!" he shouted. "Shut up, damnit!"

  "T minus five minutes five seconds and counting," the voice almost answered.

  Beneath the panel were a maze of multicolored wires— he had wired his own home, wired the Retreat— he had wired bombs of conventional explosives— he had never seen such a confusing array of wires in his life. Some would be blinds, some double blinds, some trip detonators that would fuse all the wires in the panel and make disarming the system totally impossible— "Shit," he rasped.

  Rourke glanced to his left— "T minus four minutes fifty seconds and counting."

  He could see the fin section of the nearest of the missiles, this the missile that would launch first, its flame discharge sufficient to vaporize him before he would have the chance to realize it was happening.

  "T minus four minutes forty seconds and counting."

  "Shut up—"

  Rourke snatched one of the Detonics pistols out of the double Alessi rig and fired up into the speaker box at the far end of the tunnel.

  But still he could hear the voice, only more distant from the next farther speaker.

  "T minus four minutes thirty five seconds and counting."

  Rourke holstered his gun, studying the wiring diagram— "Come on, Natalia— damnit— come on!" She knew the system better than he did— had studied its stolen plans. For once in his life he prayed Soviet Intelligence had gotten perfect information.

  Rourke touched at the nearest blue wire— he followed it out to the terminal— his hands gloved to guard against electrocution— but leather wouldn't do much he knew— he worked with his tiny screwdriver.

  The computer voice droned on. "T minus four minutes twenty seconds and counting."

  Didn't the voice know that it too would die, he thought?

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  "T minus four minutes, fifteen seconds and counting." Natalia heard the voice, stared for a moment at Cole's dead eyes, then ran on, her pistol holsters slapping at her sides, her feet seeming to her barely to touch the concrete floor as she reached the ladder, then started down three rungs at a time to the lower level and to the missile access tunnel. "T minus four minutes five seconds and counting."

  The voice was maddening...

  Rourke looked up, hearing the thudding of heels on the concrete. "T minus three minutes twenty seconds and counting. T minus three minutes fifteen seconds and counting. T minus three minutes ten seconds and counting. T minus three minutes five seconds and counting. T minus three minutes to irretrievable launch. Two minutes fifty-five seconds to launch. T minus two minutes fifty seconds and counting."

  Natalia— he shouted her name— "Natalia!"

  She skidded on her heels, dropping into a crouch beside him at the electrical panel— six wires were removed, three cut— he held his knife against a fourth, his finger behind the wire.

  "What happened when you cut these?" she said breathlessly.

  "Nothing— not a damn thing—"

  "This could take hours and we still might fuse the wires and automatically trigger a launch—"

  "Shit," he rasped.

  "I love you, John— I think we're going to die here—"

  "I love you, too," he told her, the knife blade still poised over the wire.

  "Don't cut that— I wish we'd had more time together— I wish you'd made love to me—"

  "I couldn't— why shouldn't I cut it—"

  "Sarah could never understand how lucky she is— that you love her— were faithful to her—"

  "I had no choice— it's me— it wasn't you— it's the way I'm made— I wanted to so much—"

  She looked at him, Rourke taking her hand, squeezing it. "I never loved anyone like I love you," he whispered.

  "I'll love you even after death—"

  "T minus two minutes five seconds and counting. T minus two minutes and counting."

  "The wires have to be the way to stop this," Rourke rasped.

  She shifted her gaze, Rourke following it as she picked up the cover panel that had been over the wiring itself.

  "That protected the wires—"

  "Protected—" She dropped the panel, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, Rourke feeling her mouth full against his lips. Breathless, she told him, "That's it— if I can find the preignition wire here, I can activate the ignition test sequence and start the nearest of the missiles to burn—"

  "What are you talking about—"

  "The panel, John— that's what it did— the packing inside— all around here— fireproof— it's like a fireproof vault— these launch in series— these missiles. If the panel and the circuit box weren't fire-proofed, the first burn would destroy the launch system wiring and the other five missiles wouldn't launch at all— if I can get an ignition check burn, the flames will vaporize the wiring and the system will be dead—"

  "So will we," Rourke added. "What do we do—"

  "Maybe not— I can rig a delay— maybe fifteen seconds just by stripping away most of the insulation on one of the wires and grounding it to a hot wire— say for the lights—"

  "If you know what you're talking about, fine— you lost me— do it."

  "You run— I'll do it myself."

  "T minus one minute thirty-five seconds and counting. T minus one minute thirty seconds and counting." A claxon began to sound, the computer voice louder now to be heard over it. "T

  minus one minute twenty-five seconds and counting."

  "I'll stay with you— I won't leave you— I won't."

  She looked at him— her eyes, their incredible blueness, her skin so white, her hair almost unnatural in its darkness, a lock of it fallen across her forehead, her left hand unconsciously brushing it back from her face.

  "Take my gloves—"

  "I have my own— tighter fit," she nodded, smiling.

  "T minus one minute fifteen seconds and counting."

  Natalia began tracing out wires with her right hand Rourke helping her into the left skintight leather glove. She took the right glove, pulling it on herself
as he watched her eyes follow out the wiring system.

  "I have no way of knowing if this is the right wire— I think it is— but I don't know—"

  "T minus one minute five seconds and counting. T minus one minute to irretrievable launch ignition— preignition in ten seconds. T minus forty-five seconds."

  "That's it— their preignition burn— I can get it here—"

  "T minus forty seconds—"

  Her hands moved across the panel, a wire ripped free, the Bali-Song coming out in her right hand, the blade a blur of gleaming steel, the blade slicing against the plastic coating of a blue wire.

  "Preignition burn—"

  Natalia fell back, screaming— "John—" Rourke grabbed her in his arms and felt the electrical current pulse through her, throwing his weight and hers away from the panel and ripping her free.

  She was breathing— barely.

  The computer voice droned. "T minus twenty-five seconds. T minus twenty—" The voice was swallowed in the roar of the missile engine.

  Rourke, his body trembling still from the electrical shock, pushed himself to his feet, his hands clawing Natalia's body to his chest, his right shoulder butting into her abdomen as he flung her across it, the roar of the engine deafening now.

  A glance behind him— a ball of flame rolling from the nearest of the missiles.

  Rourke started to run— The claxon still sounded, louder than before, the roar of the fireball behind him, the heat oppressive— his lungs ached, his chest ached.

  "No, I won't die!" He screamed the words to the tunnel walls around him as he ran, an explosion from behind him, the electrical conduit along the tunnel ceiling afire now, the lights—

  fluorescent tubes— bursting, exploding, flecks of razor-sharp glass raining down on him as he ran.

  The fireball— he could smell it, taste it; he stole a glance over his shoulder as he ran— it was blindingly bright and right behind him.

  Ahead, he could see the door to the access tunnel entrance— Natalia had left it ajar as had he—

  he opened his mouth wide, the hot burning air seeming to sear his lungs as he gulped it to sustain him— he ran.

  The door was twenty yards away— he couldn't remember if it was fireproof— fifteen yards away. Ten yards. He glanced behind him, the fireball nearer, his left foot buckling, but he caught his balance. Five yards. Rourke threw himself through the doorway, lurching and twisting, hurtling his weight against the door, slamming it, his left hand snaking out to the bolt latch— his fingers burning as he touched it.

  The door was starting to melt.

  Rourke kept running— ahead— perhaps fifty yards ahead was the access ladder to the control room.

  "John—" The cough— the voice— Natalia.

  Rourke slowed, leaning his weight against the wall as he stopped, slipping Natalia to her feet—

  "What—"

  "Fireball— other— other side— the door— melting—"

  As if punctuating his words, there was a groaning sound, then the roar of the fireball— the door was gone.

  "Run for it," and Rourke shoved her ahead, Natalia starting to run, outdistancing him, fresher—

  Rourke ran, picking up his feet, laying them down, shouting to himself internally—"Run!"

  Twenty-five yards to the ladder now. Twenty— the conduit overhead here was afire as well, Rourke feeling the heat searing at the exposed skin on the back of his neck, the roar of the fireball so loud he could no longer even hear his own labored breathing.

  Ten yards. Five.

  Natalia was up the ladder, two rungs at a time.

  Rourke threw himself against it— Natalia's hands were reaching down— there was no time, no sense— to argue. He took her hands, Natalia half pulling him up the ladder. He stumbled forward, after her, jumping over Cole's body, Natalia ahead of him, shouting, breathless—

  "Paul— get out of here— run for it!"

  Rourke stumbled, caught himself against the wall— the concrete seemed burning hot to the touch. He kept running, Natalia was ahead of him, daylight there, the fluorescent tubes on the tunnel sides exploding still, the conduit itself making a sheet of flames above their heads, the fireball being sucked faster, he knew— toward the oxygen.

  The doorway— five yards. Two yards. Natalia was through, Rourke throwing himself through and past the burnt truck and behind her, running, throwing himself to the ground and right, the fireball belching out as he rolled, his hands going to protect his face.

  Then it was gone. No missile contrails were in the air as he moved his hands from his face.

  He didn't know how long it was— he was too tired to look at his watch.

  But after a time— she was crawling toward him on her knees, then slumped against him, he heard Natalia's voice, felt her hands touch at the back of his neck— he was sore there, tender.

  "You have the worst sunburn I've ever seen," she laughed.

  Rourke put his arms around her and held her body close against him.

  He closed his eyes.

  Chapter Forty

  "As best I can make out," O'Neal smiled, rubbing his dirty hands across his dirty, soot-smeared face, "when that fireball hit the air out here it got hot enough to melt down everything that wasn't concrete— that tunnel is sealed tighter than a drum and there wasn't a cook-off— no radiation at all. We lucked out— or I should say you did." Rourke looked up at him. Rourke squatted on the ground, Natalia behind him rubbing a cream into the burn on his neck. "We can put a charge over that mound along the ridge there and bury the missile bunker entrance completely— what about an earthquake someday here?"

  "Well, maybe—"

  "Unless a fault was created on the Night of The War, they wouldn't have built this anywhere near one— it should be safe forever.

  "Maybe somebody a thousand years from now will dig it up—"

  "Perhaps someone a thousand years from now will be too smart to want to," Rourke heard Natalia murmur from behind him.

  "A shame our people and your people couldn't have worked together— well, like we did here—

  before— well, before all—"

  "Before the Night of The War," Paul Rubenstein added somberly, his jacket and shirt gone, his left arm and shoulder heavily bandaged, his eyes glassy from the painkiller Rourke had given him before cleaning and dressing the wound.

  "Maybe someday," 0'Neal said, squinting against the afternoon sun— Rourke was reminded to find his glasses in his bomber jacket pocket— "somebody'll remember what this place was—

  maybe build a little marker here, you know?"

  Thunder rumbled out of the cloudless sky, the sun blood-red.

  "Maybe someday," Rourke almost whispered. "Maybe."

  Chapter Forty-One

  Bill Mulliner realized two things— one was he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life because, since the successful raid on the supply depot in Nashville and the theft of arms, ammunition, and medical supplies, Russian troops were everywhere. The other thing he felt was pride— his father had died in an abortive attempt at a similar raid— the success now in at least a small way avenging his father's death.

  His father— he still hadn't, he realized, adjusted to the idea of his father's not being there. The scratchy beard stubble when he hadn't shaved— despite Bill's age, he would kiss his father on the cheek. The warm, sweatiness of the man's skin, the dry firmness though of his hand when it had clasped his.

  The man he could talk to, not always well, but talk to— this was gone from him forever, and as he walked, three M-16s slung on his shoulders and one eight-hundred-round can of 5.56mm ammo in each hand, he cried.

  But only the darkness of the forest could see him— Pete Critchfield and the others walked far ahead...

  Sarah Rourke looked up from the injured black man whose bandage she had just changed, the man's eyes wide in the darkness as he too had heard the sound. She had the Trapper .45 in her right hand, thumbing back the hammer.

 
"What is it?" Mary Mulliner whispered hoarsely.

  Sarah heard Michael make the sound, "Shh."

  Annie, who had helped her with the injured man's bandage— mainly making him smile—

  clutched her left arm.

  "Mrs. Rourke?"

  It was Bill Mulliner's voice, beside him, slightly ahead of him coming into the clearing, Pete Critchfield— before he reached the edge of the sheltered fire on which she boiled water, she could smell the fetid smoke of his cigar.

  "Bill— Pete— how 'd it—"

  "Lost two men— and Jim Hastings and Curly got the rest with them, stashing the loot—"

  "You make yourself sound like a criminal for stealing American supplies from the Russians—

  don't call it loot, Pete," she said hastily.

  "All right— the stuff, then— weapons, ammunition, explosives, some medical supplies— I'm carrying the medical stuff and some explosives— Bill here's got the ammo and Tom— you donno Toni— he's got more of the medical stuff for ya."

  The third man nodded. "Ma'am."

  "Tom," she nodded back— he was black, like the man she treated now.

  "Left two men up by the road," Critchfield went on—— "Russians ever'where now—"

  "You must have made a big splash," she smiled, her voice low.

  "Yeah, well— destroyed an ammo truck, killed about eighteen or nineteen of their people, took what we could pack in a van we stole and blew up the rest— I'd say they was a might flustered, least-ways."

  And Critchfield laughed, Sarah hearing the man on the ground beside her laugh too and say,

  "You fight near as good as us black folks, Pete!"

  Sarah looked at her patient, then ran her left hand across his head, telling him, "You rest easy—

  so you can laugh later."

  Mary Mulliner— Sarah guessed she liked none of it— said, "I'll make you men some coffee."

  Somehow, Sarah thought, there was an odd sound in Bill Mulliner's voice. "Okay, Mom." His face looked worn and afraid, somehow older than Sarah had ever seen it...

  "If they got David Balfry alive," Pete Critchfield said, warming his hands on his coffee cup as he looked at her, "then they'll like as not get David to talk— tell 'em ever'thing he knows 'bout the Resistance. And he knows a lot, he does."