by Jerry Ahern
"God bless him," Sarah whispered.
"Amen," Mary Mulliner added.
"Mommie— hold me— I'm cold," Annie pleaded, Sarah folding her left arm around the child, picking up her coffee cup in her right hand.
"Could we try to bust him out?" Bill asked suddenly, blurting it out, his blue eyes wide in the firelight, the pupils like pinpoints, his red hair across his forehead.
"David— outa Chicago? That's where they'd take him— no. Can't. David's done— simple as that. And he'd be wantin' us to think that, too. Write him off 'stead of gettin' ourselves killed tryin' to bust him outa there. Probably use drugs to get him to talk. No— I figure we gotta go on— that's what David'd be wantin' us to do. I gotta contact U.S. II headquarters— talk with that Reed fella in Intelligence— see if n he knows what the Russians is about with all these supplies and things. There's a farm— not far from your old place, Mrs. Mulliner— the Cunningham place. Raised quarter horses before The War— beautiful things. But old Mr. Cunningham was a ham radio operator. Still got all his equipment. We never used the place, kept it on the back burner, so to speak, for a safe house, like they call it in the spy movies. Well— we're usin' it now— and that radio—"
"The Cunninghams are dead— a raid—" Bill Mulliner began.
"Brigands?" Michael asked.
"Brigands," Critchfield nodded. "But them Brigands burned the house and the barns— old Cunningham had him a machine shop underground of the house— kind of a survivalist like Mrs. Rourke's husband was—"
"Is," Sarah corrected unconsciously.
"Yes, Sarah— is," Critchfield nodded. "Cunningham and his missus got killed fighting the Brigands— but the underground part never got touched. All we gotta do is rig up some sorta antenna like and use that ham radio of his. Food and some ammo stored there, too. Can make it there in about six hours hard walkin' time."
"Then let's go," Sarah said. "Most of my wounded can walk all right— we can stretcher carry the one that can't— both legs shot up, but he's still strong."
"Then it's agreed?" Critchfield nodded.
"Agreed," Bill Mulliner added.
"Agreed," Annie laughed, and everyone laughed with her— except Sarah. She thought of David Balfry— he had kissed her. And now he would be enduring something she didn't even want to imagine.
"Agreed," Sarah finally said.
There were Russians everywhere, and if they made it to the Cunningham place unmolested, it would be a miracle. And there were Brigands, too— she felt almost evil thinking it, but perhaps the Russians and the Brigands would lock horns and just kill each other and make it all over, all done with. Perhaps.
She sipped at her coffee and it was cold and bitter to taste.
Chapter Forty-Two
General Ishmael Varakov heard the clicking of heels on the museum floor— he knew, without looking up from his file-folder-littered desk that it would be Rozhdestvenskiy, come with absurd punctuality for his appointment.
The clicking of heels neared as Varakov studied the urgent communiqué from the Kremlin leadership still in hiding in their bunker. "Rozhdestvenskiy and the KGB are to be given full aid and support of the army, the GRU and any other forces or facilities at your command. The Womb is the ultimate priority project— this is to be given your full efforts." It was signed by the Central Committee and The People of The Soviet.
Varakov smiled— was that like SPQR-Senatus Populusque Romanus? He remembered what had happened to them.
"Comrade General!"
There was a louder click of heels, and Varakov still studied the communiqué.
Without looking up, he murmured, "Sit down, colonel— it appears I am ordered to assist you and this Womb Project. But as commanding general still I must first insist that I be informed as to the total implications of my orders—"
"Comrade General—"
Varakov looked up, Rozhdestvenskiy— blonde, athletic, firm-jawed, handsome by any standard, erect even when sitting— again the image of the SS officer came to Varakov's mind.
"Yes, colonel?"
"All work with factories for prosecuting The War effort with The People's Republic of China and remaining NATO troops is to be temporarily put aside. All agricultural production not vital to the Womb effort is to be put aside— all energies, as your orders indicate, are to be devoted to the speedy development of the Womb Project to its ultimate goal."
"What is this ultimate goal, colonel—" Varakov would not call him comrade— those he had called comrade had meant too much to him to so debase, so abuse the word.
He watched Rozhdestvenskiy— not a hair out of place, the uniform neat, perfect, without a wrinkle— so unlike his own, which even he realized much of the time looked as though it was slept in. It was.
"In simple terms, Comrade General—"
"Yes— we must be simple—"
"There was no slight meant to you, Comrade General— I have always held the deepest admiration for your past distinguished military career—"
"Please— spare me—"
Rozhdestvenskiy raised his right eyebrow, his lips downturned at the corners, held tight together, his eyes seeming to emit a light of their own. "Very well— the goal of the Womb is much the same as the goal of the American Eden Project— the survival of the best and finest ideology. But we shall triumph— the Americans will not—"
"You speak in hyperbole, colonel— be more concrete."
"The Eden Project was conceived to ensure the survival of the Western Democracies at all costs in the event of a global nuclear confrontation. The Womb will counter this last desperate gesture of the degenerate Capitalist system, and at once ensure the eternal triumph and majesty of the People's Revolution. But one element is missing, one needed element. To accomplish this goal, to ensure the very survival of the Soviet system, of Communism itself, the military must be fully committed to release KGB-attached forces to pursue that needed element, without which the Womb is doomed and American Imperialism will triumph."
"And what about the survival of the Soviet people, colonel?" Varakov asked, his voice sounding dull to him. "What of their survival?"
Rozhdestvenskiy smiled. "May I be blunt, Comrade General?"
"A change, yes."
"The spirit of the Soviet people, of the struggling masses everywhere, is best embodied in the political leadership of the Soviet and in the KGB as its extension of will—"
"And the people be damned," Varakov said flatly, staring at Rozhdestvenskiy.
"The sheer force of numbers implies at its most basic conceptualization arbitrary selection—"
"An ark-like Noah in the Judeo Christian Bible— but an ark by invitation only, based on dialectics?"
"You do know— all of it," Rozhdestvenskiy almost whispered.
"I do know— all of it—"
"There will be room for you, Comrade General—"
Varakov laughed. "I have lived long enough to sleep for five hundred years— to awaken to what?"
"Perhaps your niece if she can be found—"
"To be your concubine— or to be executed because you consider her to have had complicity in the death of Karamatsov— hardly, colonel."
"You have been ordered by Moscow—"
"I have been ordered by what was Moscow— and is now a group of old men afraid to die with dignity because they did not live with dignity— old men who hide in a bunker and are so afraid, so distrusting, that not even their commanding generals know exactly where the bunker is located. Are they packed— and waiting?"
"Yes, Comrade General—"
"Do not call me comrade— I have been given orders. I have spent my entire life since I was fifteen obeying military orders. Now I am reduced to obeying the orders of cowardly murderers who save themselves over the finest of Soviet youth— I will follow the letter of my orders—
have your troops— have them all. But I am not your comrade— I have never been— you are dismissed, colonel."
Varakov looked from the eyes to his
desk, studying the communiqué. He heard the chair move slightly as Rozhdestvenskiy would have stood up, heard the click of heels as Rozhdestvenskiy would have saluted, then the long pause when he— Varakov— did not look up to return the salute.
Finally, he heard the sound of heels on the floor of his place, his special place, the sound diminishing with each step.
There would not be a recall to Moscow, a premature pension— or perhaps an accident.
There would not be the time for that. He— Varakov— would die like all the rest.
His feet hurt badly.
Chapter Forty-Three
David Balfry opened his eyes— they hurt to open, his nose stiff and he could not breathe through it. The lights were bright.
He looked down to his chest, then looked away, sickened, the nipples of his breasts black, burned, the electrodes still clipped to them.
"You are awake?" The voice was almost kind-sounding. "He is awake— let us be sure—"
Balfry felt the pain starting in his testicles— the burning, felt it, smelled his flesh as it smoked.
"No— o-o-o-o— Christ, no—!" The pain stopped and he was numb except for a core of pain still somewhere inside the pit of his stomach.
"Then you will cooperate and tell us the information we request about the so-called Resistance?" There was a laugh.
"Fuck you," Balfry stammered, his tongue thick-feeling, his words strange-sounding to him—
his teeth gone, broken, his tongue swollen from thirst, cut where it scraped against the jagged edge of his teeth. They had used a hammer and chisel part of the time— part of the time pliers. The salty taste started again in his mouth and he knew he was bleeding.
"Our dental care— our electrical stimulation— you found this offensive? Hmm." The voice— he could not see the face— cooed to him. "Hard on you? Painful, even?" There was laughter in the frightening darkness beyond the light. "There are things unspeakable in yours or any language—
things we can make you endure, Balfry— but there are drugs to calm your pain, to ease you happily into death— these choices are yours to make. We have hours, days, weeks— as long as necessary."
"No, ya don't," Balfry coughed. "You need what I know— and you need it now— but to get it now you're gonna have to kill me— and then you won't have it— eat shit."
"A college professor— such a way for a university don to speak— let's try the electrodes to the breasts again— the twitching is interesting to watch."
The pain— it flooded his chest and he cried and felt ashamed. But he didn't talk— he would have laughed. With the pain, he couldn't talk.
Chapter Forty-Four
Rozhdestvenskiy entered the room at the far corner of the museum basement. What he saw made his stomach churn.
"You are barbarians— and worse than that— incompetent! This is an important prisoner whose information may be vital and you so risk his life!"
He couldn't see the face in the darkness beyond the light— all he could see was the captured Resistance leader, Balfry.
"But, Comrade Colonel!"
He recognized the voice— and more than that, his eyes drifting across the naked, horribly abused body strapped against the "work" table, the table hanging the man almost completely inverted—
the technique.
"You will call medical assistance immediately— the man will be treated, made comfortable and then administered drugs— drugs against which he can offer no resistance and that will allow his successful interrogation— not this butchery."
"You are insane—" and Rozhdestvenskiy started out the door—
"Comrade Colonel—"
Rozhdestvenskiy, his hand on the knob, stopped, not turning back, not wanting to see the American again.
"He is dead, Comrade Colonel— I— I had no idea that—"
Rozhdestvenskiy leaned against the door, letting it slam closed under his weight.
"Have the man's body— what remains of it— given a decent burial. He is the equivalent of an enemy officer— he deserves such." And Rozhdestvenskiy turned, stepping quickly into the shadow, reaching out, his left hand finding the throat of the man whose technique he knew so well, hated so well.
"And if you ever— ever attempt such a thing again— when the time comes, rather than a long sleep and renewed life— I will disembowel you with greater zest than I have ever killed any other man—" Rozhdestvenskiy pushed the torturer away, heard the clatter of the body falling against what sounded like an instrument tray, upsetting it, overturning it, metallic objects and glass tinkling against the stone floor.
Rozhdestvenskiy stepped out of the shadow, walked back to the door and looked once again at the now dead American, Balfry.
"When one lives with animals," Rozhdestvenskiy began, never finishing, going out through the doorway and closing the memory behind him.
Chapter Forty-Five
The submarine's deck winch shifted, Rourke's Harley the last of the three bikes to be put onto the rocks. No dock, they had carefully explored a section of coastline, finding a flat rocky surface with deep enough soundings for the submarine to get within ten yards— Rourke standing now on the rock, salt spray blowing on the wind, Natalia and Paul Rubenstein already moving away along the spit of rock to the shore, only Commander Gundersen beside him now as the Jet Black Harley Low Rider swung precariously from the tackle, then was lowered slowly down.
"How's O'Neal?"
"Got him in sick bay— got a few more cuts and bruises during that bruha you folks had with Cole and the others. But he's just fine. Told me to give you his best regards— and to wish you luck finding your family."
"Tell him I wish him the same— the best of luck, and if he's looking for someone, to find them—
and— well, tell him," Rourke added lamely. Gundersen laughed. "All right— I'll tell him exactly that."
"Where you bound to?"
"Close as I can get this boat to U.S. II headquarters without a Russian reception committee to welcome me, I guess," Gundersen laughed.
"Then what?"
"Funny talk for a guy who rides around under water, but guess you could say I'm a quoteunquote soldier— I'll follow my orders. Finally got through to U.S. II— ran a radio link through a ham set opened up last night in Tennessee— some Resistance people just got onto it— fella named Critchfield. Know him?"
"No— he didn't mention anything about a woman and two children, did he?"
"No— can't say I asked, either, though— sorry about that."
"I'm heading there anyway, once I get back."
"Well— we made the link," Gundersen said. "Seems Cole was really Thomas Iversenn. Reed called him a kudzu commando?"
"Yeah--kudzu's a plant, imported from Japan years ago— grows worse than a weed in Georgia—
it's a vine. Covers up telephone poles, abandoned houses—"
"Really?"
"Yeah— but what about Cole— or Iversenn?"
"He was a National Guard officer— a first lieutenant. Wandered in one day with about a dozen men or so and volunteered to go regular army. They took him. Reed never really trusted him—
rightwing radical, he called him. U.S. II assigned the real Cole and six men to recover the warheads to use as a bargaining tool against the Soviet Union. Somehow, Iversenn found out about it— killed Cole and his men, Reed almost bought it. He took Cole's orders and identity."
"How'd he know so much about the missiles?"
"Worked at the facility that built the warheads— apparently— least figures it this way— this Iversenn had been planning to get to the missiles someday even if there hadn't been a war— start his own preemptive strike against the Soviet Union and alert Washington to join in or get retaliated against. Crazy."
"Yeah— he was," Rourke nodded, reaching out to the Harley, starting to ease it around as the tackle lowered it.
Gundersen helped him.
"What about you, John— Reed said he'd like you back. Gave me the coordinates fo
r the new U.S. II headquarters and—"
"I'll memorize the coordinates— just in case I ever need them. But I've got my family to look for— what I was doing before Cole or Iversenn shot Natalia and started this whole thing."
"I'll ask you a favor then— with the jet fighter you've got stashed—"
"An experimental fighter bomber."
"Yeah— well, I know things on the water and under it— I leave airplanes to other people." And Gundersen laughed.
"What's the favor?"
"You said you rigged the ammo dumps and everything at Filmore Air Force base to blow if anyone tampered with it."
"Natalia and Paul did— good job, I understand."
"This is direct from President Chambers. If the Russians should land forces out here, we don't want them having an airfield to use, or any U.S. materiel or planes. Could their people debug the stuff Major Tiemerovna and Mr. Rubenstein did?"
"Probably— if they were careful," Rourke answered.
"Then I've got one order for you— order from President Chambers, a request from me."
"I take requests— I don't take orders," Rourke answered softly, easing his bike down and balancing it on the stand.
"Fire a missile into that ammo dump or whatever you need to do— destroy the base completely..."
Rourke looked at him, then back to the Harley, undoing the binding that held it to the tackle. "All right— I'll make a run on it on the way East. Might not be perfect, but I'll tear up the main runways and hit the ammo dump and arsenal."
"Agreed— I'll tell Reed that— we're talking again before I go under."
Rourke extended his right hand, Gundersen taking it.
"Good luck to you, commander—"
"You, too, John— maybe we'll see each other again sometime."
Thunder rumbled loudly in the clear morning sky. And Rourke didn't answer Gundersen.
Chapter Forty-Six
Pete Critchfleld seemed to explode. "You what?"
"I didn't think— didn't catch the lady's last name—"
