The Web s-5

by Ahern, Jerry

  "Once I get down there, I can snake up a rope; then you and Paul can join me and at least we'll have some shelter—unless it looks like it's going to blow or something."

  "I can—" Rubenstein began.

  "You stay with Natalia. If I break every bone in my body doing this, I want someone in one piece to take care of her." It was getting dark as Rourke started climbing again, the aircraft still some thirty feet below him, its portside wing broken in two, the starboard engine

  snagged in a clump of rocks some fifty feet farther below it and half-obscured now by snow.

  Rourke's hands were numb as his fingers played along the glistening iced-over rocks, his shoulder still ached from where he'd hit the road surface, and one desire suddenly obsessed him—to urinate. Rourke's right foot edged down, then his left. The left slipped as loose shale under him, crusted over with ice, broke away from the dirt that had held it. His fingertips dug into the rock surface against which they pressed as his right foot braced against the coated rock against which only the toes now pressed.

  "John—I'm coming down," Natalia shouted.

  "No—I'll be—" Rourke swung his left leg out, finding a purchase against a gnarled stump of bush growing out of the dirt embankment. "I'm all right."

  Rourke edged his right hand down onto a lower ledge of rock, then his left foot, then his left hand, then his right foot. Slowly, methodically, his kidneys screaming at him to let go, he kept moving.

  His hands were numbed to the point where he could barely sense the rocks under his fingertips, and his feet were becoming chilled as well. A numbness was setting into his thighs. But the plane was nearer.

  He glanced up once; Natalia and Paul, peered down at him, over the edge.

  The thought crossed his mind that even if one of the bikes had remained serviceable, how would they ever get it up to the road surface? And the freak storm—when would it end?

  The plane was a few yards away from him now, across a wide break in the ground and below the break, a drop of seventy-five feet or more. Rourke settled himself against the rocks, checking his footing, then awkwardly because

  of the narrowness of the ledge, swung his left leg around behind him, found a purchase for the left foot, then simultaneously swung his left arm out and around, twisting his body. He moved his feet slightly, firming the position he had, his back now against the rocks and dirt of the embankment. The snow, falling in larger, heavier flakes, covered his shoulders, lingered on his eyelashes-freezing him.

  The jump to the opposite side of the break in the ground was only ten or eleven feet. But there was no running room. He would simply hurtle his body off the ledge and that would be it.

  He sucked in his breath hard, glancing up one nfiore time; he couldn't see either Natalia or Paul cleariy because of the heaviness of the snowfall.

  "Now!" he rasped, pushing himself away from the embankment wilh his hands.

  His knees slightly flexed as he half-jumped, half-fell forward, his fingers reaching out. His righl hand, then his left touched the opposite side of the open space, his hands clawing at the dirt and loose rocks there. His hands slipped, his thighs slamming down hard against the surface of the ground, his body starting back down the incline, slipping.

  He couldn't dig in his heels—his feet dangled in the air. As he started to slide backward, he spread-eagled his arms, his fingers clawing for a purchase on the ice-coated ground. A rock—he held it, then the rock dislodged and he was slipping again.

  His left hand snaked behind him, snatching for the A.G. Russell Black Chrome Sting IA he carried in the little inside waistband holster. His fingers closed stiffly around it as he slipped toward the edge, his left arm swinging around his body in a wide arc. The point of the Sting IA bit deep into the ground, penetrating the ice. His right

  hand grasped for the knife handle as well now, both fists bunched around it; his body below the breastbone dangled in midair.

  He sucked in his breath, flexing his arm muscles as he tried pulling himself up. There wasn't time; the knife was already slipping from the soft dirt beneath the ice, and his cold-numbed fingers were slipping from the slick steel of the knife's handle.

  "No!" Rourke heard the shout come from his lips and for the first time became conscious of it. Summoning all his strength, he drew himself up.

  The knife slipped from the dirt; his body lurched forward, onto the ice and snow. He rolled, flattening himself, the knife still clutched in his left fist.

  He couldn't see through the snow now to the road thirty feet above, but through the whiteness he heard a voice. "Answer me, John—John!" It was Natalia.

  "I'm all right," Rourke shouted back, already starting to edge across the ice.

  Two yards from the still intact fuselage, he stood up, slowly edging forward. He started into the plane, but stopped.

  His stiff right thumb and first finger worked at his zipper; there was something more important than inspecting (he plane that instant. . . .

  He stood inside, shivering with the cold, but at least out of the wind.

  Natalia's borrowed motorcycle, a vintage BSA, had been the first of the three, farthest forward in (he fuselage; the other two bikes had hammered against it in the crash. It was twisted, as was the underside of the fuselage where apparently the craft had gouged against a large rock, or one of the supports for the steel guardrail.

  But his own jet black Harley-Davidson Low Rider appeared undamaged, as was the bright blue Low Rider he had found for Paul Rubenstein after the younger man's motorcycle had been abandoned to lighten the plane during the Florida evacuation.

  With effort, still shivering, he got Rubenstein's bike aside so he could get to his own. The Lowe Alpine Systems Loco Pack was still strapped in place behind the seat. Rourke got to it, opening one of the pockets. There was a red-and-silver Thermos Space Blanket, the kind larger than the original disposable models developed for the astronaut program. The silver reflective side toward him, he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, leaning heavily against one of the fuselage ribs. Rourke rammed his hands, palms inward, down inside the frnt of his trousers, warming them against his testicles to reduce the numbness o( his fingers so he could move them well enough to work. He stood there, the blanket around him, his hands starting to get back feeling, his eyes flickering from one part of the fuselage to another— the damage.

  The plane was a total loss, as he had realized it would be from the first moment he had decided to abandon it, when stopping it on the ice-slicked road surface had proven impossible. It would have been unlikely that the iced and stalled engine could have been successfully repaired in any event. It had been the single-engine landing that had caused the problem with stopping in the first place—not enough power. Aside from Natalia's motorcycle, everything that was important seemed relatively unscathed.

  He could move his fingers more now, so he withdrew his hands from inside his pants, then quickly started

  going through his things and the packs of Natalia and of Paul Rubenstein.

  . . .

  A pair of vintage, heavy leather Kombi ski gloves on his hands, a seen-better-days gray woolen crew-neck sweater on over his shirt, Rourke fed out part of the climbing rope from his pack, a rock secured to the free end. "Stand back from the edge up there—got a chunk of rock on the end of this for weight."

  "Understand," Paul Rubenstein's voice called back through the snow. Rourke still could not see sufficiently well through the heavily falling snow to view the road surface above him. He started swinging the free end of the rope, the end weighted with the rock, feeding out more and more of the line. He made the toss, then heard the sound of the rock slamming against something metallic—one of the supports for the guardrail? The rope slacked and he started reeling it back in. He would have to try again. . . .

  On the fourth try, the weighted end of the rope didn't move. "Paul—look for it!"

  For a moment, there
was no answer, then Rubenstein's voice responded, "I've got it, John."

  Rourke nodded to himself, then shouted, "Secure it to something really sturdy—have Natalia help you!" He waited then. Telling Paul to get Natalia's help was the tactfu! way of handling the fact that Rourke had no idea how well or how poorly the younger man could tie knots. And Rourke very well understood the sort of training Natalia had undergone to become a KGB field agent in the first place—rappelling would have been part of it and she'd make the knot secure if Rubenstein didn't.

  "Jt's set, John," Natalia's voice called down.

  "Haul up on the rope—hurry up," Rourke called up. On the near end of the rope, Rourke had Natalia's and Paul's winter jackets secured. The rope started snaking upward. . . .

  As Rourke huddled by the fire a few yards from the aircraft fuselage, the water nearly boiling, he considered Rubenstein; the younger man had made it down the embankment quite well. Not as professionally as Natalia had let herself down, but well nonetheless.

  The water in the pot was boiling and Rourke picked it up hy the handle, his left hand still gloved and insulating his fingers; then he stood up.

  He hated to, but he had to—he kicked out the fire. The darkness around him was more real now as he started toward the glowing lightthe Coleman lamp in the fuselage.

  The Space Blanket was wrapped around Natalia now, her coat being rather light for the extreme cold of the night. Rourke was chilled still, despite the fact that he had added the leather bomber-style jacket over his sweater. Rubenstein looked positively frozen to the bone, Rourke thought.

  "Paul—why don't you fish through the gear and find a bottle of whiskey? I think we could all use a drink." Rourke smiled, watching Rubenstein's face almost instantly brighten. The younger man was up and moving as Rourke crouched down beside Natalia near the Coleman lamp.

  "Here—I'll do that," she said, her gloved hands reaching for the pot of no-longer-boiling water. "You hold the food packets."

  "All right," Rourke murmured. There wasn't much of the Mountain House food left in his gear and he'd have to &#;+

  resupply once he got back to the Retreat, he reminded himself.

  "Hope you like beef stroganoff," Rourke said, holding the first of the opened packets up for her to add the water.

  "Do you remember the camp we had that night before you scouted for the Brigands and the Paramils—in Texas?"

  "Yes," Rourke told her.

  "Should I get drunk again?" She smiled. "But it wouldn't do me any good, would it?"

  Rourke, balancing one of the Mountain House packs, then opening another, said nothing. He turned to call to Rubenstein, still searching for the bottle. "Food's on, Taul."

  "John," Natalia's alto insisted. "You remember that? I called you Mr.

  Goodie-Goodie, didn't I."

  "It doesn't matter," Rourke told her, his voice a whisper.

  "I think I loved you then, too," she said matter-of-factly.

  Rourke looked into her eyes a moment. "I think I loved you then, too."

  "I won't see you after we get out of here, after this storm—will I?"

  Rourke didn't answer.

  Rubenstein came up, an unopened quart bottle of Seagram's Seven in his hands. "This bottle's cold—least we won't need any ice, huh?" The younger man laughed.

  "Here, Paul." Natalia handed Rubenstein the first of the three packs, the one with the hottest water added. Rourke exchanged a glance with her and she smiled.

  Rubenstein took the pack of beef stroganoff and settled himself beside the Coleman lamp. "Like old

  times—out there on the desert in Texas," Rubenstein remarked, giving the food a final stir.

  "John and I were just saying that," Natalia told him.

  "This is good." Rubenstein's garbled voice came back through a mouthful of food.

  Rourke broke the seal on the whiskey bottle, twisting open the cap and handing the bottle to Natalia. "I'll get a cup for you," he started.

  "No—like we did that other time." She smiled, putting the bottle to her lips and tilting her head back to let the liquid flow through the bottle's neck and into her mouth. Rourke watched her, intently.

  She handed him the bottle and, not wiping it, he touched the mouth of the bottle to his lips, taking a long swallow; then, as he passed the bottle to Rubenstein, he said to her—Natalia—"Like we did the other time."

  He glanced at Rubenstein for a moment, but the younger man, having already set the bottle down, was smiling and saying, "Not like I did the other time. I can still remember the headache." And he continued with his food.

  . . ,

  Natalia lay in Rourke's arms, the Coleman lamp extinguished. Rubenstein was taking a turn at watch just inside the open cargo hatch of the fuselage. "You'll pick up the search for Sarah and the children? I'd help if I could."

  "I don't suppose it matters; an intelligence operative of Reed's in Savannah, retired Army guy, reactivated for this—"

  "The Resistance? I wonder if it has a prayer," she mused.

  "I don't think that's the point of it anyway," Rourke whispered to her in the darkness. "It's the doing that

  matters, the results are secondary. But he got word to Reed at U.S. II headquarters that he'd made a positive identification of Sarah and Michael and Annie—they were heading toward U.S. II headquarters."

  "But—"

  Rourke cut her off. "U.S. II headquarters was moving out so your people wouldn't make a raid and catch Chambers. And Sarah and the children couldn't make it across the Mississippi valley anyway—the radiation. So I've gotta stop them—before they get into the fallout zone."

  "If somehow we learn anything in Chicago, I will or my uncle will—we'll get word to you, somehow."

  "I know that," Rourke answered.

  "I hope you find them, John—and that they are well, and whole, and that you can make a life for them. Somewhere."

  "The Retreat," Rourke said emotionlessly. "The Retreat—only place safe.

  It's safe against anything except a direct hit, enough supplies to live for years, growing lights for the plants to replenish the oxygen—and that stream gives me electrical power. I can seal the place to make it airtight. But Sarah was right in a way; it is a cave. I don't know if I can see raising two children in a cave—even a cave with all the conveniences."

  "You don't have any choice—you didn't start the war," she said, her voice suddenly guilt-tinged he thought.

  "Neither did you, Natalia—neither did you," he murmured. She leaned tighter against him and he held her tighter.

  "If I close my eyes, I can imagine it."

  "What?" he asked, feeling dumb for saying it.

  'That things were different and we could he—" She didn't finish the thought.

  Rourke touched his lips to her forehead as he leaned back, her head on his shoulder. As he closed his eyes, he murmured the word that she hadn't said—"lovers." He listened to the evenness of her breathing long past the time he should have fallen asleep. ...

  Using the rope—all of it—Rourke and Natalia had engineered a pulley system for getting the bikes up onto the highway. And he was committed now, he knew: The storm showed no signs of abating, but the longer he delayed taking up the search, the closer Sarah and the children might get to the irradiated zone, the rnore chance there was that they would slip through his fingers. He wanted to catch up with them in the Carolinas—it was the only chance now.

  It was the only chance now, because without the plane, it would be impossible to drop Natalia safely near Russian-dominated territory—northern Indiana. Rourke's original plan had been to leave Natalia where she would be safe, then to drop Paul in Tennessee. He would have flown then as close to Savannah as possible—he and Paul catching Sarah and the children between them.

  The very act of starting one motorcycle toward the road was a commitment to abandon the shelter of the aircraft fusela
ge, for one man by himself could not control the bike and get the bike elevated—even with Natalia helping him. And now, as Rourke coiled the last of the ropes, hisownHarley and Paul's bike as well on the road surface, he glanced back down to the shelter of the fuselage. He was already chilled, despite the fact that he wore fwo pairs oi jeans, three shirts, his crew-necked

  sweater, and jacket. Using spare bootlaces, he had secured Natalia's sleeping bag over her coat, to give her added warmth. She would ride behind Paul on his bike.

  The plan was simple—the only one possible under the circumstances. The heart of the storm seemed to be to the south and west. With luck, Paul and Natalia would be driving out of the storm while he, Rourke, drove into it.

  With its intensity, Rourke assumed it couldn't last much longer at any event.

  Rourke would start from Tennessee and cut down into Georgia, perhaps as far down as the massive craters that had once been metropolitan Atlanta; he still had a Geiger counter, as did Paut. Then he would zigzag back and forth with his farthest range being the lower Carolinas. Paul, after leaving Natalia in safe territory, would travel back, retracing the route down from northern Indiana to Tennessee, then strike straight for Savannah from there. With luck one of them would intercept Sarah and Michael and Annie. In two weeks, he and Paul would rendezvous at the Retreat—hopefully one of them with Rourke s family in tow.

  The Metalifed and Mag-Na-Ported six-inch Colt Python in the flap holster at his waist, Rourke began making a last minute check of his gear. The Python and his other guns had been freshly lubricated with Break-Free CLP

  which would resist the sub-freezing temperatures. The Lowe Alpine Systems Loco pack was secure behind the seat of the Low Rider, the CAR-wrapped in plastic and secured to the pack, a blanket under the plastic to protect the gun in the event of a skid. He glanced along the icy road surface; a skid was highly likely.

  He started his bike, letting the engine warm up as he walked back toward Natalia and Paul. Rubenstein's bike

  was already loaded and started.

  Rubenstein started to say something, but Rourke cut him off. He wasn't certain why, but an urgency seemed now to obsess him. "You memorized those strategic fuel supply locations so you can get gasoline?"