The Survivalist #1

by Jerry Ahern

  "You know, I've spent a long time analyzing world affairs," Rourke said. The ruddy-cheeked businessman beside him turned and looked at him, saying, "What? I'm sorry?"

  "I said I've spent a long time analyzing world events. I prepared for this—read everything I could get my hands on, trained—"

  "What?"

  "I knew this was coming." Finally, then, as if for the first time he noticed the man beside him listening to him, Rourke turned and said, "Have you been listening to the news? The radio?"

  "What? All the war talk? Just sabre rattling, my friend. I wouldn't worry over it. Not a bit."

  "Oh, you wouldn't, huh? Well, I was just going to suggest that maybe you get off this damned airplane and go home and take care of your family just in case it isn't all talk."

  "You really did walk through the snow just to get aboard. My God, fellow, you take this Russian stuff dreadfully seriously, don't you?"

  "Yeah," Rourke said, terminating the conversation and turning back toward the window. "I guess I do."

  ***

  "There's another communiqué from the Indian government, Mr. President. Just came in over the telex."

  "Read it to me, Thurston," the president said, sitting down at his desk.

  Potter whispered. "All right, sir, It says—"

  "Just the essentials," the president said.

  "Yes, sir. They say that at the expiration of your deadline, they'll utilize a low-yield nuclear device—tactically. It's mostly as a symbolic statement of their entrance into the conflict with the Soviets and their intention to resist their incursion into Pakistan at all costs."

  "That's crazy. Get me the Indian ambassador right away."

  As Potter left, the president turned to his national security advisor, Bernard Thorpe. "Bernie, what do you think?"

  As Thorpe started to speak, Commerce Secretary Meeker cut in. "You'd better get out of here up to somewhere we can count on your bein' alive long enough to direct the war effort, Mr. President."

  Bernard Thorpe, wire-rimmed glasses in his hands, his pipe out but still clenched hard in his teeth, said, "Much as I hate to agree with Mr. Meeker, Mr. President, he's making good sense. If India uses a nuclear device, maybe we can still avoid a war. Pakistan, though, might be tempted then—I understand they have them ready. No really effective delivery system, though. But that could start it. What if another pair of submarines collides or attacks each other? What does Mr. Antonais say about the Soviet particle beam systems?"

  "Dmitri says they could be operational, but that the destruction of the communications satellite was just a planned shot—could have been working it out for hours in advance and probably were. Won't be any match for our MRVs. But I don't want to get that far. I don't think the premier wants that, either."

  "Are we going to back down then?" Thorpe said.

  "I'm going to call the premier again. Maybe we can work out a compromise. Bernie, tell Marian to have my special plane called up just in case I want to get over to the mountain."

  Meeker, standing up, exhaling hard and tugging at his tight necktie, said, "Good move, Mr. President. If those suckers want to play poker, well then, let's play."

  ***

  The Soviet premier sat at his desk. The lights of his office were out except for the small desk lamp and its circle of yellowish light. "You are sure of this?" he asked.

  "Our intelligence realized the importance of this, Comrade Premier. It has been investigated and investigated again. There can be no doubt," the woman said. "You have been a major with Intelligence for long, Gospozha?"

  "Yes, Comrade Premier," she answered uncomfortably.

  "How nice for you." Then, looking back at the deciphered message in his bony hands, he said, "So the Pakistan Army has a nuclear device and will destroy a dam lying in the path of our forces. Has anyone bothered yet to inform the Pakistan Army that this will force the possibility of total war?"

  "No," the woman said, thoughtfully. "No, Comrade Premier. Or, at least, I have not been so informed."

  "Well, well..." The premier blew smoke into the circle of light. "The American president just tried calling me, but I was unavailable. He left word he would try again from his hardened mountain retreat—his bomb shelter. I suppose that I, too, should go to my bomb shelter. He can reach me there. You are a credit to your sex, Comrade Major. Please advise my staff that I instructed you to avail yourself of some refreshment on your way out."

  The premier picked up the phone on his desk, dialed, and spoke into the receiver. "Alert the helicopter pilot that I shall be needing his services shortly, and make all other arrangements. I wish the emergency meeting of the Politburo advisors, my science advisors, and other members of my senior staff to begin in five minutes."

  He hung up the phone and blew more smoke into the patch of light on his blotter.

  Chapter Eighteen

  "Major, excuse..."

  Major Nikita Mikhailevitch Porembski turned and stared at the young female lieutenant. "Yes, what is it?" he asked.

  "My good friend, Comrade Major. He is with the troops at the Pakistan front. I was wondering...?" The blonde-haired girl left her question unfinished. The man squinted as he looked down into her blue eyes. "I can tell you nothing. I know nothing. There is an alert order. The rumor is that we may launch against the American mainland and selected American allied targets. I do not know anything beyond that. The rumor is only that, Lieutenant. It is your lover for whom you worry?"

  The girl looked away, her eyes cast down. The major touched her shoulder lightly. "There is a special meeting underway in the Kremlin, I have heard. Perhaps some decision will come of that. Perhaps not. Are you on duty?"

  "No, Comrade Major. I went off duty an hour ago, then came here."

  "To Army Headquarters?" The major's voice was filled with incredulity. Then, "You must love the young man a great deal. He is an officer?"

  "Yes, Comrade Major," she said, her voice low. "We attended school together."

  "Come—I have not eaten. The canteen has food. I too am off duty now. We can talk, Lieutenant. Will you come?"

  The young woman looked up into the major's gray eyes. "Yes, Comrade Major."

  The two officers started walking back down the hallway, in the direction from which the senior officer had just come. "You remind me of my niece," the major began.

  Suddenly, there was shouting from the end of the hall. A young lieutenant was running toward them, his hair flying in his wild eyes. "There is war! There is war"'

  As the young man passed them, the major put his arm around the young woman beside him. He watched her eyes stare blankly down the corridor after the rapidly disappearing young man.

  "War," he said quietly, and the girl looked at him.

  ***

  Aboard his helicopter, flying through the night, the Soviet premier shone a small pen light onto the sheet of yellow paper he held in his left hand. He preferred the flashlight to the overhead dome light. On the yellow paper, not bothering to abide with the lines there, he had written several items, all of which he had discussed with his Politburo advisors, his science team, the military staff—all in a very brief time before he had boarded the helicopter.

  Item one had been the particle beam weapon. He did not trust it; neither did the military. Only the fanatic young scientist was convinced—and had pleaded—that it would mean an end to nuclear war. The premier had decided he could not trust the weapon to bring down the American ICBMs, especially those with multiple reentry vehicles—multiple warheads. He would gamble on launching Soviet missiles if the Indians or Pakistanis struck with nuclear weapons first.

  Item two had been the Chinese. This had forced the nuclear option, and had amended item one. He had felt compelled to attack the United States first, for the Chinese would surely attack if the Indians or Pakistanis used a nuclear device, and intelligence indicated that the Pakistanis were ready to do so within the hour to stop the Sovie
t advance. The sad thing, the premier thought, was that he had already ordered the advance stopped. His troops had secured the territory they had originally intended to take, and there was no need for further advance.

  Item three. He turned off the pocket flashlight. He could see the words even in the total darkness. The first missile would launch in approximately fifteen minutes, just as he reached his shelter.

  "How many dead?" he muttered—in English so the pilot would not understand. "The following special broadcast is a tape of a message pre-recorded in the Oval Office just minutes ago. The president of the United States."

  Sarah Rourke walked past the television set and sat down. Michael and Ann were asking questions. "Hey, Mom, why is he on? It's supposed to be—"

  "Shh—let me hear this," she said, holding up her hand to silence the boy. "I want to sit on your lap," Ann, said.

  "Fine," Sarah whispered, as if by talking aloud she would lose her grasp of the moment.

  "Good evening, my fellow Americans," the familiar voice began. Silently, Sarah Rourke looked at the president's face and thought how old he had gotten in the years since he had assumed the office. She had met him once and remembered him as looking twenty years younger.

  "If you are now hearing this message, it is because something of vital concern to the American people has just taken place. We are all aware of the heightening world tensions in these past few days and weeks—these past few hours. It would appear now that the possibility exists of Soviet military action to some degree or another against the United States. If you are now hearing this message, it simply means that we have elected to take the precautionary action of placing you, the American people, on alert to this possibility. It does not mean that war has been declared, or that attack is imminent. It does mean that it would be prudent to tune to your local Civil Defense—"

  Sarah Rourke stood up, slipping Ann from her lap.

  "Mommy!"

  "Quiet—please," she said, going to the stereo and punching the AM button and turning the dial to 640. The president's voice was coming through on the radio as well. "—their directions. The American people have endured many hardships over the past in the defense of liberty, and their response has been one in which future generations of Americans have always taken great pride. Let whatever events transpire be so recorded as well. And let us pray that these few simple precautions will be required for only a brief period. By keeping tuned to either 640 or 1240, by following the simple advice broadcast by Civil Defense, we shall all endure the events which are taking shape in as peaceful and secure a manner as conditions allow. I am ordering, for the protection of all Americans, that martial law be in effect in areas of high population density; that all sales of liquor, firearms, ammunition, explosives, and other controlled substances—with the exception of medication—be curtailed. To heighten the effectiveness of Civil Defense measures—"

  Sarah Rourke put her hands over her ears. She wanted to scream. Tears welled in her eyes. She looked a and Ann— looked so much like John. Ann was crying looked afraid.

  "Come here, children," she said. She looked at the digital clock on top of the TV set, hearing the president's voice again, telling her not to be afraid. She stared at the clock. "Maybe Daddy's plane has landed already," she whispered.

  The intercom system was still on—Rourke could hear it humming. But beyond that and the engine vibration noise as the aircraft climbed into the higher, thinner air—the lights of Atlanta vanishing in the distance below—all was silent.

  Then he heard a scream. The woman sitting across the aisle screamed again, grasping at her throat with both hands. Rourke ripped open his seat belt, pushed rudely past the man in the seat beside him.

  Other passengers started screaming. In the aisle now, Rourke shouted, "Quiet down! This woman is having a heart attack—what's your excuse?"

  He bent over her and loosened the tight pearl choker at her throat. The old woman was starting to gag. Forcing her mouth open, Rourke reached two fingers inside and got her tongue back up out of her throat. A stewardess was at his elbow. "Are you a doctor?" she said.

  "I trained as one. See if there's another doctor aboard. Hurry!"

  As Rourke started to bend toward the old woman to give her resuscitation, he stopped. The fluttering of the pulse at her neck had stopped. She was no longer breathing, and her eyes were fixed and staring. Leaning over her Rourke hammered his fists down over her chest. He could hear the stewardess's voice behind him, "What are you doing?"

  Without looking at her, Rourke rasped, "I'm trying to get her heart started again."

  He kept at it for several seconds—and nothing happened. "Stewardess!" he shouted.

  "Yes, sir. There wasn't another doctor aboard. Can I help?"

  Rourke glanced at the young woman over his shoulder. "Yeah. Find me a hair dryer and something to plug it into—hurry."

  "A hair dryer?"

  "Yeah," he rasped. "A hair dryer, electric razor—something like that."

  In a moment, the stewardess was back beside him, a gun-shaped hair dryer in her hands.

  Snatching the appliance, Rourke ripped out the cord, then using a small pocket knife, split the cord and stripped away the insulation, exposing an inch of wire. "Plug this in when I tell you to—but don't touch these ends or let them drag against anything."

  Putting both hands on the neck of the older woman's dress, he ripped the garment down the front. "Okay—plug it in," he said. Then, turning to the stewardess, he took the electrical cord and gingerly touched both exposed ends together until they sparked.

  "Now," he whispered, "don't let anybody touch her." He touched both ends to the woman's chest. Her body bounced half off the seat. Leaning forward, he listened for her heart. Taking the electrical cord again, he touched the ends once more to the woman's still chest. Her body lurched up, then back down into the seat.

  "She's breathing!" the stewardess cried.

  Rourke wrapped the electrical cord around his fingers and yanked it from the socket. "Try to make her comfortable," he said, leaning down and listening to the woman's heart, then holding her wrist for the pulse. "Keep her mouth clear. Have one of the passengers watch her to make sure her chest is rising and failing. And you better go tell the captain to set us down as soon as he can. This lady here needs a hospital."

  "I can give her oxygen."

  "Save that for when she needs it—she's breathing okay for the moment," Rourke said.

  He pushed his way through the passengers who had crowded around them and walked toward the center cabin bathroom and let himself inside. He stared at his face in the mirror a moment, catching himself against the small sink there for support as the plane suddenly lurched downward.

  ***

  The president and Thurston Potter raced across the White House lawn toward the special short take-off and landing plane which the president had ridden only once before during a Civil Defense exercise. It was called the "Doomsday Plane," and aside from the president and his advisor there was room for only the pilot and a copilot and one more passenger—the Air Force sergeant who accompanied the president everywhere he went. A small black rectangular case was in the sergeant's hand, and, as always, handcuffed to his wrist. Inside the case was a small radio telephone unit; its battery was charged once a day and the leads checked at least that often. Using the communications device, the president could give the coded verbal attack order for a massive nuclear launch.

  The president—his advisors had told him the Soviets had undertaken their own massive launch—had not used the box yet.

  When they were all aboard the Doomsday Plane, Potter shouted, "Are you going to use the box, Mr. President?"

  The president strapped himself in. The Air Force sergeant was beside him. The plane had already started to lift off The president shouted over the engine noise, "Not yet! There's still a chance. Not yet." As the plane an
gled upward and cleared the White House grounds and the tops of the buildings, there was a sudden shudder and the plane raced forward. "We'll be at the mountain in less than ten minutes," the president shouted. "I've got a call going out to the Soviet premier."

  "But, sir, none of us wants this. But some of their submarine based missiles could be reentering the atmosphere by now," Potter pleaded. The president held up his right hand for silence. Above the engine noise he heard a low whistling sound. The engine noise of the aircraft suddenly intensified. "We're speeding up," the president said, half to himself.

  The whistling sound, despite the engine noise, grew louder. The pilot's voice was coming over the speaker from the radio set on the fuselage beside the president. The president, the Air Force sergeant, and Thurston Potter stared at it. "This is Major Hornsbey, Mr. President. My radar just picked up a missile—a big one, it looks like—coming out of the east on a trajectory with the center of Washington."

  The president tapped the Air Force sergeant beside him on the shoulder. "Harry, give me the box now."

  Afterward, as the president handed the communicator back to the sergeant, who replaced it in the box, he said, "Gentlemen, I think it would be proper for us all to take a moment for silent prayer." Only the drone of the engine filled the small cabin for several moments. Then, the sergeant and Potter looked over at the president. Potter opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. The president was saying, in a barely audible whisper, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want."

  ***

  Sarah Rourke, and Ann, carried bottles of water down into the cellar. Ann was crying. She didn't like the cellar. Sarah sat down in the corner on the floor between two inside walls on one side, Ann on the other. The transistor radio, tuned to the Civil Defense station, was on the floor under her raised knees. She leaned forward and pulled the hide-a-bed mattress tha had dragged down the stairs for her closer to them.

  "Now," she said quietly, the voice of the Civil Defense announcer droning on from the radio. "I'm not going to say this is a game, children. This is very serious. We're going to pull the blanket up over our heads, then the mattress. That's in case some damage should be done to the house. But we're almost seventy miles from Atlanta, and I don't think the damage will go this far. Now, remember, keep under the blanket and the mattress. There might be a very bright light that could burn us, but it will go away after a few seconds. That's what the radio announcer said. There might be a very strong wind—that's why we're down here in the cellar—just in case some of the windows get blown in. And there may be a really loud noise, so when I put my arms around you, I want each of you to put your hands over your ears and keep your mouths open. Okay?"