by Jerry Ahern
Rourke leaned into his machine again, ramming the spent pistol into his hip pocket—riding.
He glanced back again—he had stalled the column.
Ahead, Sarah’s truck was slowing. “Why?” He shrieked the word into the wind of the slipstream.
Michael—he could see the boy—Sarah’s M-16—he was firing it through the open passenger window—ahead of them.
The truck was doing a high-speed reverse, Michael’s head and the rifle tucked back inside, the pickup lurching onto the shoulder on Rourke’s side, the near shoulder, gravel and dirt spraying up as the truck’s rear wheels fought for traction, then the pickup bisecting the highway, crossing the oncoming lane, bouncing up and over the far shoulder, then disappearing below the rim of the highway.
“Why!”
Rourke looked behind him—the Russians were coming again, bikers riding low-profiled against their machines, men in open-topped transport trucks firing assault rifles.
Where the Ford pickup had been, ahead now Rourke could see what had made Sarah turn, leave the road—Brigands.
Men and women in pickup trucks, men on motorcycles, some with women riding behind them—assault rifles, shotguns—all bristled from the backs of the trucks.
Rourke arced the Harley right, then cutting a sharp left as he slowed, skidding, losing the bike, the bike going out from under him, Rourke’s left leg out, his left foot all that kept the machine from crashing down, from skidding away, his arms aching as he wrestled the machine almost upright—he gunned the engine, shifting his weight right, the machine righting itself, then Rourke lowering his body over it as he cut across the road, gunfire from both sides of him now—Brigands shooting at him and at the Russians, Russians shooting at him and at the Brigands—
The road shoulder, Rourke trying to slow the bike—the edge of the ground beyond the shoulder, gravel and dust kicking up around him, gunfire from both sides—
The ground dropped into a steep slope, pine tree stumps speckling it, rocks and boulders and high grass, too. He jumped the Harley over a hummock, the machine coming down hard, Rourke fighting to control it. The Ford was ahead, slowly moving, rocking and bouncing— Rourke balanced out the machine, slowing his speed, his combat-booted feet dragging both sides as he took the grade.
He looked back once—Brigands by the edge of the road—Russians, too—gunfire loud behind him. But they were firing at each other.
Chapter Twenty-six
There were men moving along the ground beneath him—some of them, as he watched the sandy ground, raised rifles, firing—but the helicopter was at too high an altitude for gunfire from conventional weapons to reach him. It was like an American Western movie, but one where the director had lost all sense of the classic unities. There were pickup trucks riding alongside men on horseback—and there were cowboy hats everywhere.
There had been rumors that the leadership of the Texas volunteer militia had changed drastically after the death of their man Randan Soames—and intelligence reports Rozhdestvensky had been receiving confirmed that. And now his own eyes confirmed it.
Beneath him, in ragged caravan, were what he judged as a thousand men, and likely women too, though distinguishing details, despite his Swarovski Habicht glasses, from the height he was above them and the speed at which the helicopter moved was all but impossible.
For them to open fire on a Soviet helicopter was brazen indeed.
Texas was about to boil over.
Other intelligence reports seemed to indicate that some of the larger Brigand bands had been defeated by the Texas Volunteer Militia—and that some of the Brigand leadership had been swayed to the cause of the Resistance, further swelling the ranks of fighters in Texas and Eastern New Mexico for a land war against the Soviet forces.
Rozhdestvenskiy put down his binoculars and closed his eyes—almost sorry for them.
But in away not.
It was the intent of valor, not the result, that measured bravery. That these people contemplated massive coordinated resistance was enough—that they would never live to bring their plans to fruition was not to diminish them.
“Can we go faster, captain?” Rozhdestvenskiy asked his pilot. It was nearly two in the afternoon in the central time zone, to which his new watch—a Rolex Datejust President—was set. There had been a fine jewelry store in Chicago on what had been State Street—and in the course of opening their vault, one of his men had discovered the wristwatch and presented it to him.
He smiled, wondering what other treasures—useless—the man had discovered and kept for himself that he had felt such guilt as to cavalierly give away a gold watch and its gold bracelet. Several thousand of the American dollars—useless, too, now, as opposed to diamonds, emeralds—what?
He supposed that afterward, if all proved out, if the massive experiment to which they were committed for their very survival proved successful, then perhaps diamonds would again have value beyond their gleam on the throat of a woman.
But he had prepared for that.
One secret convoy had been dispatched to The Womb—the gold taken from Fort Knox where the United States had held its gold depository.
It was unfortunate, but if he recalled correctly, DeBeers had had its American headquarters in New York City—and New York had vaporized on The Night of The War.
He was not callous enough, he realized, to merely regret the loss of all the diamonds. There were people, too. But now the diamonds might have more potential importance.
But that was a long time away—if ever at all.
And beneath, now, he saw the sprawling rubble of Houston, Texas—soon the Johnson Space Center, named after the American political leader and President. Soon the answer he sought.
It was, he laughed, however trite the thought, truly a matter of life and death. . . .
It had been an employee parking lot—it was obvious—but the Soviet officer on the ground, haggard-looking and tired, an army captain, had informed him of that anyway.
Surrounding the Johnson Space Center on all sides were men of his Elite KGB Corps, once Vladmir Karamatsov’s Elite Corps—but Vladmir, his friend, was no longer.
One platoon of army personnel had been admitted, along with the army officer through which all arrangements for penetration of the area had been arranged.
He was GRU—army intelligence. That meant that the man—he didn’t remember the officer’s name and it was better that way—might well place higher loyalty to General Varakov than to the KGB. All the men of his platoon were army intelligence as well.
The officer and his men would be eliminated—after the search of the Space Center had been completed.
It was necessary, Rozhdestvenskiy reflected, however unpleasant—however evil, and he knew it was that.
But if word leaked, to the army, to the Soviet people, who struggled to support the Asian land war—there could be mutiny, rebellion—and there was no time to deal with it.
No energy to spare for it.
Above the ground, the Johnson Space Center was in ruins—an earth mover groaned and grunted near the far corner of the building from the parking areas across which he strode beside the GRU officer.
Rozhdestvenskiy wore no uniform—a Harris tweed sports coat, a white button-down shirt open at the collar, his Single Action Army with his special loads under his coat. He appraised himself—the crease in his slacks neat, his Italian-made shoes polished to where they gleamed—having an orderly was a good thing.
“Captain—you are certain this machine will uncover the debris so we can enter below to the testing areas?”
“Yes, comrade Colonel—we have the plans to the structure—all is in readiness—much of the debris has already been moved and the stairwell can be seen. But work crews must precede us, comrade—that any dangers should be neutralized.”
Rozhdestvenskiy moved his left arm, slapping it gently downward as his hand touched to the captain’s shoulder. “I am indeb
ted to you that there is such great concern for my safety, comrade—but I, too, am a soldier—we are accustomed to danger when the welfare of the state—of the people of the Soviet Union—when this is concerned.”
Rozhdestvenskiy stopped, still some twenty yards from the noisy earth mover.
He lit a cigarette as the captain, the GRU officer, looked at him.
“Yes, comrade Colonel—all for the welfare of the people of the Soviet Union.”
Rozhdestvenskiy smiled as he exhaled the smoke, the smoke caught up on the light breeze, dissipating rapidly.
He watched the GRU captain’s eyes, then his own eyes shifted to the man’s uniform holster at the waistbelt.
The GRU captain was a clever man.
As Rozhdestvenskiy stuffed his left hand into the pocket of his slacks, he slightly raised them—feeling the weight of the Colt Single Action Army on his belt. It was a reassuring weight. . . .
Flashlight beams streaked through the smoky darknesses as they marched ahead, played off partially collapsed ceilings, smoke-blackened tiles, off walls with gaping cracks in them.
Rozhdestvenskiy, ten of his own Elite Corps, and the GRU captain and three of his men.
Wide swinging doors off to his left— Rozhdestvenskiy pushed through them easily, slowly.
Beyond them, another laboratory—there were large horizontal silo-shaped objects—a Spacelab mockup, he guessed.
He let the doors swing shut.
They kept on, Rozhdestvenskiy’s shoeshine ruined as he picked his way through the rubble.
He shot the flashlight beam to the face of the gold Rolex—they had explored the Space Center’s cavernous underground for nearly two hours.
The dust penetrated his nose, he could feel it in his lungs— “Here! Comrade Captain! Here!”
It was one of the GRU men, shouting, waving his flashlight.
Rozhdestvenskiy broke into a loping run, leaping fallen debris like hurdles on an athletic field, his flashlight beam bouncing up and down, making bizarre zigzaggings on the far wall as he raced to be the first beside the army corporal.
Rozhdestvenskiy won the race—the captain a stride behind him, Rozhdestvenskiy turning his eyes to the corporal. The pale-faced boy stiffened, saluting, “Comrade Colonel—coffin-shaped objects are located inside this laboratory.”
Rozhdestvenskiy gave the boy a salute, despite his own civilian clothes. It would be the boy’s last salute.
He shoved through the doors, stepping inside.
“Lights—all lights in here!” He commanded it, playing his own flashlight across the littered floor to the far side of the laboratory.
He counted them—twelve coffin-shaped objects—crates. They were stacked neatly near twelve smaller crates. The larger ones would be the chambers, the smaller ones the monitoring equipment.
He walked across the laboratory floor, footsteps loudly shuffling behind him, lights from flashlight beams silhouetting him against the crates now as he moved.
Rozhdestvenskiy stopped beside them.
Inside a wire cage were wooden containers, smaller still than either the chambers or the monitoring equipment. There were at least three dozen of them—perhaps more.
He drew his Colt, stepping back from the locking mechanism of the door of the wire grating enclosure. He fired the revolver, aiming for the lock.
The blast made his ears ring as it reverberated off the concrete walls.
He turned half left, kicking out with the sole of his right shoe against the lock—the door swung out, bouncing away from the cage as the locking mechanism clattered in pieces to the floor.
He crossed the threshold to the interior of the cage, the Single Action Army in his right fist, the flashlight in his left.
“More light—”
Between splits in the wooden packing cases, when he shone the light at the right angles, he could see inside—glass containers, perhaps three litres in capacity. Inside them a clear liquid with a slightly greenish tinge—reminiscent of Rhine wine.
He stepped back from the containers—the marking numbers on them stenciled in worn black paint.
“The Eden Project,” he whispered—only to himself.
He turned, finding the GRU captain with his eyes, then raised the muzzle of his Colt .45. His right thumb jerked back the hammer, the captain turning to stare at him. “Comrade Colonel—but!”
Rozhdestvenskiy tripped the trigger, the top of the Captain’s face exploding in chunks as the body seemed immobilized there for an instant.
Gunfire all around him now, Rozhdestvenskiy stepping back into the cage—shielding the containers with his body.
The gunfire stopped.
On the floor, at the center of the laboratory, his own men with guns drawn inspecting bodies, was the young corporal who had found the chambers, the monitoring equipment—and the precious liquid. The young corporal had sealed his own doom.
The body still moved, and Rozhdestvenskiy cocked the revolver again, firing it into the boy’s head. The body stopped thrashing.
His ears ringing, the smell still fresh on the air in the dusty beams of the flashlight, he looked at his men. “Radio the surface—the others are to be eliminated. These crates—the large ones and the small ones, are to be carefully taken to The Womb by the most expeditious manner possible. These very small crates contain jars of liquid—it is the highest priority they reach The Womb immediately. If one is dropped and the contents damaged, one drop of the liquid lost—that man shall pay with his life—these are my orders.”
Among the faces—some registering shock, he supposed—he found that of Lieutenant Gronstein—a good officer. “Lieutenant!”
“Comrade Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy!”
Rozhdestvenskiy looked at the younger man—then after an instant said, “This message goes to the bunker outside the Kremlin—to the command bunker—you have my codes—”
“Yes, comrade colonel.”
“The Womb—The Womb shall receive its life.”
He walked from the laboratory, stepping over
the body of the dead GRU corporal. He felt mildly sick—but he would live now.
Chapter Twenty-seven
After extinguishing her last cigarette of the morning, Natalia had decided that whether she wanted it or not, she needed sleep, and a shower would only serve to keep sleep further out of reach. So instead she had removed her boots and stretched out on the couch underneath her fur coat—one of the few luxuries packed in the things she had brought with her from Chicago.
But a fur coat wasn’t really a luxury—and after all, she had told herself, falling asleep under it, it was her uncle’s secretary who had packed her things.
Paul Rubenstein still slept—and it was nearly evening. She marveled at his kidneys.
But she had watched the even rising and falling of his chest—he was well. She had been able to view the bandage—the wound to his left arm had not bled through.
She let him sleep—rest would help to cure him.
She had gone into the bathroom, brushed and flossed her teeth, brushed out her hair.
She had stripped away her black jumpsuit, her bra, her panties—Natalia stood now under the warm water of the shower, hair washed, washed again, conditioned, rinsed, rinsed again, re-rinsed, her body washed—soaking in the warmth.
She looked at the scar over her abdomen—like scars she had seen on other people, but never herself. It was a long, very thin scar—and she smiled, thinking Rourke, his hands on her, his scalpel cutting her, must have tried to make the scar as small as he could. It was reddish purple, and when it was completely healed, it would be like a tracing—of his fingertips.
And then she heard the noise from beyond the closed bathroom door. “Paul?”
No one answered her.
Naked, she stepped out of the shower and onto the bath mat, turning down the shower head with her right hand. “Paul?”
No one answered her.
She took the towel d
own—she had brought a fresh change of clothes into the bathroom and not a robe. There was no time to get dressed.
The first towel wrapped around her, barely covering her crotch when it was up enough to cover her breasts, she grabbed a second towel, ducking her head, wrapping the towel around her soaking wet hair turban fashion.
She raised her head, barefoot, stepping to the toilet, grabbing the two Metalife Custom L-Frame .357 Magnum Smiths from the lid of the flush tank—the stainless steel guns were moist from condensation in the steamy air.
She stepped to the bathroom doorway, listening.
More sounds.
Holding one pistol under her left arm, she put her right hand to the doorknob, twisting it open.
But she left the door only slightly ajar.
The sounds of the inner door of the Retreat being opened or closed—she wasn’t sure which.
Both revolvers in her hands, she stepped back from the door and kicked her bare right foot against the door, swinging it outward, fast.
As her right foot came down, she stepped a half-step forward on it, a wide, full step forward on her left leg, dropping down onto her right knee, the towel loosening as she moved, starting to slip, both pistols leveled, at eye level, in her clenched tight fists.
She moved her eyes.
A woman. A tall, handsome little boy. A pretty little girl with honey-colored hair.
John Rourke was visible coming from the storage area to the left of the main entrance and off the great room.
“Sarah—” Natalia whispered.
She suddenly realized the towel was going, reaching up her left hand, the revolver still in it, holding the gun across her breasts to keep the towel from falling.
The woman—about her own height, pleasant of figure, dark brown hair half obscured by a blue and white bandanna. The woman smiled, but a funny smile. She said, “You must be the Russian woman I’ve heard so much about—” and she started forward, down the three steps, across the Great Room as if she didn’t see it, slowing, then coming up the three steps to the level of the bathroom. “I’m Sarah—John’s wife,” she smiled, taking the three steps quickly then, standing in front of Natalia. Natalia got to her feet, her left thigh pressed against her right, slightly ahead of it, her left hand with the revolver still holding the towel against gravity and her breathing. “So you are Natalia.”
