The End is Coming

by Jerry Ahern

  “Einstein,” Rourke murmured.

  “What?”

  Rourke looked at the general. “He said some­thing about it once—something like—it was in an­swer to a question about what would the weapons of world War III be. He told the questioner that he didn’t know, but that World War IV would be fought with rocks and clubs.”

  “World War IV—that is why I have called you here, Dr. Rourke.”

  Rourke looked at Varakov. “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “You, doctor—your sheer survival, your back­ground—you are like the men in the Russian fairy tales who rode the horses of power and fought evil. My niece—she is consummate in her skills at destruction, yet both of you are human beings, have experienced love—for each other and others. Captain Vladov here—he is, to my reckoning, the finest soldier in the Soviet Army—”

  “Comrade general, I— “

  Rourke looked at Vladov—the man was embar­rassed, but pride gleamed in his eyes again.

  “I have found a small cadre of GRU and army personnel whom I can trust. I would advise, per­haps, that you contact U.S. II headquarters through the Resistance—and perhaps they can send forces to aid all of you. Otherwise, the only ones who will survive the last sunrise are two thou­sand men and women handpicked by Rozhdestvenskiy—ones your husband—” and he looked at Natalia, “had selected, the list only slightly altered after Rozhdestvenskiy took over his position here. One thousand of the KGB Elite Corps, one thou­sand women from all branches of service, a staff of doctors, scientists, researchers—three thou­sand in all, perhaps a few less. They will inherit the Earth if you do not act.”

  “A final act of revenge—I can’t see you bringing us here for that,” Rourke smiled.

  “My letter—to avenge myself on the KGB? Hardly, Dr. Rourke—you are right.”

  “You mentioned the Eden Project, Uncle Ish­mael,” Natalia almost whispered.

  The old man nodded.

  “Postholocaust scenarios—the guessing game, yes.” The old man sighed, then continued to speak. “That we would blow away our atmo­sphere, that we would pitch the planet itself out of orbit and send it hurtling toward the sun, that ra­diation would blanket the Earth and all living things would die of lingering horror. It is like this boat builder,” and Varakov smiled, looking at Captain Vladov, “this Noah. For this is exactly what was built—an Ark. That is the Eden Project, my children, an Ark, and should Rozhdestvenskiy and his KGB Elite Corps survive, they will use the particle beam weapons installed at this womb of theirs—Cheyenne Mountain, your NORAD head­quarters before The Night of The War,” and he looked at Rourke. “They will use these weapons to destroy the six returning space shuttles five hun­dred years from now, to destroy the last survivors of the human race except themselves, so they will be masters of the new Earth.”

  Rourke watched General Varakov’s eyes—the light of reason in them, not hatred or jealousy or fear.

  It was rare, perhaps once in a lifetime, if that, Rourke thought, that one sat at the feet of great­ness, as he did now.

  “Your scientists and ours—for many years they attempted, Dr. Rourke, to solve the mysteries of cryogenic sleep for use in deep space travel and ex­ploration. But, independently, both scientific worlds reached the same impasse. The subject could be placed in suspended animation, but if deeply enough to retard the aging process so the cryogenic sleep would be useful, then too deeply for the brain to be revived. It was the scientific es­tablishment of the United States that cracked the right chemical codes and developed a serum which, once injected into the subject artificially, induced the deep sleep of cryogenic freezing be­fore the actual freezing process took hold. This se­rum allowed what Soviet scientists were unable to do. It allowed the brain wave patterns of the sub­jects to stay at sufficient level that the subjects could be aroused from their sleep. Otherwise, without the serum, the subject would sleep forever or until the machine that sustained him was dis­connected or became too worn to function.

  “The Americans,” Varakov continued, “had this serum and we did not. Utilizing the pressurized cargo bays of the space shuttles, it was your own Dr. Chambers, your de facto President, who was largely responsible for the plan. With deep space travel within reach, awaiting only technological breakthroughs in propulsion or funding level in­creases, an international corps of astronaut train­ees was assembled, of all races, from all nations of the NATO, SEATO and Pan American Alli­ances—all nations of the world except the Soviet Union and The Warsaw Pact nations. They were trained arduously—one hundred twenty of the finest and best, the healthiest and brightest, the most skilled and most talented. They were never told their other, possible, secret use.”

  Varakov stood up and began to pace, Rourke watching the man as he moved—his feet must have been a source of agony, but it was a soldier’s disease, Rourke reflected.

  “At times of international crisis, what were called Eden Project drills were held, the partici­pants never aware. The space shuttle fleet was manned with its occupants and their gear, the in­jections given all aboard except the flight crews. They were never launched, until The Night of The War. It was gambled that always five of the six shuttle craft would be on the ground and at least four functionally ready. All six were on the ground, all six ready because of the protracted nature of the crisis. One hundred twenty souls, plus the six, three-man crews. A cargo bay that held microfilm of all the world’s greatest learning, greatest literature, sound libraries of music, video libraries detailing medical techniques, construc­tion techniques, cryogenically frozen embryonic animals and fish and birds—an Ark. That is the Eden Project. And,” Varakov turned to stare at John Rourke—Rourke watching the man’s dark eyes, the sadness there, “these ships were launched before the missiles destroyed the Kennedy Space Center. They cleared our radar—presumably they are out there, on an elliptical orbit that will take them to the very edge of the solar system and then return them to Earth in five hundred and two years. In Colorado, at this moment, Rozhdestvenskiy and his KGB Elite Corps prepare themsel­ves for the cryogenic sleep, to awaken in five hundred years and destroy the Eden Project when it returns. What I offer you, Dr. John Rourke, is the hope that you and your wife and children will survive this final holocaust. Twelve of the Ameri­can cryogenic sleep chambers were taken from an underground laboratory in Texas. Along with these, dozens of jars—we know not exactly how many—of the cryogenic serum that prevents the brain death of the subject. Go to Colorado, steal back this serum—what you need for your family and yourself and your friend Rubenstein. And for Natalia—I beg that.

  “Steal however many of the cryogenic chambers you will need, however many this airtight Retreat Natalia speaks of will support. Save yourself, save Natalia, save your family—perhaps these men as well,” and he gestured toward Vladov, the Soviet Special Forces captain. “But above all, lest the devil himself should inherit the Earth, destroy The Womb, rob Rozhdestvenskiy of the cryogenic se­rum—otherwise,” and General Ishmael Varakov sank heavily to the bench, once again holding the girl—Catherine—by the hand, “otherwise, all the light of humanity will be extinguished in evil for­ever.”

  John Rourke had no words to speak.

  -end-