Her hair was pulled back and up, stuffed under her garrison cap—the cheekbones would give her away, the set of the mouth.
Rourke shifted his gaze to Daszrozinski, the counterfeit ma-jor checking his watch anxiously.
He heard Daszrozinski telling Ravitski, “Give the men per-mission to smoke, Lieutenant.”
“Very good, Comrade Major,” Ravitski nodded, bowing slightly.
Ravitski approached the cab of the truck, leaning up toward Natalia, under his breath murmuring, “The lieutenant believes they are taking too long with the papers, I think—be alert, Comrade Major.”
Natalia nodded almost imperceptibly, Ravitski concluding as he stepped down from the running board, “But watch how you extinguish your cigarettes—these are explosives we carry—re-member,” and he walked on toward the next truck.
Natalia took out a cigarette—Rourke slapped his hand against her left thigh hard, eyeing the cigarette case—one of the type that looked like a smaller version of a woman’s handbag. Quickly, she took two cigarettes, putting the case under her tu-nic. She raised her eyebrows.
Rourke lit her cigarette, taking one and lighting it for him-self—a Pall Mall. He put away the Zippo, tempted to laugh as he watched Natalia posturing to smoke a cigarette like a man did rather than a woman, intentionally trying to make her hand look less than graceful when she held it, keeping her right wrist stiff, holding the cigarette between her thumb and first finger rather than between the first and second finger as she usually did, fingers extended.
She started to pluck a piece of tobacco from her lower lip— Rourke slapped her against the thigh again and she nodded, moving her hand away.
Rourke turned his attention to Ravitski who had rejoined Daszrozinski.
They still waited the papers and the return of the guard ser-geant.
Rourke glanced to his left. Guards were there, but not seem-ing to pay particular attention to him. Rourke had purposely selected a slightly over large uniform tunic—both Detonics Combat Master .45s were under it in the double Alessi shoulder rig. In the times before The Night of The War, in discussion of survival, often he had been asked why as his primary sidearms for survival use he had selected the Detonics rather than a larger pistol. His answer had always been that in a survival situation, the need for concealment shouldn’t be entirely discounted. And no other pistol, as he had told them then and still believed now, could be so counted on for trouble free reliability, maintenance free utility, and the combination of compact size and big caliber. There were too many buttons on the uniform to reach the pis-tols as quickly as he would have liked, but it felt good to him having them there.
He looked past Natalia again, inhaling the cigarette smoke deep into his lungs, wishing he had a cigar instead, but the im-age was too capitalistic for a supposed Soviet soldier.
Daszrozinski and Ravitski still waited, but from the sentry box now, Rourke saw the guard sergeant and an officer, a ma-jor, coming forward. Like the guard sergeant, the major was KGB.
Daszrozinski and the major from the sentry box exchanged curt salutes, Rourke overhearing as the new major informed Daszrozinski, “I am sorry for this regrettable delay, Comrade, but the experiments inside the Womb reach a critical stage now—in another week, security can be lessened I am sure and future shipments will be less delayed.”
Rourke felt a smile cross his lips—the impending ionization effect, hence the real purpose of the Womb, were being held secret from those not part of the project. Would that there were a way of capitalize on this, Rourke thought. But he could see none.
Daszrozinski asked, “Then we are free to move ahead, Ma-jor?”
“You certainly are, Comrade—but because of the security re-strictions, I’m afraid your shipment must only be taken beyond the primary doors to the receiving area. From there, Womb per-sonnel will take over the vehicles. We have arranged a rest area in a tent near the airfield while your cargo is being unloaded. For the enlisted personnel there is some of this American con-coction known as Cold-Aid—”
“Kool-Aid,” Rourke corrected under his breath, smiling.
“And for the officers, vodka or hot coffee, whichever one might wish. “You will find other convoy personnel there and the wait should not be that terribly long until your trucks are re-turned and you can move down the mountain again.”
“Excellent, Major, then we shall proceed?”
“Yes, Comrade, very good,” the KGB major nodded, again giving a curt salute, Daszrozinski returning it smartly. Daszro-zinski turned toward Rourke, waving him forward, calling something Rourke didn’t catch to Vladov and the other motorcycle driver. Their machines started. Rourke could hear the KGB major telling Daszrozinski, “Major, there is no need for your motorcycle escort to enter the facility—”
Daszrozinski—Rourke barely able to hear as he started the truck—turned abruptly to face the KGB major. “Major, my or-ders explicitly state I am to provide security for the cargo of explosives we carry, security until the cargo is transferred to the KGB personnel inside. I shall follow my orders, thank you, Comrade.”
The KGB major nodded his head to the side, shrugging, wav-ing the trucks and the two M-72
motorcycle combinations for-ward.
Rourke let up the clutch, Daszrozinski jumping to the run-ning board on Natalia’s side. Under his breath, the Soviet SF lieutenant rasped, “What is the American expression?”
“So far so good,” Rourke whispered, letting the truck roll for-ward past the sentry box.
The M-72 combinations passed under the lintel of the bomb-proof doors, Rourke involuntarily ducking his head a little as the cab of the two and one-half ton truck passed under it after them.
Inside, beyond the doors, he could see a vast horseshoe shaped turn-around, at the far end loading docks and beside these, the vault door leading into the Womb itself. The vault door was open as it should be.
Rourke whispered to Natalia and Daszrozinski. “Watch Vla-dov, he’ll have caught your conversation, Lieutenant, so I think he’ll make the first play.”
“Yes, Comrade Doctor—”
Rourke looked at him, Daszrozinski saying, “I am sor—”
“In what we’re doing, we are comrades in the real sense of the word—no offense taken, Lieutenant.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
There was not an AK type weapon to be seen—as if Kalashnikov had never lived—the KGB
personnel all carried M-16s and those few personnel who carried side arms wore .45s, the “U.S.”
symbols on the flaps of the holsters bizarre, Rourke thought. Natalia, as Rourke drove the vehicle into the horseshoe, mur-mured, “According to my uncle, they have standardized here on American weapons totally for the logistics of supplying the Womb and in the event that at some future date any buried weapons and munitions caches which would have survived the holocaust untouched might be found.”
“Interesting,” Rourke noted. “So the AKMs outside are just for show, just like the dodge about experiments—lying to their own people—”
“Yes—yes, they are,” she answered softly.
Ahead of him, a sergeant wearing white gloves and a white cap cover was directing traffic, Rourke following his lead, aim-ing the nose of the deuce and a half toward the loading dock area, breaking off from the main horseshoe of the driveway.
There were more military traffic cops, gesturing for Rourke to move the vehicle around into a slot from which he could back toward the dock itself for unloading. “Whatever Vladov’s play is going to be, it’s gonna have to be quick,” Rourke murmured, cutting the wheel into a hard left, intentionally missing the ma-neuvering bay, the traffic director shouting up to him in the cab, Rourke making a rude gesture—they were of equal rank, then backing the truck slightly, hearing the vehicle behind him screech its brakes, then Rourke cutting the wheel slightly right, edging forward into the maneuvering bay. He was stalling for time—time for Vladov. “Be ready,”