Rourke dragged Natalia with him, running now. Ten yards— twenty—twenty-five—”We’re far enough—give me a rifle,” Na-talia ordered.
Rourke tossed her his, Natalia swinging the M-16 to her shoulder, settling the muzzle for an instant, firing, then running, Rourke beside her, the force of the explosion hammering him down to his knees, Natalia beside him.
He looked back—the fireball was already dying—screams were barely audible from beyond the vault door—but the door was slowly closing, and then there was a loud clanging sound and the vault door leading outside the Womb was closed.
From the far side of the high ceilinged area of the natural rock cave in which they were, near the vault door at the far end, Rourke heard machinegun fire—it would be Vladov. “Let’s go—otherwise we’ll be trapped between the vault doors for good!” Rourke started to run, Natalia beside him.
Chapter Forty
MiG 27s were closing from the horizon line to the east, Chambers shouting to his driver, “Get this thing going faster!”
“Yes, Mr. President!” The Volkswagen’s transmission rat-tled, the driver upshifting into fourth. Chambers thought of it for an instant. He was the president — no armored lim-ousine, just a liberated Volkswagen Beetle that had to be more than twenty years old. And he was running in it for his life to get the half mile down the road beyond the lines of the U.S. II anti-aircraft batteries.
“Faster—”
“These things don’t go that fast, Mr. President!”
“Shit,” he snarled. The MiG 27s came fast enough—he had learned Soviet fighter aircraft well when participating in a strategic arms limitation session as a science advisor to the Secretary of Defense, years before his short elevation to the presidential cabinet, and before his assumption of the presidency by default.
The MiGs screamed through the air above, machinegun fire chewing chunks out of the road surface as the MiGs at-tacked the U.S. II defensive position. And Chambers real-ized it suddenly—driving in a Volkswagen down an otherwise deserted road toward U.S. II lines they would have had no way of knowing he was the president, no desire to waste a missile to destroy them.
The Volkswagen’s windshield wipers were working furi-ously, but dirt still streaked the glass and the Volkswagen moved ahead — Chambers estimated the speed a little better than seventy miles per hour. Ahead of him, there were explosions, fireballs belching skyward, missile contrails mov-ing from the air to the ground, more missile contrails mov-ing from surface to air. One of the MiGs exploded, then another. At the rear of the U.S. II position, there was a huge explosion—perhaps they had hit an ammo or fuel dump.
“Get us there, son,” Chambers snapped.
And where was Lieutenant Feltcher and the TVM? Had he ever reached the Texas Volunteer Militia at all?
Sam Chambers told himself not to expect a miracle — but he closed his eyes and prayed for one anyway, all the while hearing more explosions, more death.
Chapter Forty-one
“What is happening, Major Revnik?” Rozhdestvenskiy grabbed Revnik by his tunic, twisting him around. At a dis-tance well beyond Revnik and a dozen armed guards there was gunfire—machineguns, assault rifles, occasional pistol shots, from the far end of the Womb near the interior bombproof vault doors.
“A group of men, and one woman, have entered the Womb. They have detonated explosives at the loading dock—many of our men are killed, Comrade Colonel.”
“The men—who are they?”
“I do not know —some of them seemed Russian —some of them were dressed in American uniforms, Comrade Colonel.”
“Comrade Major,” a young corporal interrupted, snap-ping to attention, rising from his position behind the barri-cade of electric golf carts behind which Revnik and his men had taken up their positions.
“I cannot be bothered now,” Revnik snapped.
Rozhdestvenskiy turned to face the corporal. “What is it?”
“Comrade Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy, I recognized the woman from my tour of duty in Chicago, Comrade Colo-nel. It was Comrade Major Tiemerovna.”
“And the man,” Rozhdestvenskiy snapped. “One of the men with her—it would be Rourke.”
“The doctor whom you have sought, Comrade Colonel?” Revnik asked.
“CIA agent, doctor, weapons expert— survivalist— he is all these— and he is here!” And Rozhdestvenskiy hammered the heel of his balled right fist against the wall surface. “Re-vnik, get fifty of our best men, assemble them here. I shall take charge of dispatching this Rourke and the traitorous Major Tiemerovna myself.”
He started back down the corridor, toward his office. He didn’t allow himself to run. It would have looked as though he were panicking, as though he were afraid.
He walked into his outer office, his secretary looking up, smiling, “Comrade Colonel?”
He walked past her, into the inner office. On top of his desk were papers, files, maps, intelligence estimates—none of these would do him any good now. He unlocked the top right hand drawer.
He reached inside, his right fist closing around the butt of his revolver. “Damn you, Rourke!” he rasped.
Chapter Forty-two
Rourke had stuffed all his belongings into the Lowe Al-pine systems pack, all except the scoped CAR-15. And one of the Soviet SF-ers had carried it through when escaping the truck in which he had hidden. The GRU sergeant had carried Natalia’s gear. Rourke fished in the pack now, no time or inclination to change from the borrowed Soviet uni-form, but instead needing the rest of his weapons related gear. The belt and flap holster for the Python, the ammo dumps in place, the big Gerber MkII strapped there. The Milt Sparks Six-Pack with its six additional Detonics maga-zines. The Metalifed Colt Government MkIV Series 70, the Thad Rybka small of the back holster with the two-inch Colt Lawman MkIII, the musette bag which carried extra magazines for the CAR-15 and M-16 and an identical bag carrying extra magazines for the Detonics pistols and for the Colt, these latter working in the Detonics pistols as well.
Rourke stripped away the Soviet uniform tunic.
He slung the musette bags cross body from his shoulders, using the wide belt from his Levis to secure the Rybka hol-ster and the Sparks Six-Pack in position. He secured the gunbelt for the Python as well, finding one of the speed loaders in the musette bag with the pistol magazine. He rammed the Safariland loader against the rear face of the opened cylinder, the ejector star activating the release, the loader dumping into the cylinder—six 158-grain semi-jack-eted soft points.
He holstered the Python. Natalia had stripped away her uniform tunic as well, ripping away the necktie from her shirt, opening her shirt collar. She positioned the Safariland double flap holsters on their belt around her waist, check-ing the twin L-Frame four inchers. She reholstered the Smith revolvers, securing the flaps. From her huge black canvas bag she took the Ken Null SMZ
shoulder rig, slip-ping it on, securing it to her belt on the off gun side. From the floor beside her, she picked up the silencer fitted Walther. She twisted the silencer free of the muzzle. “No need for this now. We can safely assume they know we’re here,” and she dropped the silencer into her purse.
She slung the purse cross body under her right arm, then shifted it across her back.
Vladov’s men who had changed into KGB uniforms stripped them away. Beneath them were their own Special. Forces uniforms, not the fatigues they had worn earlier, but blue parade dress uniforms, medals in place.
Vladov affixed the dark blue beret to his head, at a rakish angle, Rourke noted. “We will likely all die, gentlemen, Ma-jor Tiemerovna. We will die if we must, but we shall carry the pride of our unit to our graves.” Vladov picked up his AKS-74, then looked to his men. “Five of you—you, you, you there—you and you—take up positions on both sides of the RPK and behind it — you,” and he pointed to the fifth man, “will back up the machinegunner. The RPK will be dismounted and you will serve as the ammo bearer.” He turned to Rourke, Rourke realizing Reed was now standing beside him just inside the flange surrounding the interior vault door. “We are ready to proceed.”