As if he were uncaring, Rourke took the blue Detonics that had belonged to the KGB
man and studied it, dumping the half-spent magazine, clearing the chamber. The pistol was in pristine condition, still wearing the original checkered walnut grips. He made a mental note to check the body and the room for spare magazines which were interchangeable with his own guns.
"Well?" Rourke studied Soames's face— it was white, drained. Soames had a few minutes at most to live and Rourke hoped Soames didn't know it. "Die in pain or get the morphine shot?"
"Gimme the shot," Soames grunted.
"The radio first. Tell me how to make the contact. I try it, it works, then the shot."
"All right, all right," Soames said through gritted teeth. "Songbird to Condor One, request— request relay." Soames coughed.
"What relay?" Rourke asked, trying to keep his voice calm. Blood spurted from Soames's mouth when he coughed.
"Request— relay— nineteen. Gets you—"
"Through," Rourke finished, then bent over Randall Soames, thumbing the lids on the dead eyes closed.
Rourke stood up. He walked over to the radio and flicked it on. He assumed they were using English on the radio— that way, if the signal were intercepted it would attract less attention. Rourke picked up the microphone, staring at it a moment, then at the men to whom the radio had been so important. "Songbird to Condor One," he called. "Requesting relay nineteen, over."
In a moment the radio crackled and there was a voice. "Relay nineteen through to Condor One— stand by."
Rourke lit one of his small cigars. He had no intention of going anywhere.
Chapter 34
"Harmon maybe is doin' the right thing," Mary Beth muttered, her eyes seemingly focused on the fire in the center of the cave floor.
"What do you mean?" Sarah Rourke asked, naked under her blanket, trying to warm herself and rid her bones of the chill they'd felt ever since the swim that previous night.
"With goin' up to Canada— all our men are gonna be dead by tomorrow afternoon. Some Army Intelligence fella that brings us supplies was out and left just before you and Harmon got here. He says the execution is on for tomorrow. To show the Resistance what'll happen if they keep up fightin'."
Sarah sat there silently like the rest of the women in the cave. Harmon Kleinschmidt was sleeping farther back in the cave in what seemed like an additional chamber. Some of the women were half undressed, apparently none of them worried that Harmon would wake up and see them. Sarah huddled in her blanket. "Aren't you going to try to do something to save your husbands, your boyfriends?" she asked finally.
"Like what, lady?" Mary Beth asked her, staring up and across the fire into Sarah's eyes.
"Like," Sarah paused, "like a rescue attempt." Sarah concluded lamely.
"Kleinschmidt can't do nothin'. He's gonna be laid up for a long time."
"Well, we don't necessarily need a man to do it. We could do it ourselves."
"We?" Mary Beth asked.
"Well, I meant the women— not me personally. Women could rescue them; you don't need a man to lead you."
"You volunteerin'?" Mary Beth's smile was something Sarah didn't like.
"Well, I don't really know any—"
"What I thought. Wind is all," Mary Beth snapped, looking back into the fire.
Sarah Rourke could feel her cheeks getting hot. Perhaps a fever, she thought— from the cold of the water. But maybe something else, she realized.
"All right," Sarah said, her voice low, so soft she could almost barely hear it herself. "All right," she said again, louder. "I'll do it. If you need someone to lead it, I'll do it."
"What?"
"I'll do it," she said, standing up, catching at the blanket and pulling it around her. She felt foolish suddenly and started toward the far end of the cave to find dry clothes. It was no time to lounge around talking with the girls. Somehow that made her feel more foolish now. "I'll do it," she said again without bothering to turn around. She wished, silently, that she knew how.
Chapter 35
Rourke sat at the radio, speaking slowly into the microphone, "This is John Rourke. Tell General Varakov I want to speak with him. It's important, more important than he could realize."
Rourke stopped talking, listening to the static on the receiver. Then there was a voice, barely audible in the transmission, because it was at low power and relayed several times, bad as well. "One moment." The air went dead. Rourke waited, stubbing out his cigar, then lighting another one, rolling the dark tobacco into the left side of his mouth. He studied the receiver. It was powered by storage batteries and these were charged, apparently, by a foot-powered treadle off in the corner.
"This is Varakov. Rourke?"
"This is Rourke, General. Can we speak freely?"
There was a pause for a moment. He wondered if Varakov thought that perhaps he had called to discuss the death of Karamatsov which both Varakov and Rourke had caused.
"I suppose so," Varakov said. Rourke remembered the voice from the time in Texas, as he had rescued Chambers and forced Karamatsov to walk him out.
"I have what I think you will agree is grievous news— and, frankly, I need your help," Rourke began.
There was a long pause, then: "My help?"
Rourke simply said, "Yes, because I think I understand you, and I respect you. I need your help."
There was another long pause, then the tired voice came over the static of the speaker.
"Tell me this thing, Rourke. I will only promise to listen."
"Agreed, sir," Rourke said slowly. He started at the beginning, how he had rescued Sissy Wiznewski from the Brigands, what she had told him regarding the artificially created fault line that would very soon precipitate the earthquake which would sever Florida from the U.S. mainland, about the hundreds of thousands of lives that would be lost. Finally, before he concluded, Rourke added, "Maybe I have you figured wrong, but I don't think so. Can you help?"
There was a long silence, and for a moment Rourke thought something had gone wrong with the transmission. "This is all true— you give me your word on this thing?"
"To the best of my knowledge, General, yes."
"You have seen this seismographic evidence with your own eyes?"
"One sheet. The rest was lost with her bike."
"You are a man of science. This is possible?"
"I think so," Rourke admitted.
"You ask that I make a truce, between your U.S. II forces and the Soviets?"
"Temporary, of course."
"Of course. What about the Cubans? You seriously think that they will believe you— or me?"