"So will we," Rourke added. "What do we do—"
"Maybe not— I can rig a delay— maybe fifteen seconds just by stripping away most of the insulation on one of the wires and grounding it to a hot wire— say for the lights—"
"If you know what you're talking about, fine— you lost me— do it."
"You run— I'll do it myself."
"T minus one minute thirty-five seconds and counting. T minus one minute thirty seconds and counting." A claxon began to sound, the computer voice louder now to be heard over it. "T
minus one minute twenty-five seconds and counting."
"I'll stay with you— I won't leave you— I won't."
She looked at him— her eyes, their incredible blueness, her skin so white, her hair almost unnatural in its darkness, a lock of it fallen across her forehead, her left hand unconsciously brushing it back from her face.
"Take my gloves—"
"I have my own— tighter fit," she nodded, smiling.
"T minus one minute fifteen seconds and counting."
Natalia began tracing out wires with her right hand Rourke helping her into the left skintight leather glove. She took the right glove, pulling it on herself as he watched her eyes follow out the wiring system.
"I have no way of knowing if this is the right wire— I think it is— but I don't know—"
"T minus one minute five seconds and counting. T minus one minute to irretrievable launch ignition— preignition in ten seconds. T minus forty-five seconds."
"That's it— their preignition burn— I can get it here—"
"T minus forty seconds—"
Her hands moved across the panel, a wire ripped free, the Bali-Song coming out in her right hand, the blade a blur of gleaming steel, the blade slicing against the plastic coating of a blue wire.
"Preignition burn—"
Natalia fell back, screaming— "John—" Rourke grabbed her in his arms and felt the electrical current pulse through her, throwing his weight and hers away from the panel and ripping her free.
She was breathing— barely.
The computer voice droned. "T minus twenty-five seconds. T minus twenty—" The voice was swallowed in the roar of the missile engine.
Rourke, his body trembling still from the electrical shock, pushed himself to his feet, his hands clawing Natalia's body to his chest, his right shoulder butting into her abdomen as he flung her across it, the roar of the engine deafening now.
A glance behind him— a ball of flame rolling from the nearest of the missiles.
Rourke started to run— The claxon still sounded, louder than before, the roar of the fireball behind him, the heat oppressive— his lungs ached, his chest ached.
"No, I won't die!" He screamed the words to the tunnel walls around him as he ran, an explosion from behind him, the electrical conduit along the tunnel ceiling afire now, the lights—
fluorescent tubes— bursting, exploding, flecks of razor-sharp glass raining down on him as he ran.
The fireball— he could smell it, taste it; he stole a glance over his shoulder as he ran— it was blindingly bright and right behind him.
Ahead, he could see the door to the access tunnel entrance— Natalia had left it ajar as had he—
he opened his mouth wide, the hot burning air seeming to sear his lungs as he gulped it to sustain him— he ran.
The door was twenty yards away— he couldn't remember if it was fireproof— fifteen yards away. Ten yards. He glanced behind him, the fireball nearer, his left foot buckling, but he caught his balance. Five yards. Rourke threw himself through the doorway, lurching and twisting, hurtling his weight against the door, slamming it, his left hand snaking out to the bolt latch— his fingers burning as he touched it.
The door was starting to melt.
Rourke kept running— ahead— perhaps fifty yards ahead was the access ladder to the control room.
"John—" The cough— the voice— Natalia.
Rourke slowed, leaning his weight against the wall as he stopped, slipping Natalia to her feet—
"What—"
"Fireball— other— other side— the door— melting—"
As if punctuating his words, there was a groaning sound, then the roar of the fireball— the door was gone.
"Run for it," and Rourke shoved her ahead, Natalia starting to run, outdistancing him, fresher—
Rourke ran, picking up his feet, laying them down, shouting to himself internally—"Run!"
Twenty-five yards to the ladder now. Twenty— the conduit overhead here was afire as well, Rourke feeling the heat searing at the exposed skin on the back of his neck, the roar of the fireball so loud he could no longer even hear his own labored breathing.
Ten yards. Five.
Natalia was up the ladder, two rungs at a time.
Rourke threw himself against it— Natalia's hands were reaching down— there was no time, no sense— to argue. He took her hands, Natalia half pulling him up the ladder. He stumbled forward, after her, jumping over Cole's body, Natalia ahead of him, shouting, breathless—
"Paul— get out of here— run for it!"
Rourke stumbled, caught himself against the wall— the concrete seemed burning hot to the touch. He kept running, Natalia was ahead of him, daylight there, the fluorescent tubes on the tunnel sides exploding still, the conduit itself making a sheet of flames above their heads, the fireball being sucked faster, he knew— toward the oxygen.
The doorway— five yards. Two yards. Natalia was through, Rourke throwing himself through and past the burnt truck and behind her, running, throwing himself to the ground and right, the fireball belching out as he rolled, his hands going to protect his face.
Then it was gone. No missile contrails were in the air as he moved his hands from his face.
He didn't know how long it was— he was too tired to look at his watch.
But after a time— she was crawling toward him on her knees, then slumped against him, he heard Natalia's voice, felt her hands touch at the back of his neck— he was sore there, tender.
"You have the worst sunburn I've ever seen," she laughed.
Rourke put his arms around her and held her body close against him.
He closed his eyes.
Chapter Forty
"As best I can make out," O'Neal smiled, rubbing his dirty hands across his dirty, soot-smeared face, "when that fireball hit the air out here it got hot enough to melt down everything that wasn't concrete— that tunnel is sealed tighter than a drum and there wasn't a cook-off— no radiation at all. We lucked out— or I should say you did." Rourke looked up at him. Rourke squatted on the ground, Natalia behind him rubbing a cream into the burn on his neck. "We can put a charge over that mound along the ridge there and bury the missile bunker entrance completely— what about an earthquake someday here?"
"Well, maybe—"
"Unless a fault was created on the Night of The War, they wouldn't have built this anywhere near one— it should be safe forever.
"Maybe somebody a thousand years from now will dig it up—"
"Perhaps someone a thousand years from now will be too smart to want to," Rourke heard Natalia murmur from behind him.
"A shame our people and your people couldn't have worked together— well, like we did here—
before— well, before all—"
"Before the Night of The War," Paul Rubenstein added somberly, his jacket and shirt gone, his left arm and shoulder heavily bandaged, his eyes glassy from the painkiller Rourke had given him before cleaning and dressing the wound.