"Maybe someday," 0'Neal said, squinting against the afternoon sun— Rourke was reminded to find his glasses in his bomber jacket pocket— "somebody'll remember what this place was—
maybe build a little marker here, you know?"
Thunder rumbled out of the cloudless sky, the sun blood-red.
"Maybe someday," Rourke almost whispered. "Maybe."
Chapter Forty-One
Bill Mulliner realized two things— one was he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life because, since the successful raid on the supply depot in Nashville and the theft of arms, ammunition, and medical supplies, Russian troops were everywhere. The other thing he felt was pride— his father had died in an abortive attempt at a similar raid— the success now in at least a small way avenging his father's death.
His father— he still hadn't, he realized, adjusted to the idea of his father's not being there. The scratchy beard stubble when he hadn't shaved— despite Bill's age, he would kiss his father on the cheek. The warm, sweatiness of the man's skin, the dry firmness though of his hand when it had clasped his.
The man he could talk to, not always well, but talk to— this was gone from him forever, and as he walked, three M-16s slung on his shoulders and one eight-hundred-round can of 5.56mm ammo in each hand, he cried.
But only the darkness of the forest could see him— Pete Critchfield and the others walked far ahead...
Sarah Rourke looked up from the injured black man whose bandage she had just changed, the man's eyes wide in the darkness as he too had heard the sound. She had the Trapper .45 in her right hand, thumbing back the hammer.
"What is it?" Mary Mulliner whispered hoarsely.
Sarah heard Michael make the sound, "Shh."
Annie, who had helped her with the injured man's bandage— mainly making him smile—
clutched her left arm.
"Mrs. Rourke?"
It was Bill Mulliner's voice, beside him, slightly ahead of him coming into the clearing, Pete Critchfield— before he reached the edge of the sheltered fire on which she boiled water, she could smell the fetid smoke of his cigar.
"Bill— Pete— how 'd it—"
"Lost two men— and Jim Hastings and Curly got the rest with them, stashing the loot—"
"You make yourself sound like a criminal for stealing American supplies from the Russians—
don't call it loot, Pete," she said hastily.
"All right— the stuff, then— weapons, ammunition, explosives, some medical supplies— I'm carrying the medical stuff and some explosives— Bill here's got the ammo and Tom— you donno Toni— he's got more of the medical stuff for ya."
The third man nodded. "Ma'am."
"Tom," she nodded back— he was black, like the man she treated now.
"Left two men up by the road," Critchfield went on—— "Russians ever'where now—"
"You must have made a big splash," she smiled, her voice low.
"Yeah, well— destroyed an ammo truck, killed about eighteen or nineteen of their people, took what we could pack in a van we stole and blew up the rest— I'd say they was a might flustered, least-ways."
And Critchfield laughed, Sarah hearing the man on the ground beside her laugh too and say,
"You fight near as good as us black folks, Pete!"
Sarah looked at her patient, then ran her left hand across his head, telling him, "You rest easy—
so you can laugh later."
Mary Mulliner— Sarah guessed she liked none of it— said, "I'll make you men some coffee."
Somehow, Sarah thought, there was an odd sound in Bill Mulliner's voice. "Okay, Mom." His face looked worn and afraid, somehow older than Sarah had ever seen it...
"If they got David Balfry alive," Pete Critchfield said, warming his hands on his coffee cup as he looked at her, "then they'll like as not get David to talk— tell 'em ever'thing he knows 'bout the Resistance. And he knows a lot, he does."
"God bless him," Sarah whispered.
"Amen," Mary Mulliner added.
"Mommie— hold me— I'm cold," Annie pleaded, Sarah folding her left arm around the child, picking up her coffee cup in her right hand.
"Could we try to bust him out?" Bill asked suddenly, blurting it out, his blue eyes wide in the firelight, the pupils like pinpoints, his red hair across his forehead.
"David— outa Chicago? That's where they'd take him— no. Can't. David's done— simple as that. And he'd be wantin' us to think that, too. Write him off 'stead of gettin' ourselves killed tryin' to bust him outa there. Probably use drugs to get him to talk. No— I figure we gotta go on— that's what David'd be wantin' us to do. I gotta contact U.S. II headquarters— talk with that Reed fella in Intelligence— see if n he knows what the Russians is about with all these supplies and things. There's a farm— not far from your old place, Mrs. Mulliner— the Cunningham place. Raised quarter horses before The War— beautiful things. But old Mr. Cunningham was a ham radio operator. Still got all his equipment. We never used the place, kept it on the back burner, so to speak, for a safe house, like they call it in the spy movies. Well— we're usin' it now— and that radio—"
"The Cunninghams are dead— a raid—" Bill Mulliner began.
"Brigands?" Michael asked.
"Brigands," Critchfield nodded. "But them Brigands burned the house and the barns— old Cunningham had him a machine shop underground of the house— kind of a survivalist like Mrs. Rourke's husband was—"
"Is," Sarah corrected unconsciously.
"Yes, Sarah— is," Critchfield nodded. "Cunningham and his missus got killed fighting the Brigands— but the underground part never got touched. All we gotta do is rig up some sorta antenna like and use that ham radio of his. Food and some ammo stored there, too. Can make it there in about six hours hard walkin' time."
"Then let's go," Sarah said. "Most of my wounded can walk all right— we can stretcher carry the one that can't— both legs shot up, but he's still strong."
"Then it's agreed?" Critchfield nodded.
"Agreed," Bill Mulliner added.
"Agreed," Annie laughed, and everyone laughed with her— except Sarah. She thought of David Balfry— he had kissed her. And now he would be enduring something she didn't even want to imagine.
"Agreed," Sarah finally said.
There were Russians everywhere, and if they made it to the Cunningham place unmolested, it would be a miracle. And there were Brigands, too— she felt almost evil thinking it, but perhaps the Russians and the Brigands would lock horns and just kill each other and make it all over, all done with. Perhaps.
She sipped at her coffee and it was cold and bitter to taste.
Chapter Forty-Two
General Ishmael Varakov heard the clicking of heels on the museum floor— he knew, without looking up from his file-folder-littered desk that it would be Rozhdestvenskiy, come with absurd punctuality for his appointment.
The clicking of heels neared as Varakov studied the urgent communiqué from the Kremlin leadership still in hiding in their bunker. "Rozhdestvenskiy and the KGB are to be given full aid and support of the army, the GRU and any other forces or facilities at your command. The Womb is the ultimate priority project— this is to be given your full efforts." It was signed by the Central Committee and The People of The Soviet.
Varakov smiled— was that like SPQR-Senatus Populusque Romanus? He remembered what had happened to them.
"Comrade General!"
There was a louder click of heels, and Varakov still studied the communiqué.
Without looking up, he murmured, "Sit down, colonel— it appears I am ordered to assist you and this Womb Project. But as commanding general still I must first insist that I be informed as to the total implications of my orders—"
"Comrade General—"
Varakov looked up, Rozhdestvenskiy— blonde, athletic, firm-jawed, handsome by any standard, erect even when sitting— again the image of the SS officer came to Varakov's mind.