Rozhdestvenskiy leaned against the door, letting it slam closed under his weight.
"Have the man's body— what remains of it— given a decent burial. He is the equivalent of an enemy officer— he deserves such." And Rozhdestvenskiy turned, stepping quickly into the shadow, reaching out, his left hand finding the throat of the man whose technique he knew so well, hated so well.
"And if you ever— ever attempt such a thing again— when the time comes, rather than a long sleep and renewed life— I will disembowel you with greater zest than I have ever killed any other man—" Rozhdestvenskiy pushed the torturer away, heard the clatter of the body falling against what sounded like an instrument tray, upsetting it, overturning it, metallic objects and glass tinkling against the stone floor.
Rozhdestvenskiy stepped out of the shadow, walked back to the door and looked once again at the now dead American, Balfry.
"When one lives with animals," Rozhdestvenskiy began, never finishing, going out through the doorway and closing the memory behind him.
Chapter Forty-Five
The submarine's deck winch shifted, Rourke's Harley the last of the three bikes to be put onto the rocks. No dock, they had carefully explored a section of coastline, finding a flat rocky surface with deep enough soundings for the submarine to get within ten yards— Rourke standing now on the rock, salt spray blowing on the wind, Natalia and Paul Rubenstein already moving away along the spit of rock to the shore, only Commander Gundersen beside him now as the Jet Black Harley Low Rider swung precariously from the tackle, then was lowered slowly down.
"How's O'Neal?"
"Got him in sick bay— got a few more cuts and bruises during that bruha you folks had with Cole and the others. But he's just fine. Told me to give you his best regards— and to wish you luck finding your family."
"Tell him I wish him the same— the best of luck, and if he's looking for someone, to find them—
and— well, tell him," Rourke added lamely. Gundersen laughed. "All right— I'll tell him exactly that."
"Where you bound to?"
"Close as I can get this boat to U.S. II headquarters without a Russian reception committee to welcome me, I guess," Gundersen laughed.
"Then what?"
"Funny talk for a guy who rides around under water, but guess you could say I'm a quoteunquote soldier— I'll follow my orders. Finally got through to U.S. II— ran a radio link through a ham set opened up last night in Tennessee— some Resistance people just got onto it— fella named Critchfield. Know him?"
"No— he didn't mention anything about a woman and two children, did he?"
"No— can't say I asked, either, though— sorry about that."
"I'm heading there anyway, once I get back."
"Well— we made the link," Gundersen said. "Seems Cole was really Thomas Iversenn. Reed called him a kudzu commando?"
"Yeah--kudzu's a plant, imported from Japan years ago— grows worse than a weed in Georgia—
it's a vine. Covers up telephone poles, abandoned houses—"
"Really?"
"Yeah— but what about Cole— or Iversenn?"
"He was a National Guard officer— a first lieutenant. Wandered in one day with about a dozen men or so and volunteered to go regular army. They took him. Reed never really trusted him—
rightwing radical, he called him. U.S. II assigned the real Cole and six men to recover the warheads to use as a bargaining tool against the Soviet Union. Somehow, Iversenn found out about it— killed Cole and his men, Reed almost bought it. He took Cole's orders and identity."
"How'd he know so much about the missiles?"
"Worked at the facility that built the warheads— apparently— least figures it this way— this Iversenn had been planning to get to the missiles someday even if there hadn't been a war— start his own preemptive strike against the Soviet Union and alert Washington to join in or get retaliated against. Crazy."
"Yeah— he was," Rourke nodded, reaching out to the Harley, starting to ease it around as the tackle lowered it.
Gundersen helped him.
"What about you, John— Reed said he'd like you back. Gave me the coordinates for the new U.S. II headquarters and—"
"I'll memorize the coordinates— just in case I ever need them. But I've got my family to look for— what I was doing before Cole or Iversenn shot Natalia and started this whole thing."
"I'll ask you a favor then— with the jet fighter you've got stashed—"
"An experimental fighter bomber."
"Yeah— well, I know things on the water and under it— I leave airplanes to other people." And Gundersen laughed.
"What's the favor?"
"You said you rigged the ammo dumps and everything at Filmore Air Force base to blow if anyone tampered with it."
"Natalia and Paul did— good job, I understand."
"This is direct from President Chambers. If the Russians should land forces out here, we don't want them having an airfield to use, or any U.S. materiel or planes. Could their people debug the stuff Major Tiemerovna and Mr. Rubenstein did?"
"Probably— if they were careful," Rourke answered.
"Then I've got one order for you— order from President Chambers, a request from me."
"I take requests— I don't take orders," Rourke answered softly, easing his bike down and balancing it on the stand.
"Fire a missile into that ammo dump or whatever you need to do— destroy the base completely..."
Rourke looked at him, then back to the Harley, undoing the binding that held it to the tackle. "All right— I'll make a run on it on the way East. Might not be perfect, but I'll tear up the main runways and hit the ammo dump and arsenal."
"Agreed— I'll tell Reed that— we're talking again before I go under."
Rourke extended his right hand, Gundersen taking it.
"Good luck to you, commander—"
"You, too, John— maybe we'll see each other again sometime."
Thunder rumbled loudly in the clear morning sky. And Rourke didn't answer Gundersen.
Chapter Forty-Six
Pete Critchfleld seemed to explode. "You what?"
"I didn't think— didn't catch the lady's last name—"
"Shithead!" Critchfield looked back at Sarah, saying, "Excuse me, ma'am—" then looked at Curley. "Didn't catch her name— moron! You get that submarine back and tell that Gundersen fella to tell Dr. John Rourke we got his wife and two children here all safe and sound and he can come and get 'em when he gets here."
"But— I can't— the sub won't open a frequency with me for another hour—"
"Then you goddamned well tell 'em then!"
Critchfield turned away walking across the underground shelters s main room, Sarah hearing the hum of the electric generator as Critchfield walked, watching his face.
She looked up from the wounded man she was attending. "My husband?"
"There was a radio communication from a U.S. nuclear submarine on the west coast— whatever the hell the west coast is— we made the link to U.S. II headquarters for this Commander Gundersen. Him and me— we talked a little— then I hadda go relieve Bill Mulliner on guard duty— left Curley there monitoring the link— you know how— well, maybe you don't— but radio communications like this is funny— change in the air currents or somethin'. And there was lots of static— maybe all that thunder in the skies all the time. Anyways— Curley there heard them talkin' about a Dr. John Rourke and two friends of his— some Russian woman who's on our side maybe a little or leastways helped them out and a fella named Paul—"
"A Russian woman and a man named Paul,"
Sarah nodded.
"Anyways— Curley there— the asshole— excuse me again, ma'am," Critchfield shrugged, his face reddening, "he didn't say nothin' about you and the children. But they'll be talkin' again in an hour— Curley says. Then maybe we can put you and your husband on the radio together and talk a bit— then he can come here and get ya."