"John," Sarah said— to talk to John Rourke. How long had it been.
She couldn't talk now— she just nodded her head and botched the bandage on the man she was helping.
"You relax there, ma'am," Critchfield smiled suddenly as she looked up. "I gotta send Bill Mulliner off with some guys down into Georgia a ways— there's a Resistance group down there I gotta contact. U.S. II wants us to get a headcount of still operating groups and warn 'em Balfry maybe talked."
"Yes," she nodded, the word all she could say.
"I'll have Bill run down and say good-bye." She nodded, licking her lips— she tried the bandage again.
Chapter Forty-Seven
She sat with Bill Mulliner, on the steps leading into the underground shelter, the house above them in the light through the open hatchway burned, some timbers remaining that laced a shadow across Bill's face as he sat beside her, his eyes looking down.
"I'm glad for you, ma'am— you findin' your husband."
"I don't know if I'll know what to say— all those times we fought over his preparing for—
well— his preoccupation with survivalism. He was right— I could have been with him in his Retreat if I'd ever let him tell me where it was— or take us there."
"But I'm glad for knowin' ya, Mrs. Rourke— powerful glad."
She hugged her left arm around the boy's shoulders. "And I'm glad for knowing you, Bill—
without your strength— the children and I wouldn't have—"
"Seems like you do real good on your own, ma'am," he laughed, but the laughter hollow sounding to her.
"Well— well, appearances are one thing— but to have a man to turn to— to know you were there these last days— I— I don't know what I would have done without you," and she kissed him, hard on the lips like she would have kissed a man twice his age, closer her own age. She turned her face away, feeling embarrassed slightly, wringing her hands together over her knees, her feet spread wide apart on the steps below her, but her knees locked together tight.
She heard Bill Mulliner breathing. "Ma'am— hope I meet a girl again— and she's— ahh— she's like you," and she turned to look at him but he was standing up, running up the steps.
Sarah Rourke closed her eyes— tight, like her knees were tight and her throat was tight. Tight.
Chapter Forty-Eight
They used an old pickup truck that worked four-wheel drive— sometimes anyway, Bill Mulliner had determined. They were near the border with Georgia and he knew the area where they were going. It wasn't far from the little town he'd gone to once with the church group— Helen. It had been a Swiss village— right there in Georgia. He smiled, thinking about it— about the girl in the church group who had held his hand when they'd walked through the shops there.
His hands held the steering wheel now— too tightly.
The Resistance group— they had a name he couldn't remember— was hiding in the wild area in what had been the park around Anna Ruby Falls— he'd gone there once when he was really little, his mother had told him, kissing him good-bye as he'd boarded the truck.
He didn't remember it.
The truck jarred, bounced— the road was mudrutted and bad, the gravel and clay slippery as he tried to hold the steering to keep them on the road and out of the yawning ditches on each side.
There were better roads— modern highways. But there would be Russians on them.
Here there would only be Brigands— and there were usually fewer of them, fewer and less wellarmed these days. They had run out of people to steal from, towns to loot, food and weapons to kill for.
They wandered the countryside— sometimes heavily armed— but sometimes like scavengers. Kings once, they had thought themselves to be, he considered.
Now like lepers.
But dangerous lepers still— he watched the trees as did the man beside him in the cab and the men in the open bed of the truck behind the cab.
He could see their eyes, the leaness, the intensity their stares gave to their features as they watched the woods. Life would never be the same again, he suddenly thought.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Commander Gundersen leaned against the radio, wanted to hammer his fist against it. He didn't. If the radio broke he wouldn't be able to contact U.S. II.
"They are there— with you?" He said it into the microphone, not bothering with pro-words, call signs. He was too angry, too saddened for that.
"This is Undergrounder— affirmative on that, Bathtub."
The idiocy of the words they used— it amazed him. The idiocy of the entire thing.
By now, Rourke would be aboard his plane— the radio from the submarine wouldn't reach him— Rourke would keep the radio off to avoid Soviet detection. "Shit," Gundersen rasped, turning away from the set.
"Sir— what'll I—"
Gundersen looked behind him at the radio operator.
"Tell 'em— tell Mrs. Rourke— Jesus Christ, what'll I tell Mrs. Rourke?"
He stood there, balling his fists. In his mind, he said, "Mrs. Rourke— see, your husband left almost an hour ago. If he isn't at the plane by now, well— he will be soon and there's no way to reach him. He's planning to look around Tennessee— just stay there and maybe he'll find you—
isn't that big a state, is it— Tennessee?"
He shook his head. "Sir— what'll I—"
"Tell Mrs. Rourke that— ohh, Christ— I'll tell her—"
Gundersen picked up the microphone, then set it down again for an instant.
He didn't know what to say at all.
Chapter Fifty
General Ishmael Varakov sat in his seat behind his littered desk in his office without walls, the only face left for him to see without disgust that of Cathenne.
He looked up, calling out across the museum hall to her. "Catherine!" He called again.
"Catherine!"
He looked back to his desk, his papers— no word of Rourke, no word of his niece.
In seven to ten days— perhaps far less— it would all be done. Soon, very soon, finding them would only prove useless.
"Catherine!"
He looked up and she stood in front of his desk.
"Comrade General!"
He sighed, loudly, his feet hurting. He stood up, stuffing his feet as best he could into his shoes.
"You have a mother who lives?"
"Yes, Comrade General— on a collective farm near Minsk."
"I am ordering her transported— to a villa I own on the Black Sea— it is still beautiful there. See to it that the orders are written. And you have a brother?"
"Yes, Comrade General— he fights with our forces in northern Italy, I think."
"Send my orders to his commanding general— I outrank the man. Your brother is ordered to my villa on the Black Sea as well."
"But— but, Comrade General, I—"
He walked— the effort great because he was very tired. He passed around the desk, taking Catherine's hands in his, taking the notebook and pencil from her.
"We are all going to die— you should be with the ones you love at this time, Catherine, and you will issue my orders for your transportation as well— this is top priority. You will want for nothing there. You will be with the ones you love."
Her eyes— wet, tearing, looked up into his. "I will issue the orders for my mother, Comrade General— and for my brother. To be together. I will not issue the orders for my own transportation."
"You are loyal, child— but you must be with the ones you love, now."
"I will stay here, Comrade General," and she cast her eyes down, her voice so low, so hoarse, he could barely hear her words. "I will be with the one I love, then."
Varakov closed his eyes, folding the girl into his arms.
They would all die, he knew— unless he could find Rourke and Natalia— and soon.