"Maybe they want to fire the missiles—maybe at China—use this as a surprise base—so the Chinese won't pick them up on long range radar."
"Four hundred and eighty megatons is enough to destroy a lot—maybe a really large city totally destroyed. Not enough to stop the Chinese though. Understand they're giving the Russians a hard time of it. But a plan like that'd be stupid."
"I tried contacting U.S. II—electrical interference in the upper atmosphere must be too strong for my radio equipment. You say the word, I'll pull the plug on Captain Cole
and throw him in irons."
Rourke laughed, securing the Sting IA in its sheath on the left side of his belt inside the band of his Levis.' 'You really still have irons on board ships?"
"Well," Gundersen laughed. "Figure of speech. You get my drift, Rourke?"
"Yeah," Rourke nodded. "No—" His teeth were clenched—he could feel them as he spoke. "No—Cole's a ringer, or a Communist—or maybe something else—I'm sure of that. But we'll never find out what's going on unless we let him play out his hand."
"You play poker much, Doctor Rourke?"
"Used to play a lot with my kids—they'd always win," Rourke answered.
"Weil—heard this line in a western once—you're drawin' against an inside straight—with Cole, I mean. He knows what he's doing—enough to leave his own men strung out there while you and Rubenstein tried saving them, then show up just in time for the last rubber boat out. It's important that he gets to the warheads—"
"And I'm the one Armand Teal will believe. He can't touch me until we reach Filmore Air Force Base and find out if Teal's still alive. I'm safe 'til then.
All I gotta do is worry about those crazy-assed wildmen."
Gundersen stood up. "That's why she's going with you—for after you reach Filmore."
"I don't want her along—those stitches—"
"You told me six hours ago her stitches were nearly healed. She was practically back to normal."
Rourke licked his lips, buckling on the flap holster with the Python. He said nothing. Gundersen left.
Rourke looked at himself in the mirror—three handguns, a knife. It wouldn't be enough.
Chapter 55
John Rourke squinted across the water—the submarine-' was already pulling out to deeper water, then would dive to resurface near the original site of the battle with the wildmen. To draw them off, he and Gunderson hoped.
Rourke reached under his brown leather bomber jacket, took the dark lensed aviator style sunglasses and put them on.
He chewed down on the stump of cigar in his mouth.
It was Cole. "You ready, Doctor Rourke?"
Natalia—her eyes so incredibly blue, her skin more pale than it was always. She looked at him, and so did Rubenstein. Rourke looking past them at Cole, answered, "Yeah."
Rourke reached down to the gravel beside his feet, snatching up the Lowe Alpine Loco Pack. He shifted it onto his shoulders, reaching under his bomber jacket and rearranging the straps from the shoulder rig.
"I take it due north a ways," Cole called out.
Rourke looked at Cole, then started to walk, Natalia and Rubenstein flanking him.
Her pack was light, but he knew that soon he or Paul would wind up carrying it.
"Due north?" Cole called again.
Rourke kept walking, through his teeth, the word barely audible, "Yeah."
Chapter 56
David Balfry looked up from his desk, as though startled. She thought that was silly. He'd sent word he wanted to see her, she'd knocked before entering the room in the farmhouse, he'd told her, "Come in, Sarah."
She stopped in front of his desk, suddenly feeling grubby. She pulled the blue and white bandanna from her hair, shook her head to relax her hair.
"Sit down, Sarah," he told her smiling. "Got some news about your husband."
She sank into the chair. "He's all right?"
"I don't know—no reason to assume he isn't," and Balfry smiled, gesturing behind him out the window. "No more or less all right than anybody else these days."
"What—what is—"
"Close to three weeks ago—your husband left U.S. II headquarters before it moved off the Texas Louisiana border. He was with a younger man—a man named Paul Rubenstein. Seems they've been hanging around together ever since the Night of The War. And he was with someone else."
"Who?"
Why did she ask that, she asked herself. "Who was he with?"
"A Russian woman—major in the KGB. Natalia—Natalia something," and Balfry looked through the papers on his littered desk. "Natalia Tiemerovna—middle name Anastasia. Her husband was the head of the KGB in America here—until your husband gunned him down on
the street—while ago in Athens, Georgia. Intelligence sources indicate the woman showed up in Chicago—that's Soviet Headquarters for the North American Army of Occupation—"
"I know that," Sarah nodded.
"Showed up in Chicago—without your husband or this Rubenstein character. Then she disappeared. Maybe to rejoin your husband."
Sarah licked her lips. "Russian woman."
Balfry threw down the paper in his hand—contemptuously, she thought absently.
"Doctor Rourke might be dead—maybe—"
"What?" she asked, not looking at Balfry.
"Look, Sarah—you're a beautiful woman. Who the hell knows how much time any of us have left." She heard the sounds of his chair scraping across the wood of the floor. She heard his footsteps—he was coming around the desk.
"Sarah," his voice purred to her. She looked up; David Balfry crouched in front of her chair, by her knees, his hands holding her hands against her thighs.
"Sarah—he probably figures you and your children are dead. He's done what any normal man would do—taken up with somebody else. This Russian woman. He's not coming because he's not looking."
Sarah looked into Balfry's eyes. "I—I have to get—to get out of here."
She stood up, stepping past him as he stood, turning away from him, starting toward the door. She felt his hands, the fingers strong, pressing into her upper arms. She felt him turn her around.
She looked at his chest, not his face.
"Sarah—" He drew her close to him. She could feel his breath—his clothes smelled like his pipe tobacco.
She felt his hands—they moved to her face, cradling her. She looked at his eyes.
His mouth.
It opened slightly as he bent his face toward her.
His lips—they were moist. There was strength in the way he crushed against her mouth.
Her arms—she moved them around his neck. She leaned her head against his chest.
"Sarah—you're a woman. You need a man to care for you—let me care for you," she heard him whisper. "You've been brave beyond what most men could do—let alone a—"
She pushed away from his chest, stepped back, her hands groping behind her, finding the doorknob. "A woman?" she rasped. "Just what the hell is so damn wrong with being a woman? I should fall over dead in a faint when somebody shoots at me? I should let my children die because Pm crying and can't do anything to help myself? A Russian woman—fine. But he's still looking for me.
I'm still looking for him. If there's a Russian woman—Natalia whats-her-name—whatever the hell she is—then fine. He'll tell me about her. And if we never see each other again—what should I do? Give away everything in myself to you—or somebody else?"
She found the doorknob—finally. She twisted it open, breaking a nail on it.