He might still have miles to go but it didn’t matter. The slow rising of the tunnel’s roof told him the end was coming and he could almost smell fresh air. Soon a ray of light would break the darkness he had grown to welcome and he would be out. From there nothing would stop him.
Because he was the Winter Man and he had promises to keep.
Chapter Thirty-three
“I hope you understand our position,” the President told Colonel Chilgers over the phone two hours after receiving Phillip Wentworth’s report. “We’re not canceling Project Placebo, just postponing it for the time being until we find the leak.”
“No, Mr. President, I’m afraid I don’t understand your position,” Chilgers snapped. “Months of planning have gone into this. We may never have a similar opportunity again.”
“We’ll make one.”
“That’s not the point. Hesitance, Mr. President, will eventually be the death of us all.” Chilgers’ voice was rising, quickening. “Our enemies act while we consider acting. It has been that way for nearly forty years and I suppose things won’t change until it’s too late to matter. Yours and previous administrations have been characterized by total indecisiveness, an utterly reprehensible refusal to push forward. Project Placebo would have revealed, clearly and undeniably, how our defensive systems would perform in a crisis. I believe that is something you really don’t want to be aware of, sir. If you don’t know, you can’t be blamed.”
“The matter is closed, Colonel.”
“Only for now, Mr. President, only for now.”
Chilgers slammed the phone in his office down, letting his smile grow into a laugh.
“Do you think he bought it, George?” the President asked Secretary of Defense Brandenberg.
“It doesn’t matter whether he did or not. We’ve canceled Placebo, stripped all his control away. Whatever he was planning is finished, neutralized.”
“I suppose.” The President’s eyes wandered. “The cancel order was given after the thirty-six MX missiles with dummy warheads were delivered to Bunker 17, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Something bothers me about that. Have we got Bunker 17 back on line?”
“They never went off it.”
“Then I want you to make sure personally that they’ve removed the dummy missiles from the silos. As long as they’re in place, COBRA still might have something going.”
“The order to return active missiles to the silos went out at the instant of termination one hour ago. Beyond that, I don’t see what we have to worry about from Chilgers. The base is back on general status. Yellow Flag is over.”
The President frowned. “Have NORAD keep a line open to them constantly. I’m just not comfortable with this and won’t be until we get Chilgers’ ass in a witness chair before the Senate Armed Services Committee. I want him out.”
Brandenberg’s eyebrows flickered. “That will mean admitting our giving the go-ahead to Placebo without Congressional approval. Our dealings with Bane might come out as well.”
“I’m well aware of that. Right now I’m more concerned, about bringing Bane in safely.”
Brandenberg looked away uneasily.
“George?”
Brandenberg shrank back in his chair. “I’ve withdrawn the unsalvageable order but it will take a while to filter down into the field.”
“You’re trying to tell me that we might still end up killing Bane, is that it?”
Brandenberg nodded slowly.
“Then let me make myself clear on this. I don’t care if you have to go into the field yourself to pull every man back, I want him brought in alive because if there’s any merit to the information Wentworth forwarded us, then Bane’s the only one who knows what the hell Chilgers is up to.”
“Whatever it is, we’ve put a stop to it by canceling Placebo,” Brandenberg insisted.
“Let’s hope so.”
The bulk of Bane’s journey back to New York was made in a car stolen from the first resort lot he came upon in his descent through the Poconos. His clothes and flesh were filthy but their smell reassured him, brought him back to Nam when everything had been so simple and his indestructibility was a given.
He abandoned the car near Penn Station and washed himself as best he could in one of the bathrooms. It was late enough at night for the station to be quiet, so anyone attempting to follow him from it on a haphazard trip through the subways would have his work cut out for him.
Even before Bane had surrendered to instinct, his destination had been determined. There was only one safe place for him in New York; where he could rest, regroup, and prepare the next segment of his strategy. He headed toward Harlem, toward the King, where the Winter Man had learned his most important skills. He leaned his head against the glass of the subway-car window, feeling fatigue sweep over him, but he was jolted awake every time his eyes dared close for an instant.
He had to get to San Diego. Vortex was centered there at COBRA. The entire operation would be controlled by machines and machines could be destroyed. Even a computer can’t function once you pull the plug. He would destroy Vortex by himself.
Why, though, should he bother?
His own people had tried to kill him once five years ago, and now they had declared him unsalvageable, while he was doing his best to salvage the world. Where was the sense in his going on?
Survival … Bane’s prime directive all along, the very essence of the Winter Man. Overcome all obstacles. Survive at all costs. The mission had to be completed. Abandoning it was no easier than holding his own breath until he died. The mission gave the Winter Man substance from shadow.
Then there was Davey. Somewhere deep within Bane, thoughts of the boy stirred. He, too, was in San Diego, a toy for Chilgers to play with. Bane wanted the boy, needed him. Somehow Davey had come to mean very much to him, the one feature both sides of his personality had in common and the thread that held them together. Without the boy he’d become a machine as he had been years before, a machine little different from the ones he would have to destroy if the world was to survive.
Bane found himself climbing up from the subway at a stop five blocks from the King’s place. The Harlem streets were deserted, silent save for an occasional beat of music coming from an open apartment window. Bane kept himself pressed tight against buildings, stayed off the main streets, his route longer but safer.
A nest of tired brick apartment buildings rose on his right, lamps at their front doors nipping at the darkness. Bane had passed the second one when he sensed someone following him. Whoever it was stepped when he stepped, stopped when he stopped. The man, if it was a man, was good.
Bane kept moving, locking his eyes forward.
Behind him, his pursuer closed the gap.
Bane steadied his pace, felt reflexively for the pistol he’d given to Trench. Guns weren’t much good at night anyway really, not much more than noisemakers even for the best shot. That thought comforted him only slightly. His pursuer would have a gun, an advantage no matter how you looked at it.
Bane swerved around a corner and felt the steps behind him quicken just a bit. Soft and graceful, the movements of a professional. But this was his turf, his game. The King had taught him to fight blindfolded and once you got over the initial fear, it wasn’t so bad really. The thing that got you killed was hesitation.
Bane didn’t hesitate. He kept walking, keenly aware that the gap between him and his pursuer was narrowing with each break in the sidewalk. The man — he could tell that much from the steps now — was choosing his moment to strike. Bane would have to choose it for him. He swung down an alley that ran between two battered apartment buildings and connected two parallel streets.