'round— some guys had it. My friend Jock Whitman read a copy of it— the President, the real one, he killed himself so the Commies couldn't make him surrender."
"I didn't know that. Are you sure?" she asked him.
"Yeah— well, the letter said that, Jock told me. There was supposed to be copies of it all over what's left of the country. Story was the Secret Service got it out for him. When we started working with U.S. II, they said the same thing. But there's gotta be some kind of problem with them. After we started coordinating everythin' with them, the Russians almost seemed to know what we was up to before we did. Some of us figured they had themselves— in U.S. II, that is—
some kind of a— aagh!"
She looked up. His body twitched violently and now his eyes were closed, his mouth contorted in pain. But his chest was still rising and falling. As she started to grasp the bullet— at least she assumed it was that— in the forceps, the body twitched again.
"Michael!" she called. "Come hold Mr. Kleinschmidt so he doesn't move when I do this. Annie, stay with the horses."
Michael was beside her in a moment. "Don't look, son," she told him.
"It's all right, Momma," the boy said quietly. Even the voice, his way of speaking, reminded her more and more of John.
"Traitor," she said, pulling the bullet from where it was lodged. She thought it had been imbedded in a muscle but wasn't sure.
"What?"
She looked up at Michael, forcing a smile. "No— not you, never you," she whispered.
"Mr. Kleinschmidt had been talking before he passed out. He was telling me he thought someone was telling the Russians what he and the rest of the Resistance people were doing. You know— like Mary Mulliner's husband and son. They were in the Resistance. Well," she went on, probing the wound to check if the bullet had left any fragments, "he thought there was a traitor."
There weren't any fragments, and she studied the bloody chunk of metal in the forceps for a moment. It was obviously deformed, but it looked to be in one piece. "Such a little thing," she said, turning it so it would better catch the light.
Sarah Rourke looked at Harmon Kleinschmidt's face. It seemed more peaceful now. She imagined that when he was all cleaned up he probably looked handsome. He'd told her earlier that if she helped him, he knew of a boat they could steal to get them all to safety on one of the offshore islands. Safety, she thought. Then she looked again at the bullet, almost laughing.
Chapter 9
Rourke looked at the woman, his eyes squinted against the sunlight. "You'll be safer here, so relax. It should take me about an hour to get into Savannah on foot. Then once I find my contact I might be able to snitch some transportation to get back faster."
"But why aren't you taking your guns? What will you do if—"
Rourke cut her off. "If I get spotted with a gun, I'm automatically nailed. Soviet-held cities don't even allow Americans to carry pocket knives, let alone firearms. You should like it," Rourke added. "It's total gun control."
"Yes," she began, "but this is different."
"Tell me about it sometime," Rourke said, not particularly caring for her ethical two-facedness. He started walking, the cowboy boots from his pack feeling unfamiliar after all the time he'd been spending wearing combat boots. The brim of the grayish-tan Stetson Canyon was pulled low over his face against the sun, despite the dark glasses he wore. He'd unintentionally lied to the woman, he thought as he started down from the low rise where he'd left her. He wasn't completely weaponless. The heavy trophy buckle on the belt that held up his Levis made a good weapon in a pinch, there were his hands, too, he reasoned. Rourke's spine shivered slightly— without a gun he felt naked, but perhaps that was the best way.
There was always the disturbing possibility the woman would lose her nerve, steal the bike and the guns, and be gone when he returned. He could always steal a bike himself, he thought, reviewing the possibilities. He'd miss the big customized Harley, though. The other Harley, the one he'd taken from a Brigand he'd killed back in New Mexico after the marauders had slaughtered the survivors of the crashed 747— that Harley was at the Retreat now and he supposed he could work it over to come close to the Low Rider he'd left with Sissy. If he had to.
The guns would be the biggest problem, Rourke decided, leaving the high ground and paralleling a two-lane palm-lined highway leading into the city of Savannah. The twin Detonics stainless .45s would be impossible to replace, as would be the Python and the CAR-15. There was a standard AR-15 at the Retreat, his Metalifed Colt Government .45 was there too. For a revolver he could always use the Metalifed Custom .357 Magnum, the heavily modified three-inch K-Frame with his name engraved on the flatted heavy barrel. It was a superlative gun but still a K-Frame, and high-performance .357
Magnum ammo was not its best diet. He'd used the round-butted Smith & Wesson several times with superior results as a concealment gun. He supposed it would fill the bill now.
He stopped, surveying the road some distance beyond the defile through which he walked, smiling. Likely the woman would be there when he returned; and the guns and the Harley would be in good order. But the mental debate he'd had with himself had passed the miles. In the distance now, he could see the outskirts of Savannah.
Chapter 10
Sarah Rourke had ridden Tildie as close to Savannah as she had dared, leaving Michael in charge of the weak, yet conscious, Harmon Kleinschmidt— as well as Annie. Kleinschmidt had insisted that if she reached Savannah and found the boat he'd spoken of, she could take it and get them all to one of the offshore islands where he could recuperate and she could rest with the children. Sarah had agreed to try.
She'd left her rifle with Kleinschmidt, just taking the .45 automatic in Tildie's saddlebags. She judged it to be an hour's walk when she'd unsaddled Tildie and left her in a clearing, no fear the animal would bolt and run off. She had stored the saddle and the rest of the tack in a wooded area not far from the clearing, then changed clothes, thinking she'd draw less attention to herself if she didn't look as if she'd just come in off the trail. As she walked down the grassy hill now, she could feel the taller grass against her bare legs beneath the hem of the wrap-around denim skirt she wore— a gift from Mary Mulliner who'd gotten it one Christmas from her husband and never worn it. She'd taken a light blue T-shirt that didn't have holes in it yet and worn that; and she even wore a bra for the first time since leaving the Mulliner farm. She hadn't been able to wash her hair, but it was long enough to put up now and she'd done that— hoping for the best.
She reached the road and could see the city ahead. Feeling oddly nervous without her gun, she smiled.
"My gun," she whispered, thinking that before the War she would barely touch one and since the War she carried one in the waistband of her pants and slept with it at night. Shaking her head, feeling herself smiling, she started down the road into Savannah, toward the docks where Harmon Kleinschmidt had told her the boat was secured.
Chapter 11
Rourke lit one of the small, dark tobacco cigars. He'd seen a few other men smoking and had decided it wouldn't draw undue attention to himself. But he'd left the Zippo lighter along with his guns and the motorcycle. It stood to reason, he'd decided. Cigarette lighters, which required fuel, would be in disuse generally— no one but the Russians and a few select, important Americans working with them had fuel. He used a stick match instead, cupping his hands around the flame in the slight wind as he stood at the far end of the rough wooden pier, staring down its length toward a decent-sized fishing boat moored there. The name on the boat was Stargazer II—