After several more minutes driving the Harley, the needle fuel gauge settled well below Empty, and Rourke stopped the bike, the engine running a little rough, he thought. In his mind's eye he pinpointed the spot from the map, then checked his lensatic compass to make certain the coordinates he'd memorized were correct. He started the Harley Davidson down off the rise, slowly, the CAR-15 slung under his right arm. Rourke realized he was now at his most vulnerable. He could be stopped, in the open, the motorcycle unusable while he refueled then filled his emergency container. Rourke circled the big black bike around the clearing, then slowed it, cutting the wheel slightly left. He stopped, putting down the kick stand. Then he dismounted the bike, snapped back the bolt on the CAR-15 and let it fly forward, chambering a round. Rourke thumbed on the safety and walked out to the clearing, checking the compass again against the memorized map. He spotted a likely stand of trees and walked toward it, pushing his way through the pine boughs several feet, then finding the valve.
Chambers had explained that the strategic fuel reserves shown on the map were emergency supplies as opposed to massive reserves for civilian, industrial, and military use. Because of their emergency nature, they had been designed to operate on air pressure rather than electricity. And that meant that the time to refuel an average full-sized automobile, for example, as Chambers had explained it, would be roughly ten to twelve minutes— a slow process. Rourke smiled at the thought. He wondered if he'd ever drive an
"average automobile" again. He went back to the Harley, then walked the bike back toward the edge of the tree line and began the refueling process. Even with the vastly smaller tanks, including the auxiliary tank, the process still seemed interminable as Rourke worked the pump, leaving the key on to watch the fuel gauge. He realized that with air in the system and the nearly bone-dry tank he could easily make a mistake, assuming his tanks were full when in reality they weren't. As he fueled the Harley, then began working on his emergency container, he scanned the clearing and the crude road leading down and through it. He was still vulnerable.
Rourke froze, hearing something that chilled his spine— it was another human voice, the words unmistakably Russian. It was cool, clear and there was a strong wind blowing from the direction from which he'd come, and despite the apprehension gripping Rourke now, he continued the fueling operation. The voice came from beyond the low ridge over which he'd entered the clearing. Rourke calculated the situation— there were at least two men, probably an advance Soviet patrol. Rourke swung the CAR-15
forward, telescoping out the stock. He glanced at the emergency fuel container— it was almost full. He tightened the gas cap on the Harley Davidson, visually inspecting the area to make certain he'd left no other signs of his presence beyond the tire tracks. He'd spilled a few drops of fuel and he kicked dirt over the damp spots in the ground. The container was full and Rourke stopped pumping. Quickly, his eyes riveted through his dark aviator-style sunglasses to the ridge, Rourke sealed the emergency container, securing it on the Harley.
He coiled the pump hose back into its base, then shut down the valve, working the combination lock to secure it— Chambers had given Rourke the combination, too, at the time Rourke had received the map.
He heard the Russian voice more clearly now, closer. Moving the bike without starting it toward the center of the clearing, he went back over the ground and obliterated any footprints or tread marks as best he could, using the leather jacket he'd stripped from his back. Shouldering back into the jacket, reslinging the CAR-15 and collapsing the stock, Rourke mounted the motorcycle and waited. If the voice came no closer, he would wait until it was no longer audible, then go up to the ridge and, when all seemed clear, steal away. It was of paramount importance not to attract too much attention to the clearing and cause the Soviets to initiate a detailed search for the fuel reserve.
He could hear the voice clearly now, saying something in Russian about having followed tire tracks. A smile crossed Rourke's lips. Quickly, he dug into the Lowe pack on the back of the Harley, dismounting the bike then and gathering together some twigs and branches. Using the Zippo after skinning shavings off several of the twigs with his knife, Rourke started the twigs burning, setting out a pack of Mountain House food from the back pack on the ground. He crouched beside the small fire, waiting. If the Russians came over the ridge, they would see the campfire— and Rourke would hopefully convince them he had stopped for a meal. If he gave them a reason why he was there to begin with, then there might be no reason for the Russians to search further. He stared at the ridgeline, ripping open the Mountain House food pack. It was Turkey Tetrazini, and he scooped a handful of the dehydrated food into his hand, nibbling at it, letting the moisture of his mouth react with it to get the taste.
"No sense wasting all of it," he muttered to himself. Finally Rourke heard a second voice— he'd begun to think the Russian on the other side of the ridge was neurotic, talking to himself. He could hear the conversation reasonably well now— the two voices were saying the tracks led up over the ridge.
Shaking his head, Rourke slung the CAR-15 across his back, muzzle down, safety on. He took the Metalifed six-inch Colt Python from the flap holster on his belt and pulled back on the cylinder release catch, spinning the cylinder once, checking that the ejector rod was tight. He closed the cylinder, his right fist wrapped around the black rubber Colt Medallion Pachmayr Grips, the long vent-ribbed barrel resting across his left thigh. And he munched at more of the Turkey Tetrazini, waiting for what he knew now was inevitable.
He squinted against the sunlight, feeling the heat of the small fire near his hands, hoping the Russians would hurry. A smile crossed his lips. Over the ridge-line he could see the crown of a Soviet foraging cap, then the head under it.
He stared at the face; the Russian stared back. There was a cry of alarm, and the Russian started to swing his AK-47 into position. Rourke, still squatting beside the fire, swung the Python up on line, the butt of the pistol in both his hands, the silvery front sight lining up dead center in the white outline Omega square notch. He pulled the trigger through, double action, the muzzle rising slightly as the revolver discharged. "Love that Mag-Na-Porting," he muttered to himself, the recoil from the full house .357
158-grain semi-jacketed soft point almost negligible. Rourke was on his feet then, running.
As he reached the Harley Davidson, jumping into the saddle, knocking away the stand, he saw a second Russian coming over the ridgeline, an AK-47 in the man's hands. As the Russian started to fire, Rourke wingshot the Python, once, then again. The Soviet soldier fell back. Rourke replaced the Python in the holster, gunning the motorcycle. Gunfire started up behind him, chewing into the dirt around him as he bent low over the machine. The engine was running well again, he decided, as he hit the opposite ridgeline and jumped the bike over it, coming down in the dirt, gunning the machine and starting down toward a road perhaps two hundred yards ahead. He could hear vehicles behind him, shouts, gunfire—