His nearly knee-high black jack boots gleamed with the richness of their leather and the labor of his aide. The brass of his buttons and the buckle of his gold parade dress uniform belt caught the overhead lighting, sparkled. His medals—not all of his medals, for to wear them all would have shown a lack of taste, something he despised in others of his rank or above, something he detested in men beneath his rank—followed the line of his left lapel, plunging in a sharp angle from the uni-form above his left breast toward his belt. The red collar tabs high on his lapels, the redness of the wide band that encircled his uniform cap—he ad-justed the angle of his cap to where it dipped slightly over his left eye. Rozhdestvenskiy turned from the mirror, glanc-ing neither to right nor to left, stepping through the doorway, standing on the top step of the egress, raising his right hand in salute, the voices of the assembled troops raised in chorus, his own joining their voices: “Soyuz nerushimy respubliks-vobodnykh. ...”
The hammer and sickle—he stared at it as it waved in the breezy downdraft from the elevator opening above him.
The men—their uniforms worn proudly, the 7.62mm Kalashnikov rifles with bayonets fixed held at high port across their chests, all eyes turned as the men—more than a thousand strong—all looked at his face. Still holding his salute as the strains of the So-viet national anthem died, he turned fully to face his troops. Smartly—so they would know how he meant it—he snapped away the salute—to them. Rozhdestvenskiy descended the steps, Major Revnik, his executive officer, striding forward, sa-luting as he called out in stentorian tones, “The troops are assembled, comrade colonel!”
Rozhdestvenskiy returned the salute smartly, starting forward, Revnik falling in step to his left. Faces—young, healthy, strong, dedicated. Men. And ranked behind them, in white blouses and black skirts with red neckerchiefs tied at the throats of their blouses, were the women. A thou-sand strong as well—the finest and best and strongest and most beautiful.
The men, armed, ready, the women—all were ranked in identical formations on both sides of him as he walked the length of the underground hangar bays of what once had been North Ameri-can Air Defense Headquarters—NORAD.
Now, The Womb.
Tanks—the massive T-72—ranked endlessly be-yond them as far as he could see. In the distance, he viewed the generating equip-ment for the particle beam weapons that formed their air defense and that would make them ulti-mately masters of the earth. Standing at the far end of the ranks as he walked, in the exact center, was a solitary young woman. In her arms was a bouquet—roses, he thought.
He walked toward her, seeing her face, her flowing black hair—her eyes were dark, her figure exuding the radiance of health.
Rozhdestvenskiy stopped.
The woman stepped toward him.
“Comrade colonel—the loyal women of the So-viet Union who have been honored by their selec-tion to perpetuate forever the noble spirit of the triumphant peoples of the State salute you!”
She handed him the bouquet. She leaned up and kissed his left cheek and his right cheek. Revnik’s voice: “To the triumph of the Soviet!”
Two thousand voices shouted, the halls ringing with it— “Triumph!”
Chapter Thirty-four
Rourke was awake, having slept while Natalia flew, and as he sat up in the copilot’s seat, he could watch the ground below them—at treetop level they were coming in. “John—your re-straint—”
Rourke checked the lap and shoulder har-ness—it was secure.
He watched her hands as they played over the instruments, then looked away, watching through the plexiglass—the treetops were now even with them as the jet skimmed over a fence, Natalia already throttling back—he could hear it—as she committed them to landing. It was a small country airstrip—but the run-way surface in good shape as he watched its grayness seeming to swallow the forward view, rising up in a blur of roughness and bleakness—and he felt the impact of touchdown, hearing the skidding, hearing and feeling as Natalia throt-tled down. Into his microphone, he whispered, “You’re a fine pilot.”
“Now is a poor time to verify that, isn’t it,” her voice came back.... There was no chance to land the plane some-where where it might not be detected—and so the plane, Rourke considered, was written off. Speed in reaching Varakov was the ultimate con-cern and the small airfield just north of the Illi-nois-Wisconsin line was the closest thing his map had shown and small enough, he had hoped, that there would be no Soviet guards.
So far, as they left the plane in the field, as they walked, their assault rifles ready, no guards were in evidence.
“We will steal a car?”
“If we can—you can always try your Soviet I.D. and see if you can convince them you ar-rested me—”
“I do not think I would find greater favor now with the KGB than would you, John—”
Rourke only nodded. Fifty yards still until the edge of the airfield, fifty yards of exposure still. As if reading his thoughts, Natalia said, “When I made the overflight—before I awakened you—there was nothing.”
“Can’t always tell from the air,” he cautioned. They had left the plane without a booby trap, no time really to construct one. One additional jet fighter for the Russians would not sway the odds in even the most minute way, he had reasoned, and perhaps leaving it here some Resistance unit would find it and make use of it.
They were passing an outbuilding, made of corrugated metal, Rourke’s eyes flickering toward it. “Run for it,” Rourke shouted, shoving at Natalia, sweeping the M-16’s muzzle toward the building. Something—he didn’t know what—
“Halt!”
The voice was from his right, and he wheeled toward it, squinting in the sunlight despite the dark-lensed glasses he wore. A single man, hold-ing what looked from the distance to be a Ruger Mini-14. Natalia was swung toward him, her M-16’s muzzle leveled at his midsection. Rourke stepped beside her. In his left hand he carried the eight-hundred-round ammo box of 5.56mm ball, in his right hand he clenched the M-16. “What do you want?” Rourke challenged.
“Who the hell are you people—with that plane?”
“I work for the F.A.A.—checking out rural airports—”
“Knock it off,” the solitary man with the Ru-ger rifle called back. At the corners of his pe-ripheral vision, Rourke could see more armed figures—men and women—stepping out from inside the building, coming from the far edge of the field.
“I don’t like this, John,” Natalia whispered hoarsely.
Rourke said nothing, watching only.
The man with the Mini-14 spoke again. “Who are you?”
“I’m John—this is Natalie—who the hell are you?”
“Morris Dumbrowski—Combined Counties Resistance Fighters.”
Rourke breathed a long sigh. “Then relax—we’re on the same side.”
Then a woman’s voice, from his right, near the corrugated metal building’s door.
“I’ve seen her—she’s the one who was always with the general—the one in the fur coat—maybe his slut or something!”
Natalia wheeled toward her, Rourke stepping between Natalia and the woman. “No,” he snarled to Natalia.
“I’m not his woman—I’m his niece,” Natalia shrieked.
Rourke rasped under his breath, “Shit—”
“Russians—fuckin’ Commies!” It was Morris Dumbrowski’s voice, Rourke turning to face the man.
“I seen her,” another woman’s voice shouted. “She was with that bastard who used to run the KGB—maybe she’s his woman.”
Natalia wheeled toward the new voice, shout-ing, almost screaming, “I was his wife—and he’s dead—he was a butcher!”