then we do whatever the situation allows—"
"Or demands," Natalia interrupted.
"When we were airborne," Rourke said, standing, shifting the stump of burned-out cigar in his teeth, "we saw signs of masses of the wildmen— they're going to attack here." Rourke glanced at the black-faced Rolex on his wrist. "Probably in an hour, maybe an hour and a half. Natalia is going to preflight two of those helicopters— you stay here with Lieutenant O'Neal, Paul. I'm taking a fighter out of here— it's a three-seater. I'm going to strafe the wildmen just to let them know we're interested, kill as many of them as I can since they'll all be so conveniently assembled, then land the thing somewhere nearby with a nearly full fuel load. Fighter bomber really— an FB-111HX. Carry the three of us eventually. Our ticket out of here. Then I'll land, camouflage the plane and get Natalia to pick me up with a chopper. You and O'Neal'll be on your own for a little. She'll fly me back, we'll take both helicopters and search for Cole and the others. Natalia'll show you what to do after she preflights the choppers— so you and O'Neal— he should be awake enough to keep an eye on your back— can sabotage all the remaining aircraft on the field here— don't want those wildmen crazies getting any aircraft going. This base is a loss. When Natalia and I get back, we'll rig the ammo dump and the arsenal to blow—"
"But couldn't we use that stuff ourselves?"
"I'm taking a fighter bomber, Paul— leaving the cargo area completely open. Before I take off, Natalia and I'll load some M-16s, some .223s, maybe some grenades and explosives— some medical supplies, too. Get it all aboard the craft. Just leave room enough for our bikes if we can get 'em back off the submarine."
"That's gotta be one hell of a big airplane," Rubenstein began, starting to try and stand— not making it, slumping back, holding his head.
"You rest for a while longer— but yeah, it is a big one. But not so big I can't land and take off again in a field if I have to. The FB-111HX should be perfect for that."
"I can still help you guys loading," Rubenstein began.
"He's right," Natalia said suddenly. "We can help him over to the plane, get him aboard and he can shift cargo— he won't have to stand for that. Except for the ammo nothing should be cased— and the eight-hundred-round ammo boxes won't be that hard to lift from a sitting or kneeling position."
"Agreed," Rourke nodded. He leaned down to Paul, starting to help the man up. He glanced— as he did— at O'Neal. "Remind me, Natalia— to check 0' Neal in about twenty minutes—"
She nodded, already starting from Paul's other side to help Rourke get the younger man to his feet...
Rourke climbed aboard the fighter bomber. Rubenstein was already back watching 0'Neal and Natalia was already preflighting the first of the two functioning army helicopters. He glanced at the Rolex— an hour had passed, Paul stronger seeming, the moderate exercise having apparently helped him.
Throwing his dead stump of cigar out the cargo door, Rourke inspected what they had liberated. Twenty eight-hundred round metal containers of .223, twenty M-16 A1s, modest quantities of conventional explosives apparently used in war games— no plastique— and first aid and medical supplies. He'd also taken fifty cartons of cigarettes— for Natalia. Most of the conventional explosives had been left behind— to destroy the arsenal and the ammo dump. He had also brought Teal's sniper rifle, personal belongings— clothing, mementos, family photos—
and done this in the hope that he might somehow be able to rescue his old friend still alive. It was a faint hope, but the added gear took little space.
Rourke closed the cargo door, securing it, then starting forward— he was very tired of it all. But life had left him no choice.
He strapped himself into the pilot's seat, starting to turn on the electrical systems.
Calmly— a forced calm— he watched for the oil pressure gauges to start to rise.
Chapter Twelve
He had lastly checked the radio— Natalia would receive him, he hoped. There was a somehow louder-sounding rush as the craft went airborne, Rourke hitting the landing gear retraction switches on the small console to his left, the lowering sun hitting him full face, Rourke squinting behind the dark-tinted visor of his flying helmet. He reached further to his left, adjusting the throttle controls, then the oxygen vent airflow controls— he closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them, reaching to his right, setting the air-conditioning controls to keep the cabin slightly cooler, the systems inside his suit cooler as well— he was tired, could not afford drowsiness. He glanced to his right and forward, satisfied with the fuel quality indicator. He checked the target designate panel to his left, the combat maneuver panel directly before him, feeling the throbbing of the aircraft-imagined because a throb would mean a problem with the airframe— as his right hand gently, easily— he was still feeling the controls of the unfamiliar aircraft— clutched the control stick.
"All right," he whispered into his helmet, the visor fogging slightly as he spoke.
The infrared seeker confirmed what visually he was beginning to detect— crosses with bonfires burning beside them, at the edge of the valley surrounding the base as he swept over at mach point five. He rolled the plane into a steep right bank, pulling up and climbing, arming his weapons systems— Sidewinder missiles and the gun. Leveling out, he switched the seeker system from infrared to television, setting his weapons-control panel off computer and to manual— it was somehow something that would be more personal when done himself, by hand.
He kept his speed down, cutting off his climb, leveling out, then starting to dive, the television camera below him in the fuselage behind the nose on maximum resolution, picking up what appeared to be at least a thousand of the wildmen, perhaps more, massing. There were sticks in their hands— sticks, but at the distance only. They would, close up, be spears, assault rifles—
whatever other weapon the wildmen could find and use.
By feel— he had taught himself that— he released the arming safety switch— ready.
He had flown an open bi-wing once— he imagined now the feel of the rush of wind, wind at this speed that would have ripped and torn at his flesh, cold that would have killed. But the freedom of it. Soaring out of the skies, away from the troubled land. In the far distant east as he swept down toward the valley he could see a purpleness that would be twilight. The sweep of horizon suddenly, profoundly, amazed him— the curvature.
He was reaching down to the earth, penetrating it— with death. He smiled to himself— in his old age— his mid-thirties— he was becoming a poet.
"Go—" his voice was quiet, low, whispered, addressed to the wildmen as his finger poised over the Sidewinder launch button, the steam from his breath fogging his visor again, "to—" the aircraft of which he was a part, which cocooned him, leveled— "hell!" He worked the button.
There was a rush, a roar, a buzzing sound and a contrail of smoke, the Sidewinder from portside at the fuselage rear firing, tracking into the crowd of insane non-humans.
Rourke pulled up the nose, the explosion belching white smoke beneath him. He started the craft to climb, leveling off then and banking into a roll, hearing some of the cargo slightly shift but not move, leveling out, arming the next missile— he started down.
They were running— he could not see faces, and it was just as well, he thought. Their faces were meaningless, an abnegation of sanity, of the thousands of years of civilization that had raised man to a point where he was capable of self-destruction.