He fired the second Sidewinder, rolling the plane, three hundred sixty degrees, almost saluting them on the ground, climbing, arcing back and rolling over, his stomach feeling it, his back aching near his kidneys, the plane leveling off, his machine gun armed, his right hand squeezing against the joystick, working the machine gun's trigger as he swept the valley. The bullets seemed to explode upward from the dirt, men and women running, falling— lost to him as he skimmed the ground low.
He set the lock, disarming his weapons systems as he climbed, another rollover, then leveled off.
He exhaled hard, the helmet visor fogging again. Mentally, Rourke calculated the casualties to the wildmen on the ground— two-thirds losses, minimum. Fuel, his two remaining Sidewinder missiles— all needed to be conserved to get himself, Natalia, and Paul— to get them home. To the Retreat, to find Sarah and the children.
He could allow it for an instant. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He opened them and the television monitor for the seeker unit no longer showed the wildmen— gone.
Chapter Thirteen
Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy walked, cold slightly in the mountain chill, alone now.
He had never faced death before. There had been danger, sometimes mortal peril. But never certain death. Times locked in combat with superior enemies, times in dangerous lands with men and women he did not trust— but never such a certainty.
He looked skyward, feeling his jaw set. "No!" He screamed it, hearing it echo in the hills and gorges, in the mountains, on the chill air.
The volunteer— the man inside the coffin-like machine with the blue cloud of swirling gas and light. He had done worse than to die. His body lived. His mind did not.
The Americans had the answer— it was a foregone conclusion they had possessed it on the Night of The War. Otherwise, what they had done would have been not even a gesture of fatalism. Karamatsoy, his friend— he had known the Americans had the answer. He had searched for it.
Rozhdestvenskiy stopped walking, standing overlooking a valley, not seeing the mountain beside him that was to be the Womb.
One ingredient was lacking— the vital ingredient. He had taught himself to live— without the company of a woman to love, but rather with many women. Without the security of a position where responsibility was not demanded— but rather one of ultimate responsibility. He had labored.
He stared at Heaven. If God was there, Rozhdestvenskiy now wanted Him to hear. "I will not die!"
Chapter Fourteen
"That's Rourke— or Major Tiemerovna, Cole— only ones who could fly— and they'll be after you."
Cole turned to face Armand Teal, backhanding him across the nose and mouth, blood spurting from beneath Cole's knuckles as Teal's upper lip cracked and the nose broke.
"You fuckin' bastard," Teal snarled, his words sounding thick, mispronounced.
Cole laughed. "Yeah— well, colonel— you tell me what I want to know or you'll learn what a bastard I can really be."
Cole watched Teal struggling against the military issue handcuffs on his wrists, locking his wrists behind him around the trunk of the pine tree. Cole heard an insect buzz, swatted at it and looked over his left shoulder to find the source of the annoyance.
He heard Teal laugh. Loud.
"Maybe I'm not gonna get out of this— but neither are you, captain—"
Cole didn't turn his head, still staring, saying, trying to control the tension he could feel, he could hear in his voice—"Armitage— shut up the colonel there— ram your fist into his mouth if you gotta."
Cole didn't look back, facing the rise behind them.
Wildmen, standing almost shoulder to shoulder. Mentally, he began counting them— he stopped when he reached fifty, estimating the remaining numbers combined with these to equal at least two hundred.
As he watched, the sun low, the insect still buzzing him but not daring to move his hands lest it provoke the wildmen into attack, he saw a cross, then another and another and another— four in all. They were being erected on the rise.
He heard Teal laugh, realized he was losing his control, wheeled and rammed the butt of the M16 he held into Teal's abdomen, Teal doubling forward against the tension of his arms, stumbling to his knees, his face white, vomit spurting through his cracked, bleeding lips.
Captain Cole turned away, staring toward the rise, a bonfire being lit, a chant beginning—
strange sounding— deadly sounding. He felt a chill, a paroxysm race along his spine.
Cole licked his lips. "I wish to speak with your leader—"
"Take me to your leader— bullshit." It was Teal's voice, laughter tingeing it, as well as pain.
Cole began again, shouting louder this time. "I want to see your leader. I can offer him power—
immense power. More than he's ever dreamed of. Nuclear power— the power of life and death—
power!"
The bonfire began to crackle, audibly, as he heard his voice echo back. No one answered, no one called back to him from the rise. But there was no attack. The sun setting, he stood watching, hearing the light breeze, the moans of Armand Teal as pain began to take over bravado, and the buzz of the insect.
His palms sweated as he held his M-16.
Chapter Fifteen
The camouflage nets had been difficult to get into place, on his own, but as he stepped back now from the aircraft, he was satisfied. If any of the wildmen or anyone else approached to within twenty-five yards of the craft— in daylight— it would be noticeable. But from the air, or from a greater distance than twenty-five yards on the ground, it would never have been seen. The small hand axe in the pilot's survival kit had been adequate but arduous in chopping away saplings and large branches. Leaves, dead grass— he had heaped it artistically in place. He found himself smiling—"artistically." His wife— she was an artist— a good one, her children's' book illustrations were prize-winning. He wondered if she still lived, if the children lived.
When the business with Cole was done— he froze, hearing the sound of helicopter rotors slicing the air, the thrumming growing louder as he turned. An army helicopter— it would be Natalia, answering the radio signal. His flight suit and helmet packed aboard the plane as were the flight suits and helmets for Natalia and for Paul, he reached to the ground, snatching up his brown leather bomber jacket— a few added scrapes and scratches in the leather from crossing the barbed wire fence when he'd first reached Filmore Air Force base, but no rips or tears. He shrugged into it, grabbing up the flap holster with his Python and the CAR-15. Not bothering to buckle the holster to his waist, he started to run further into the clearing. The draft from the helicopter's rotor blades could disrupt his camouflage job— he couldn't let that happen...
Rourke opened his eyes, shaking his head, looking at Natalia at the controls of the helicopter, saying into his headset microphone, "How long have I been asleep?"
"About twenty minutes, John— have you ever listened to a man snore to you through a headset radio?"
He laughed, saying, "As a matter of fact, I have— sorry."
"We'll be touching down in about ten minutes— I have some good news for you. If I'd told you earlier, you wouldn't have slept— you'd have been too busy planning."
"What's the good news?" he asked, stretching, trying to get comfortable in the seat. "The Soviet Union surrendered?"
"I would hardly call that good news, John."
"Sorry— couldn't pass it up."
"We do still have our ideological differences, don't we?"
"They seem to matter less and less, though."
She looked at him and he watched her smile, her eyes in the small dome light and the dull green light of the instrument panel gauges looking so deep a blue that he wanted in that instant to drown in them. "That's right," she smiled. "They do matter less and less."