No time for a single action shot, Rourke double-actioned the smooth trigger. The third headshot made, he waited quietly in the rocks— just in case there were others of the wildmen he had not detected.
He had a Python in storage for his son— one of the newer, stainless steel Pythons. He had a Detonics stainless for him as well. He wondered if he would ever see Michael Rourke again.
"John— are you all right?" It was Natalia— John Rourke took what he judged a full five seconds before answering her.
Chapter Eighteen
Lieutenant O'Neal had originally been a missile officer— before the complement of missiles from Commander Gundersen's nuclear submarine had been fired out on the Night of The War. His was the cause of his being with the shore party to begin with, and of his eventual sole survival despite his wounding.
Rourke thought of that as O'Neal, still weak but seemingly invigorated from the fighting, waxed eloquent over their predicament. "She's right— Major Tiemerovna, that is. What she described from the homework she did on this system— assuming all her facts were straight—"
"We had a very highly placed source," Natalia smiled. "But he's dead now anyway— I think."
"Yes— but assuming everything he gave you about the missiles was true, you're right, major. Disarming these would be very tricky— impossible once they were armed. You always get intelligence stuff on a need to know basis, but you pick things up, things you aren't supposed to know. This irretrievable system— The No— Recall was what they called it. Once they were armed, the only thing you could do was fire them."
Rubenstein, leaning against the steel doors of the bunker, pushed himself away from the doors, saying, "That's stupid!"
"Yeah— a lot of us thought so, Mr. Rubenstein," O'Neal nodded, shifting his position on the ground, obviously uncomfortable. "Nobody asked us, though. It was—" and O'Neal looked up at Natalia, standing opposite him, beside Rourke. "I ahh— it was to guard against Soviet sabotage of our missile systems—"
"Don't apologize to me— I'm still an enemy agent," she told him, her voice a warm alto, contrasting sharply, Rourke thought, with her words.
"Well, then— what'll we do—"
Rourke looked at Paul. "You and O'Neal hold the position— against Cole. Three of them, two of you— shouldn't be that difficult. Natalia and I fly back to the submarine with the two helicopters— bring back reinforcements. Shouldn't be more than two hours— three tops. Those wildmen we killed were foragers, I guess. Either that or something like a patrol. These doors are bombproof, so they weren't trying to get into the bunker— you can see from these scorch marks where somebody tried it— likely some of these guys, and they learned they couldn't. If I'm wrong and there's a big concentration of wildmen coming, get out— we'll pick you up— fire a flare from that H-K flare pistol of mine—"
"There are flare guns in the helicopters—"
Rourke glanced at Natalia. "Better still. So, either way," Rourke said, taking his rifle from where it leaned against the bunker doors, "it shouldn't be rough duty. Stay up in those rocks— Cole comes, keep him away from the bunker. The wildmen come, beat it out of here— and they'll keep Cole away. Then we can try to do something about getting inside— that may be where you come in," Rourke said, looking at Natalia.
She laughed.
"What's so funny, major?" O'Neal asked, his face wearing a strange expression.
"A KGB major being aided in breaking into an air force missile bunker by the United States Navy—"
Rubenstein said it. "She's right— that's funny—"
Chapter Nineteen
Cole's palms still sweated on the M-16 he held, the bonfires glowing now, the wildmen unmoved since they had first encircled him, his two men and his prisoner.
"Armitage," he called. "Yeah, captain—"
"If anything happens— shoot Colonel Teal in the head— a coupla times—"
"Yes, sir," Armitage nodded.
Cole looked at the man— the casual way he had answered. He had known Armitage for three years. They had trained together in Alabama at the camp there. They had played the war games together, listened to the speeches together. He had been with Armitage the time they had fire bombed the car of the black television reporter.
Cole studied the flaming cross— it amused him. That he should be intimidated by a flaming cross.
"Armitage," he called out.
"Yeah, captain?"
"You and Kelsoe— get ya some tree limbs— make us a cross, too— you remember how?"
Armitage said nothing for a moment, Cole watching him, then watching as the face lit with a smile, the firelight of the bonfire surrounding them, making his face glow red, almost diabolical looking.
"And light it, Captain?"
"Yeah— and light it, Armitage."
"Yes, sir!"
Cole watched as Armitage ran over to Kelsoe, Kelsoe producing a hand axe from his belt.
"Show you bastards how it's done," Cole murmured, looking again at the wildmen.
Chapter Twenty
Sarah Rourke walked through the darkness, Bill Mulliner opposite her and slightly ahead on her right, Michael walking with Annie and Bill's mother, Mary Mulliner. Michael would alert her, she knew, so she concentrated her attention, focused her senses ahead of them— there had been noises, telltale noises only. There were people at the base of the funnel-like defile. But there were Russian troops on the road and staying on the high ground would have meant capture. For this reason only, Bill— Sarah realizing she had coached him— had decided to lead them down into the defile.
Brigands possibly, or more Russians— but possibly more Resistance. They were gambling.
She had come to understand herself more as a woman, she thought, trying to force her attention away from her thoughts and to the task at hand— but unable to.
She had come to understand what she could do— the power she had. Bill— a boy really, little older than Michael— was a man. He was the natural leader. But she had weathered more combat than he had, endured more, had a greater depth of judgment and perception than his years allowed him. She knew that— he knew that.
So she advised rather than attempting to lead, implied rather than ordered.
The same result was achieved— yet Bill had his self respect as a man.
She considered herself lucky to be a woman— there were fewer problems with ego where practical matters were concerned. She was content to respectfully follow his orders— so long as they were orders that followed her own directives, however subtly given.
She understood too some of the things that had caused the tension in her relationship with her husband. He would not be implied to, be coached, be nudged along. He had never once refused to listen to a direct suggestion, an idea. But he had refused oblique direction— and it was unconscious with him, she thought.
They were incompatible— had always been. But had always loved each other.
They stopped as they reached the base of the defile. Sarah Rourke wondered if she would ever see John Rourke again, ever feel his hands on her skin— ever argue with him again.
"Bill—" she almost hissed the name, keeping her voice low.
"This way," he nodded.
She realized suddenly she had been pointing the muzzle of her rifle in the same direction he had picked— had he read it, realized she had wanted them to go that way because the ground was more even— seeming in the starlight and would be easier to traverse at a dead run if necessary?
She shuddered slightly— power.
Chapter Twenty-One
They had walked along the natural path in the woods for more than a half-hour, she judged, glancing at the watch carried in her jeans pocket. She would have to improvise a band for the Tudor so she could wear it on her wrist. That could come later, she thought— if there were one, a later.