"I don't know how many guys you got, Otis— but no way you'd be able to take on a real army."
"That could be a problem someday, I suppose." Cole watched Otis's eyes in the firelight. They were a light brown color, lighter in shading than Cole had ever imagined a human being's eyes could be. "Someday, you and I maybe'll be enemies, Otis— but now we can be allies. There are six missiles."
"So you have said."
"I need five only— you can have the sixth."
"But Captain Cole— why don't I just kill you and take the missiles?"
"A bomb blast with any conventional explosive you name won't get through those doors into the bunker. Use something too big and you'll destroy the launching equipment inside. And you don't know how to arm the missiles or how to target them. I do, only I do."
"I can have you taken prisoner and tortured, then," Otis smiled. "You see, before the war— I assume it was a war, wasn't it?"
"The United States and Russia— yeah. It was a war."
"Well— before the war, I was arrested and tried for a multiple homicide. I was acquitted— lack of evidence. But I became a cult figure. I was guilty, of course. There were people who wanted to follow me. We came up here, into the mountains, and I was able to live like a tribal chieftain. You see, I studied social anthropology and group dynamics and comparative religions— all that. I made my own religion. This was before the trial. During the trial, the publicity generated caused my star to rise, so to speak. After this— this war, well— it was natural for me to provide order where there was chaos—"
"A religion?"
"More or less— all that is foreign is corrupt, evil. Other races are to be despised— from the cross you burn, I can see you may have heard of such an ideology—"
"The truth is universal," Cole told him.
"Truth? Hardly. But," Otis smiled, "if my followers believe it, I suppose there's no reason you shouldn't too. You see, I ran what the police might call a religious scam— a cult that took money from people for things like prayer shawls, incense, promised miracle cures— we collected many thousands of dollars in money left to us by the faithful. A black gentleman— quite rich— came to me, partook of our prayers and curses— he left his entire fortune to us. A sizable fortune. I broke into his home with two of my— my followers— and I killed him. His whole family, as well, so no one could contest his will. Unfortunately, a neighbor heard the screaming and police arrested us. My two followers committed suicide as I'd ordered them to. The papers were full of racial remarks attributed to me, ideals of racial superiority and a master race— all that drivel. After the acquittals well— certain types of people were drawn to me. Then this war thing and—
well— here we are, aren't we. I mean, I can certainly have you tortured."
"To tell you stuff, yeah," Cole nodded. "But not to make me actually arm and target the missiles. You could never know if I did it right, could you?"
"I suppose not," Otis laughed. "A man after my own heart. And what do you propose to do with your five missiles?" Otis laughed again. "I mean, if that isn't prying, of course?"
"The Russians occupy much of the East Coast and Midwest— what they didn't bomb out of existence."
"Really— hmmph."
"They use Chicago as their headquarters—"
"A lovely city, Chicago."
"Five eighty-ton warheads will obliterate the entire Soviet High Command in the United States, and tons of supplies, thousands of troops— the land war they're fighting with China is already draining them— they'd never be able to reinvade America and they wouldn't waste their missiles on us— they used most of them during the Night of The War—"
"Is that what you call it?" Otis asked. "Very nice ring to it— the Night of The War. Yes— I like that— I'll incorporate that in my ritual, if you don't object."
"We'd be free again, Otis— kill the fuckin' Commies, then track down the Jews and the niggers that helped 'em along, got them the footholds they needed— make this a country for Americans again."
"Wouldn't many of your Americans— I mean the white, Christian ones— wouldn't they die during this missile strike you propose?"
"Not more than a couple hundred thousand— a million or so at the most— and they'd willingly give their lives if I told them, explained it to them— they would."
"Would they? I wonder."
"They would," Cole told him, trying to reason with him. "First the Commies, then the scum that helped them come to power— get the United States back, build up a supply of warheads again while the Commies fight each other in China— then launch on China and Russia— kill 'em all. Make the world a decent place to live in again. Give our children a world where they can grow up safe— where white girls don't have to—"
"I don't doubt the sincerity of your convictions, captain— but isn't four hundred megatons a bit much for one city?"
"No— we've gotta be sure."
"Yes— we would be sure that way."
"You talked about torture— that man there, the air force colonel— he knows where the bunker is located. If you could—"
"I know where the bunker is located— I always wondered what they kept there. But as to the torture part, well— why don't we give him to my people— they've been so patient. We can let them amuse themselves with him while we discuss some of the fine points of our agreement."
"Then you'll help me to fight for America?"
Cole didn't like Otis— he couldn't understand why the man simply sat there, saying nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rourke watched the bonfires below him and far to port. It would be the wildmen— perhaps they had trapped Cole, he thought. He heard the voice coming through his headset.
"John— do you see those fires?"
"The wildmen."
"Should we go in?"
Rourke didn't answer her for a moment. Teal could be down there. But if Cole were still in control of his small party of men— and of Teal— Teal would be alive until the missile silos and the control bunker were reached, penetrated. If a stray shot from the wildmen disabled one of these two last functional helicopters, bringing back a full, heavily armed landing party from the submarine would be impossible.
"No, Natalia— we keep going to the coast," he said finally into the small microphone just in front of his lips, a cigar clenched— unlit— in the left corner of his mouth.
"All right," he heard her voice come back. "You are a strange man," her voice sounded in his ear after a moment.
"Why is that?"
"I would have expected you to storm in there— like that story Paul tells about you riding your Harley into the Brigand camp in the desert and killing the leader, then—"
Rourke thought back— it seemed so long ago. He remembered Paul then— like two different people in terms of skills and abilities. He studied the lights on the instrument panels. "That served a purpose," he told her.
"Revenge?"
"Yes."
"And now the purpose is—" She let the question hang.
"Keep Cole from launching those missiles— it's the only thing he can be planning. The only thing. Millions of lives maybe— against one life."
He wondered if Armand Teal would understand. Rourke smiled to himself— he wondered if he himself understood it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It felt primitive— that was the word, Cole thought. "Primitive," and he verbalized it, watching Teal, tied to one of the crosses, a large man using a knife whose blade gleamed orange in the firelight near the foot of the cross, slicing skin in narrow strips from Armand Teal's legs.
Teal had stopped screaming, only moaning incoherently now as the knife edged slowly upward.