He glanced skyward, Natalia in the helicopter making another pass over the ground— Rourke threw himself up, over the hood of the truck, swinging his legs over and dropping down, firing the pistol in his right hand at a man with a spear as he hit the ground, then pushing himself through the space between the metal door and the jamb.
"Here!"
It was half in shadow in the narrow space behind the door and he felt a hand on his left forearm.
"Me, John!"
Through the crack between the door and the jamb, Rourke could see wildmen massing for an assault against the door, the one called Otis, blood oozing through his fingers as he held his shoulder, at their head.
Rourke looked behind him, his eyes gradually accustomed to the gloom. He ripped his sunglasses from his face, stuffing them into the inside pocket of his bomber jacket.
"Paul— you and O'Neal get as far back as you can go— hurry."
Rourke edged back, away from the door, the assault starting, the Detonics in his right hand coming up, in his mind's eye trying to judge the perfect spot for hitting the fuel pump— he fired, throwing himself back, the truck roaring into an explosion, Rourke suddenly gasping for air as he looked back, the heat of the explosion making a wind, sucking air from inside the bunker. Rourke coughed, lurching forward on his hands, his fists still clenched on the twin Detonics pistols— there was screaming from outside.
Rourke pushed himself to his feet and half threw himself into the deeper shadow ahead, down the tunnel leading into the main body of the bunker.
Cole would be arming the missiles to launch— and millions would die.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rourke raced ahead, leaving Rubenstein and O'Neal beside the second door— the one with the combination lock, wide open— if Cole had closed it, Rourke would have been powerless to stop him. Rourke ran on, lights gleaming in the corners where the low concrete ceiling met the walls, such little room in the passage that if Rourke jogged slightly left or right, his shoulders would brush against the walls.
He could hear the humming of machinery— generators working— the lighting and the missiles— firing devices were all on the same electrical system, he assumed.
He could see brighter light at the far edge of the tunnel and he threw himself more into the run, his arms at his sides, his pistols clutched in both fists— he would kill Cole in cold blood if he had to to stop him.
The end of the passage was less than twenty yards away, Rourke cocking his head back, his mouth wide open gulping at the stale, cool air, Rourke skidding on his combat boot heels across the last yard or so, lurching against the door frame— the missile control room.
Cole— leaning across a panel of switches and lights, computer tapes whirring.
Rourke shouted, "Cole— don't!"
Cole turned, his face a snarl, his lips drawn back across his uneven teeth, his eyes glinting, the front of his body covered in mud-smeared blood. "For America!"
Cole threw himself across the panel nearest him, both pistols in Rourke's fists bucking and bucking again and again, the noise deafening, his ears ringing, Cole's body sliding down from the panel, his left arm extended.
Rourke saw it— as if in slow motion— the push of a button, a red button.
The lighting in the control room switched from whitish yellow to a dull red, a mechanical voice booming over a speaker near Rourke's head, his ears still ringing from the concentrated gunfire in the confined space.
Cole's body fell to the floor, rolled, the eyes blank and staring upward.
The computer voice announced, "T minus ten minutes and counting— irretrievable launch sequence initiated. T minus nine minutes forty-five seconds and counting."
Rourke stared at the speaker. "Shit."
Chapter Thirty-Six
Rourke whirled the dials on the radio— praying the electromagnetic pulse hadn't reached this far into the ground, the electromagnetic pulse that had wiped out the air base communications until Teal— the late Armand Teal— had jerry-rigged to restore them.
"Calling the helicopter— Natalia! Come in, damnit!"
"John— where are—"
"No time— in the bunker— launch is—" the mechanical voice again— "T minus eight minutes fifty seconds and counting"—"You hear that?"
"Yes— yes—"
"Get down here— I'm going into the silos— try to disarm the electrical system that would trigger the launch— the panel here is armor plated and I can't get into it. Follow me— we've gotta try—
Rourke out!" Rourke threw down the microphone, both Detonics pistols already holstered, his hands at his sides as he ran for the metal steps leading down toward the silo maintenance access tunnel just ahead.
He ran— he prayed.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Natalia shouted to the machine gunner, "I'm taking her down, seaman— I have to get inside the bunker and help Dr. Rourke!"
"Yes, ma'am!"
She made the helicopter rotate a full three hundred sixty degrees as she scanned the ground for a safe place to land— there was none. She picked a spot within two hundred yards or so of the bunker entrance and the still-burning truck at the door— she started down. "Hang on," she sang out.
The landing party forces were consolidating to complete the envelopment. The wildmen, perhaps a hundred of them still— fighting hand to hand with the landing party forces now, gunfire pouring from a knot of the wildmen near the bunker doors, into the bunker itself, as best she could discern.
She jockeyed the controls, the helicopter touching down. She killed her engine for the tail rotor, then the main rotor, and pressed the quick release button of her seat restraint harness, jumping out and to the ground, snatching up her M-16.
Wildmen were everywhere— and she had to get to the bunker.
"Hey, ma'am— this'll help ya!"
She looked behind her— it was the gunner with the machine gun detached from its mounts, the link belt draped across his body as he framed himself into the doorway. The machine gun began to spit tongues of flame into the mass of wildmen.
Natalia shot him a wave, then started to run.
She shouted to the shore party men— "Follow me— to the bunker— I have to get inside! Follow me!"
The men began to rally around her, forming a wedge with her at its center as she ran, pumping the trigger of her M-16, cutting down each target of opportunity, men and women, headshots, shots to the chest, bursts that ripped away the nameless faces— she kept running.
The M-16 came up dry and she rammed the butt of the weapon against the face of a wildman with a spear— his nose crushed under its impact as he fell back and away from her.
She threw the rifle at another of the wildmen, snatching open the holster flaps and drawing her L-Frame stainless Smiths, the ones customized by Ron Mahovsky for Sam Chambers before his ascendancy to the presidency of U.S. II, the ones he had given her as a gesture of friendship for her aid in the evacuation of peninsular Florida, the ones with the American eagles on the barrel flats— she fired both .357 Magnums at once, putting two slugs into the chest of a wildman coming at her with an assault rifle blazing— she ran on.
They were nearing the doorway into the bunker, the truck still smoldering but some of the wildmen— a man in Levis and a bearskin their apparent leader— creeping around the sides of the truck, gunfire coming from inside the bunker— it would be Paul and O'Neal, she realized.
They ran ahead. "Get that squat man with the bearskin— he must be the leader," she shouted.
The wildmen near the bunker door turned now, almost as one, raining their assault rifles, firing them out in long, ragged bursts, Natalia seeing some of the men from the shore party going down, Natalia's guns blazing in her hands, gunfire from both sides of her from the shore party, the wildmen going down as well.