Rourke switched the television optical unit to off as he leveled out, skimming the ground now, consulting the fuel management panel cursorily, then glancing to his right and down, checking the compass control panel. "The signature on those orders," Rourke said finally. "It was Chambers's signature— I've seen it before."
"Yes— so have I."
"And I could see Chambers wanting the missiles as a bargaining tool against your people."
"Yes— so could I."
"But there's just something—"
"He would have needed Chambers's help to get the submarine," he heard her voice saying in his headset. "I mean, Commander Gundersen— he is very nice. He seems just as he should seem."
"Yes," Rourke agreed. "No— if Cole is trying to fool us, he's already fooled Gundersen at least enough to get his help."
"I sometimes get very sick of this— this War. The weather, the color of the sky— I think it all means something. And now this thing— this crazy man sent to obtain four hundred eighty megatons in thermonuclear warheads. All is madness, I think."
"You're thinking in Russian, speaking in English."
He heard her laugh then. "You know me so well— perhaps we two are the ultimate madness, John— aren't we?"
Rourke said nothing.
There was nothing he could say. Beneath them, shaking hands and arms and clubs and spears, were the wildmen— hundreds of them. He started the jet climbing as he saw assault rifles raised skyward, on the off chance a stray shot might hit something vital. As the fighter bomber left a black shadow on the ground beneath them— Rourke watching now through the television optical unit again— he saw more of the wildmen— or whoever they were.
"You talked about madness," he whispered into the radio in his helmet. But Natalia didn't answer.
Chapter Eight
Paul Rubenstein adjusted the power wattage selector, then checked the modulation indicator, Airman Stephensen sitting beside him. "You know," the airman laughed, "for a couple amateurs, we're doin' okay with this old radio."
"The U.S. II frequency for contact is easy to find— but they'll have to contact us after they pick up our signal— if they pick up our signal," Rubenstein told him, trying to fine tune the squelch control.
"Where'd you learn about radios?" Airman Stephensen asked.
"I was gut shot a while back— in the infirmary where I was there were lots of military manuals— I started reading up on radios— only thing I had to do. Then I took it easy for a while at John's Retreat— read about radios there, too— and lots of other stuff."
Rubenstein stood up from the antiquated radio set, pushing the metal folding chair back and walking across the room in the lower level of the bunker, stretching, his hands splayed against his kidneys, the small of his back aching.
"What's this Retreat thing you keep mentioning?" Stephensen asked, turning his chair around, making a scraping noise where the rubber cups on the legs of the chair rubbed against the tile on the floor. Stephensen— tall looking even when seated, carrot-haired and broad-faced— lit a cigarette with a match, flicking the match into the ashtray on the table beside the radio.
"The Retreat," and Rubenstein shrugged. "Well— John planned ahead for a war— or whatever. He was a survivalist for a long time. I guess he was a sharper reader of the times than most people— I don't know. But he's got this place in the mountains— in Georgia. Worked on it for years— comfortable, all the conveniences— must've cost him a fortune—"
What'd Dr. Rourke do before The War— I mean? Just a doctor— like a surgeon or something?"
"No," and Rubenstein realized he was smiling.
"No— he never practiced medicine. He was in the CIA—"
"Central Intelligence—"
"Yeah— but he went out of that. Got into teaching survival training, about weapons, writing books about it— I guess some of the books sold really well. He was in demand all the time. Spent every dime he could get free on the Retreat. He told me once he was always hoping his wife would be able to say, 'I told you so,' and the Retreat wouldn't prove out to be anything except an awful expensive weekend place. Told me once it was the only time in his life, the only thing he did in his life that he wanted to be proved wrong about. Guess he wasn't," Rubenstein added, thinking it sounded lame.
"Yeah— well— I figure the world's gonna end."
"Yeah? Why?"
"Well," and Stephensen raised his eyebrows, smiling, then suddenly looking down into his hands, his high-pitched, Midwestern-sounding voice dropping a little. "Well— God said in the Bible he'd end the earth again— but by fire, you know? And nuclear weapons— they're fire. Probably all of us'll get radiation sickness. If there's any babies born, probably be deformed and all— ya know? I think it's God punishing us for gettin' too smart, maybe. Too smart for our own good— like Adam and Eve did— you got Adam and Eve, don't ya?"
Rubenstein nodded. "Yes— Adam and Eve— Jews have Adam and Eve, too— and Noah like you were talking about with God's promise after the flood. We've got 'em."
"Then you know what I mean," Stephensen nodded, looking up at him.
"Yeah— then I know what you mean," Rubenstein nodded, going back to the radio set, turning his chair around, straddling it, then flicking the switch and staring at the transmit light. "Let's see if this sucker works," he sighed.
Rubenstein turned in the chair, hearing the door opening behind him.
Cole and his two men, the men holding M-16s, Cole holding his .45 automatic. Rubenstein stared at the muzzle of the gun, his right hand by the radio, not near enough to his body to reach the butt of the High Power in the tanker holster across his chest.
He started to speak, his right hand very slowly moving across the receiver to the frequency dial— he would need to feel three clicks right on the dial to be on Rourke's frequency. By moving his left elbow he could jam the push-to-talk button down at the base of the candlestick microphone. He did that, saying, "What do you want, captain?"
"It's what I don't want, Mr. Rubenstein— you and this guy contacting U.S. II headquarters."
Rubenstein felt one click. "Why not?"
"Might be embarrassing— they don't understand."
Two clicks— one more remaining until he reached the frequency for Rourke's fighter bomber.
"Where the hell is Colonel Teal?"
"You came back ahead of the wounded— we were waiting for them. Got 'em all—"
Rubenstein wanted to push up, out of his chair— but he kept his left elbow against the push-totalk button at the base of the microphone— and he felt the third click.
"Where's Armand Teal— you kill him, too, Captain Cole?" He made the question to instantly brief Rourke— if he was listening. He didn't want to hear the answer himself because he knew it would be a death sentence.
Chapter Nine
"Teal's got a bump on the head and his hands tied. We lined up everybody else and shot 'em. And with Teal as a hostage, once Rourke and that Russian bitch land, they won't be able to go after us in a plane— couldn't risk killing Teal. I got the ball and I'm keepin' it now."
Rourke listened, glancing back to Natalia as he already began banking the plane to starboard, then glancing back to his instrument.
He heard Paul's voice and Natalia's voice simultaneously. "He's got Paul—"
"— can't think John'll let you get your grubby hands on those missiles."
"Doesn't bother me if he tries. Once I get to them, they don't go anywhere but up— all away." Rourke' s ears rang, a loud burst of static.
Paul's voice, Rourke checking the altimeter, then glancing to his left and up at the airspeed/mach indicator. "You just— you just shot Airman Stephensen— in cold blood, damn you!" Cole's voice then, "Cold blood, hot blood— what the fuck's the difference." Another noise that made Rourke' s ears ring.