Sarah grabbed the butcher knife on the counter am hammered it down—into the back of the biker's neck. Tru brigand was dead, blood gushing out of his open moutl past his tongue.
She looked at the far kitchen wall—Michael and Annii and the little Jenkins girl.
"Michael—keep low—get my rifle and my pistol from upstairs—hurry—then find anything else you can."
She didn't wait for an answer, pumping more shots a the brigands streaming into the yard.
' 'Mary—search that dead man for guns an< ammunition—we'll need it all!"
Sarah—she thought of it as she pulled the trigger for j fast shot on a brigand biker, seeing the man's hands fly t< his face where she'd shot him. She had changed.
Chapter 18
He had lost all sense of day and night—he awoke now, realizing that on the East Coast where he had last seen land it would be mid-morning. He frowned at the luminous dial of the Rolex, then sat up in the darkness.
A nuclear submarine—he tried recalling how much actual time had gone by. Not expert when it came to submarines, he wondered if they had gone under the ice yet. He doubted it though.
Sarah and the children—somewhere in Georgia or the Carolinas, perhaps as far as Alabama or Mississippi, or perhaps again up in Tennessee.
"Up in Tennessee," he laughed.
He reached over and flipped on the light. He rubbed his stubbled cheeks—he needed a shave, badly—and he could smell his own body.
"All right," he mumbled to himself, sighing heavily. It was time to do something.
John Rourke stood up. "Time to do something," he murmured ...
He felt naked as he walked the companionway looking for Paul Rubenstein—no guns.
It was the first time since the Night of The War—except for periods of captivity under the Russians and the problem with the woman in the town who had chosen suicide—that he had been without them. As he turned what he would have called a corner, his hair still wet from the shower, picking his way over the lintel of one of the myriad watertight doors, an officer—a lieutenant JG stopped him.
"You're Doctor Rourke?"
"Yes," Rourke nodded.
"The captain requested that you join him on the bridge, sir. I can take you there."
Rourke nodded again, falling into step behind the young man. "How is the Soviet major doing, sir?"
Rourke smiled—it was hard to think of Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna as "the Soviet major." He let out a long sigh. "She's doing fine, lieutenant. Still weak, but she's sleeping normally. Should be for a while. Sort of the body's natural defense mechanism against things like what happened to her."
"That's good to hear, sir," the lieutenant nodded, Rourke watching the back of his head as the man ducked. "She's got a pint of my blood in her."
Rourke told him, "I thought your face looked familiar—you were from the second time around."
"You got it, sir—guess it was more than a pint. Boy, did I sack out last night."
Rourke laughed. "Yeah—so did I. And I didn't even give blood. What's Commander Gundersen .want to see me about?" Rourke asked, ducking his head for another watertight door.
"Don't know, sir," the young man answered. "Here we are," and the lieutenant stepped through into a compartment that seemed almost too spacious to be believed aboard a submarine, nuclear or not. Rourke had several times been aboard the post-World War II diesel subs, their forward and aft torpedo rooms the only large areas to be found. The spaciousness of the operating theater had surprised him—was not nearly so surprising as the quarters he'd been given. Like the size of a rather large bathroom as opposed to the subminiature closet-sized offices and quarters on the earlier subs. He had ridden nuclear subs before, but never for any length of time, and these in his days in CIA Covert Operations.
This nuclear sub was apparently of the newest class, the ones begun just prior to the Night of The War. It was at the least the size of a decent tonnaged destroyer, perhaps larger. He stood now, overlooking the maze of lights and .panels, the many crew members.
He was impressed.
"Like my bridge, Doctor Rourke?" Commander Gundersen sounded confident, assured—appreciative of Rourke's stare.
"I'm going to build one just like this soon as I get home—got a kit?" Rourke smiled.
"I understand the Soviet major—"
"Natalia Tiemerovna."
"Yes—understand she's going to be fine."
Rourke nodded, still surveying the bridge before entering it. "Always the risk of a low grade infection with surgery so massive, but yes—I think so."
"WiH she fully recover—I mean—"
"Yeah—yeah," Rourke nodded again. "Matter of fact, she should be pretty much back to normal in a week or so. Still a little weak, but normal."
"Good—I'm glad to hear that—come down."
Rourke nodded, stepping away from the watertight door and taking one long stride across the metal platform, then taking the ladder down to the core of the bridge. Gundersen stood at its center, hands resting on the periscope housing.
His fingers tapped at it—not nervously, but expectantly.
Gundersen turned to his side, "Charlie—take her up to periscope depth."
"Aye, Captain," a voice sang back.
There was a muted humming, Rourke feeling nothing in the way of movement.
"Periscope depth, sir," the same voice called out.
"Good, Charlie—let's take a look here. Sonar give me a readout on anything that gets near us."
"Aye, sir," another voice called,
The periscope tube raised, Gundersen flipping out the handles on its sides.
"Always like to take a look at the pack before we go under—wanna look yourself, Doctor?"
Rourke stepped toward the periscope—noticing now it was the largest of several.
He stepped nearer as Gundersen stepped back and turned the periscope handles toward him.
Rourke pressed his eyes to the subjective lenses, his nose crinkling at the faint but distinctive smell of the rubber eye cups. "Makes you want to say 'Torpedo Los,' doesn't it?" Rourke said, studying the white rim at the far edge of his vision—the icecap.
He heard Gundersen laugh. "First civilian I've ever met with the guts to say that—it does make you want to say that the first time. Crank her around back and forth a little and take a look at the world before we go under."
Rourke only nodded, turning the periscope slowly. Massive blocks of ice floated everywhere in the open water leading in the distance to the edge of the icepack.
Small waves—wind whipped Rourke judged—would momentarily splash the objective lens. Without looking away, he asked, "Has there been as much change in the icepack as you'd suppose?"
"Another good remark, Dr. Rourke. Apparently a great deal of change."
Rourke stepped back from the periscope, looking at Gundersen. "Spreading?"
"Rapidly—I mean we can't really measure with any sophistication now because all the satellites are gone. But as best we can judge the icepack is advancing."
"That's just marvelous," Rourke nodded. He leaned back on the side of an instrument console.
"Down periscope," Gundersen ordered, flipping the
handles up. "Ed—you've got the con. I'd say take her down a little more than we normally do and ride herd on the ice machine—split the shifts so the operators will keep on their toes."
' 'Prepare to blow,'' a man standing opposite Gundersen ordered. "Rig for full negative."
"Aye, sir," a crewmen called back.
Gundersen stepped up to Rourke. "Doctor—like to join me in my cabin—talk a bit?"
"Fine," and Rourke followed Gundersen out. They walked the way Rourke and the lieutenant JG had come, turning off into a cabin with a wooden door, the lettering there reading, "Commander Robert Gundersen, Captain."