"Got my name on the door and everything," Gundersen smiled, holding the door for Rourke. As Rourke entered the cabin he realized it was actually two cabins—Gundersen's office with a decent-sized desk comprised the main cabin and there was a door off to Rourke's left as he faced the desk—sleeping quarters?
Rourke decided that they were.
"Sit down, Doctor," Gundersen said, nodding toward a couch on the far interior wall.
Rourke said nothing, but started toward the couch.
"Coffee?" Gundersen asked, pouring into a large mug from a hotplate on the bookcase behind his desk.
"Sure," Rourke answered. "Mind if I smoke?"
"No—we can scrub the air. Go ahead."
Rourke took one of his small, dark tobacco cigars from the pocket of his blue chambray shirt, found the Zippo in the pocket of his jeans and rolled the striking wheel under his thumb.
"Where do you find lighter fluid?"
"Gasoline, usually—lighter fluid currently."
"Thought I recognized a survivor in you. Here," and Gundersen handed Rourke a truck-stop sized white mug,
the coffee steaming hot and smelling good as Rourke sipped at it. "So,"
Gundersen sighed, sitting down opposite Rourke in a small leather chair. "You're the mar everybody was so hot to find. Ex-CIA, I understand."
"Yeah," Rourke nodded, inhaling on his cigar, ther exhaling a cloud of gray smoke. He watched as the ventilation system caught it, the smoke dissipating rapidly.
"And the president needed you."
"That's what Cole tells me," Rourke nodded.
"That's what he tells me too."
'Where'd you bump into Cole?" Rourke asked suddenly.
"We'd been surfacing at nights, trying to make contacl with a U.S. base—stumbled onto the U.S. II frequenc} after threading our way through a lot of Russian, if you know what I mean. With the satellites gone, the laser communication network was out. Just luck I guess."
"Did you talk with President Chambers?"
"Spoke with a guy named Colonel Reed—all in code. Never really spoke at all. You know. But he was named on the communiques—all Reed under orders from Chambers.
Said they were sending out a man named Cole and a smal] patrol for an urgent mission we could help with." Gundersen laughed. "Didn't have anything else to do, Fired all our missiles. All we had left were torpedoes—nc enemy submarines around to shoot 'em at. I think most ol the Soviet Fleet that wasn't destroyed is fighting in the Mediterranean."
"Used to be a beautiful part of the world," Rourke nodded.
"Used to be—not now. It's a bloodbath ovei there—and a lot of radiation, I understand. You know, being a submarine commander and having a nuclear war—I feel like that guy in the book."
"But this isn't Australia," Rourke smiled.
"No—but I wonder. The icepack advancing— understand the weather up above," and he jerked his thumb upward., "has been pretty screwy. End of the world?"
"Maybe," Rourke shrugged.
"You said that awful casually," Gundersen said, lighting a cigarette.
"Yeah—maybe I did. If it is, I can't stop it. Just try to survive it after I find my family."
"Wife and two children, right?"
"Right," Rourke answered. "What are Cole's orders?"
"Pretty much like I imagine he told you. Find this air base if it is still there—supposed to be. We get you in as close as we can, then shanks mare all the way and Cole uses whatever available transportation there is to get the warheads out and back to the submarine. Then we deliver them to U.S. II Headquarters or wherever—that last part hasn't been spelled out yet. I guess it will be."
"What do you do after that?"
"I don't know. Keep going. We can run for a long time yet—a long time.
Provisions should hold up for a long time as well. Then I guess we'll die like everybody else if the world ends. I don't know. Can't plan too far in advance these days."
"What do you think about Cole?"
"He's a prick—but he's got the President's signature on his written orders. I can't argue with that."
"Do you trust him?"
"No—but he's got orders and I'm supposed to help him carry them out. I disarmed you and your Mr. Rubenstein simply to keep the peace. We get topside, regardless of what Cole says, I'll re-arm you both. Can't have you guys shooting holes in my submarine, though—my engineer complains like an old lady about it. See," and Gundersen jerked his thumb upward again, smiling, "the roof leaks."
"Ohh," Rourke nodded. "Wouldn't have suspected that."
Gundersen laughed, leaning forward, gesturing with his cigarette. "To answer your question before you ask—I've got no plans at all for Major Tiemerovna.
She's a pretty woman—I think the guys giving blood and everything to keep her alive pretty much caused my crew to look at her that way, not as a Communist agent. She minds her manners once she's up and around and as far as I'm concerned, she's free as a bird. I understand she was pretty heroic herself when—the Florida thing. Jesus—" and Gundersen inhaled hard on the cigarette, the tip glowing brightly near the flesh of his yellowed first finger and thumb.
"Yeah—she was. Saved a lot of American lives. Saved a lot of lives period."
"I'm not planning to rearm Major Tiemerovna, though—I realize she's a loyal Russian and I guess that's just as it should be. And I'm not inviting her unescorted onto the bridge, into the torpedo rooms, the reactor room—anywhere sensitive. Couldn't risk her opening a torpedo tube on us and sending us to the bottom. Not that I'm saying necessarily that she would."
"She would if she had to," Rourke smiled.
"Exactly—but beyond that, I don't care what Cole wants. She stays on my ship, my word's-lhe law here, not his."
"Thank you," Rourke nodded.
"I got a present for you—figured you might use it—I can't anymore."
Gundersen got up, walked across his room to his desk and sat down behind it.
Rourke stood up, following him, stopping then in front of the desk. From a large locked drawer, Gundersen produced a black leather pouch, snapped closed with a brass fitting. He opened the pouch—inside it were six Detonics stainless magazines, the
magazines empty as Rourke looked more closely, the magazines ranked side by side, floorplates up.
"I've seen these," Rourke commented, shifting the cigar along his teeth into the left corner of his mouth.
"It's called a 'Six Pack'—Milt Sparks made 'em before the Night of The War.
Mostly for Government Models, but I had him make one for my Detonics. But then I lost the gun—it fell out of my belt and went overboard. Without the gun, the magazines are useless. So, unless I can trade you out of one of yours, you may as well have it."
"Thank you," Rourke nodded, turning the heavy black leather Six Pack over in his hands. "You can't trade me out of one of my Detonics pistols."
"Sort of figured that—use it in good health—ha," and Gundersen laughed.
Rourke got the joke.
Chapter 19
John Rourke sat quietly, listening. What he listened to was the regular sound of Natalia's breathing. She was still sleeping. He had sat beside the bed for nearly an hour, ever since leaving Gundersen. Paul was being shown about the submarine—Rourke had postponed the grand tour until later. He had wanted to think, and the quiet of Natalia's room in sick bay had been the best place, he'd thought.
What would happen when he found Sarah and the children?
He had not thought of an answer—for over the weeks since the Night of The War and his meeting with Natalia he had formed new bonds, in some ways stronger bonds than he had ever had. There was Paul Rubenstein—once a man who could do nothing for himself, now a man who could do most things—and most things well.