The flakes melted down from his hair, the melted snow running in tiny rivulets down his forehead and his cheeks—he could feel them.
Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna shivered beside him and he folded his arm around her to give her warmth.
The submarine was moving—through the fjord-like cut in the land and toward the new coastline—it was north central California and beneath the wake the sub's prow cut were the bodies of the dead and cities they had lived in.
' Rourke thought of this—he could not avoid thinking of it ...
There was a bay that had been carved at the far end of the inlet, Commander Gundersen on the sail beside Rourke, Rubenstein and Natalia, in constant radio contact with his bridge for depth soundings of the fjord—it had been created by the megaquakes that had destroyed California beyond the San Andreas faultline on the Night of The War. There were no charts.
'I'm running even at eighteen feet below the waterline—shit,'' and Gundersen looked away from Rourke, snapping into the handset, "Wilkins—this is it—we get ourselves hung up—bad enough we can't dive. All stop, then give me the most accurate soundings you can all through the bay—wanna channel I can stay over where I can dive if I have to. Once you've got that, feed in the coordinates and back her up—you got the con."
"Aye, captain," the voice rattled back.
Gundersen put down the set. "You've been avoiding Captain Cole."
Rourke nodded, saying, "You didn't want a fight on board ship."
"Well—the time has come, hasn't it—let's all get below and talk this out so we know what the hell we're doing, huh?" Gundersen didn't wait for an answer, but retrieved the handset, depressing the push-to-taik button. "Wilkins—Gundersen.
Get that Captain Cole sent over to my cabin in about three minutes."
"He was just up here looking for you, skipper."
"Terrific—well—tell him I'm looking for him."
Gundersen started below, cautioning. "Watch your step, miss," to Natalia. She nodded, starting down the hatchway after him.
Rubenstein caught at Rourke's arm. "We really gonna go through with this?"
"Cole wants those warheads—whether it's just carrying out his orders or for some other reason. Only way we can know is to be there with him when he gets them."
"I was afraid you were gonna say that."
Rourke felt himself smile. "Come on—watch your step. Slippery."
Rubenstein nodded as Rourke looked away—there was more to watch your step about than ice on the sail, Rourke thought.
Chapter 27
The weather had turned cold again—spring was gone. She wondered if it were forever.
The refugee camp a short distance away had been eight days away. She stood now on a low rise, seeing it in the distance. Eight days—large Soviet forces moving into factory towns along the way, brigand concentrations— days of waiting in caves and in the woods—days of rain, of cold.
She shivered, reaching her hands up to tug at the bandanna that covered her hair, to pull it lower over her ears. She folded her arms around herself, hugging herself—but the cold would not go away.
"We can rest here," the gruff-voiced resistance leader announced. Gruff-voiced, she thought, but a warm man, a good man. Pete Critchfield, Bill Mulliner's father's second in command and now the leader by default. But he seemed a good leader, she thought.
She looked behind her—Annie and Millie Jenkins rode the mule, Michael walked beside^
"Stop for a while," she breathed—"the camp's in sight, but a little distance yet."
They were in a field of jagged, carelessly arranged rocks on the rise, mists covering much of the valley, the fine mist coming down on them as well on the rise.
The mule's hide smelled as she took Annie into her arms and helped her to the ground.
Michael held the mule's halter. Sarah helped Millie down.
"You kids get under some shelter—got a shelter half goin' up," Bill Mulliner ordered.
Michael looked at him, saying nothing, then nodded and took the two girls in tow.
Sarah shifted the weight of her knapsack, tossing it to the ground near the rocks and then unslinging the M-from her right shoulder.
"Mrs. Rourke—there's shelter for you, too," Pete Critchfield said, passing her.
He was always moving, always doing something—never standing still.
"I'm all right here, Mr. Critchfield," she called after him, not knowing if he'd heard or not.
She sat on the rock nearest her, feeling the cold and dampness as it worked through her blue jeans to her panties and then to her skin.
"Here, ma'am," and Bill Mulliner handed her a blanket. "Sit on this."
She smiled up at him, took the blanket and placed it under her. The blanket was damp feeling, but at least not so cold as the rock, "The weather's crazy, isn't it?" she said, just for conversation.
Bill Mulliner sat down beside her and she rearranged the blanket which brought him quite close to her, but at least made the young man more comfortable. "Them sunsets— so red. The thunder all the time in the sky—spooky to me," he nodded, lighting his pipe. He looked silly smoking it, but she wasn't about to tell him that.
"Maybe it's the end—for all of us," she said after a moment.
"Way I see it—well, folks used to talk in the magazines and books and on the television how's a nuclear war would kill ever'body. But everybody ain't dead,"
and he looked at her.
"Maybe you're right," she answered, her voice Jow.
She shifted the pistol belt she now wore—inherited from one of the dead brigands at the Mulliner farm. The ., her husband's gun—was on the belt in a flap covered black leather holster with "US" stamped into the flap. She had canvas magazine holders on the belt as well—six extra magazines for the .. The smaller gun—the Trapper Scorpion .—was in a homemade belt holster— same holster Bill Mulliner's father had used, on a belt threaded through the belt loops of her jeans under her coat. It was a good way to carry a gun, she decided—it was always on her, except when she slept, and beside her then when she did.
She unlatched the web material pistol belt, wrapped the belt around the flap holster and set the big . on the ground beside her—she was tired.
"Things'Il be fine once you and your family reach the refugee camp—people there'll help ya out—and people there for you to help too, ma'am. Lots a sick people. Lots of people who lost their families and all. But it's a good place—church service twice a week—Wednesday nights and Sunday mornin's—preacher'd do more, but he keeps up goin' out the rest of the time lookin' for more sick people to bring in. Good man, the preacher. Methodist— me, I'm Baptist, but that's all right."
"I guess we were Presbyterian before the War—didn't go much to church," she told him.
"Me—heck, ma'am—I miss church. We had a youth group—I woulda been out of it the next year anyways— And the Scouts—my Scout troop was through the church—Pastor was my scout leader from the time I first got out of my Cub pack 'til I made Eagle Scout."
"Your parents must have been very proud of you—I know your mother still is,"
Sarah whispered.
"I liked that life—don't spose we'll ever have that life again."
"Did you have a girl?" she asked him, then felt sorry
for asking as she watched his eyes.
"Yes, ma'am," he answered after a moment, sighing hard and loud. "Yes, ma'am—I had a girl. Pretty hair like yours—long like yours is."