Rourke could see beyond the stand of pines now. A rock face rose up from the desert floor. Already, the nose of the cockpit was cutting into the trees. He threw his arms up in front of his face and doubled forward. He couldn't see, but the sound was like a thousand chain saws, the pines crashing down on the plane.
The plane lurched and suddenly came to a complete stop. He looked up. The windshields were cracked, shattered, but still holding up. Trees were all around him-pine branches virtually covered the front of the fuselage. He sat for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he fumbled for the microphone.
"This is Rourke. We're down. Now get the hell out of the plane, but don't panic. Everything seems fine." He tossed the headset down, then tore open the seat and shoulder belts and pushed out of the captain's seat.
When he had thrown open the door, he stopped. The portside of the forward cabin's fuselage was almost completely ripped away. A large tree jutted into the cabin, like a can opener. People were screaming, and he knew that others were trapped in the wreckage. As he started back to help them, something on the floor caught his eye. He looked at it for a moment, then turned away and leaned against the bulkhead. It was the severed head of Mrs. Richards.
Chapter Twenty-six
"We'll be together soon," was all the president could say as his wife and children left his office in the Mt. Lincoln complex. He had tried to tell his wife, without letting his children know. But he couldn't find the words. Bobby's face and his wife's were the last faces he saw, as his family turned down the corridor. Bobby was still holding the spaceship. The president turned to Paul Dorian who was standing in the corridor.
"They've landed?"
"Only in token numbers, Mr. President-and they're pushing the timing on the neutron radiation a little at that. Those cities-like Chicago-are still hot."
"Paul, what about the Eden Project. Did it get off?"
"Yes," Dorian said, his eyes downcast. "Without a hitch, sir."
"Then maybe there is some hope after all. Send in the chief of my Secret Service detail."
"Mr. President, you can't do this."
"I have to-if there's going to be any United States left. It's not a country, a land-mass, Paul. I finally see that. The United States is an idea. And if I don't do this, the idea may well die. I don't have much of a choice, do I?"
The president took the outstretched hand of Paul Dorian, then walked back into his office and sat on the couch. In a moment, the chief of his Secret Service detail, Mike Clemmer, came through the door. "Mike, I've got a favor to ask."
"Anything, Mr. President," Clemmer said, entering the room. "Take this." He handed Clemmer an envelope with the presidential seal in the upper left corner. "And now, give me your revolver."
Clemmer started to reach under his windbreaker, then stopped.
"That's an order, Mike. There are two letters in the envelope. One is to my wife, the other is to the American people. Thurston Potter knows what to do with them. This is my last order, Mike. Give me your gun."
Clemmer wiped his palms on the sides of his trouser legs and reached under his jacket to his right hip. The president watched as he produced a short-barreled, shiny revolver. "I don't know much about guns, Mike. Always wanted to try them, but never had the time. Does yours have a safety catch?"
"No, sir. Revolvers don't. Mr. President, you can't. I can't let you."
"You've got to, Mike. If I stay alive, the Russians will find me and use me. If I die, there will be no government left to capitulate, and free Americans will go on fighting until there is a government again-another elected government that will throw the Soviets out. If they get me, it's all over for all of us."
"But Mr. President-they'll never get into Mt. Lincoln."
"You know that's not true," the president said. "And if we're totally cut off, they've got a capitulation anyway. But if the American people know I'm gone, then the Soviets-no matter what they do-can't lie to the American people that the United States has surrendered. It's the only way. Now, give me the gun."
The president looked away from Mike Clemmer and extended his right hand, lighting a cigarette with his left.
He felt the heavy steel object in his hand, then heard the footsteps across the carpet. When he looked up, Mike Clemmer was gone. The president looked into the empty hallway through his open door.
The president of the United States dragged heavily on the cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs. He glanced at the picture of his wife and children on the coffee table in front of him, then looked straight into the stubby muzzle of the revolver. He touched the first finger of his right hand to the trigger...
Chapter Twenty-seven
Sarah Rourke turned on her heel and took the .45 automatic from the waistband of her blue jeans. The corners of her mouth raised into a smile and her green eyes lost their hard set. "Ron Jenkins," she said. The man she stared at was a familiar one, the retired Army sergeant who owned the next farm. He rode a tall Appaloosa gelding. She knew the horse well. On a bay, behind him, was his wife, Carla, and riding behind her on the same horse was their ten year old girl, Millie.
"My wife and me-we was gettin' ready to clear out on horseback here, then we heard the explosion over your place this morning and I said to Carla, 'Betchya Sarah Rourke's got some problems-John probably ain't home.'"
Sarah slipped the .45 automatic back into her waistband, gestured with the same hand toward the smoldering ruins of the house and said, "I guess you'd call them brigands or something. They wanted to rob us and-well, you know," Sarah said, turning away from the Jenkins family and looking back to the tack she was adjusting on her chestnut colored mare. The white mare with the black mane and tail and four black stockings-John's horse-was already saddled and the gear tied on. She finished adjusting the latigo strap on her own horse and turned back to the Jenkins. "Thanks for coming to see about us," she said quietly.
"You want we should all ride together? I'm taking my wife and daughter up into the mountains. Not far, but should be safer," Ron Jenkins said.
"Come with us, Sarah," Carla Jenkins said, leaning forward in her saddle.
Sarah wiped the palms of her hands on the legs of her jeans, then glanced at Michael and Annie standing beside the barn. Carla Jenkins talked too much, and Ron Jenkins didn't talk enough-and their daughter Millie was a brat, Sarah recalled. But she looked at her children again. "I guess there's safety in numbers," she said. "I thank you for coming for us. I know it was out of your way. We'll be happy to come with you. I'm sure we can all help each other. I'm almost through here. I just have one thing to do."
"I'll help your children get mounted up," Ron Jenkins said. "On your husband's horse-the white one?"
"Yes-please," Sarah said, smiling. She walked back to the barn doorway and gave each of the children a nudge, then reached into her canvas purse and took a pen and the checkbook. She tore off a check and almost laughed as she found herself starting to write "void" across the front. They were all void now, she realized. She dropped to her knees on the ground and, using the checkbook to steady her hand, wrote: "My Dearest John, You were right. I don't know if you're still alive. I'm telling myself and the children that you survived. We are fine. The chickens died overnight, but I don't think it was radiation. No one is sick. The Jenkins family came by and we're heading toward the mountains with them. You can find us from the retreat. I'm telling myself that you will find us. Maybe it will take a long time, but we won't give up hope. Don't you. The children love you. Annie has been good, Michael is more of a little man than we'd thought. Some thieves came by and Michael saved my life. We weren't hurt. Hurry. Always, Sarah"