.45. One standard pistol will suit our needs more than adequately. And of course
each officer will have his own individual weapon." He patted the Colt Single
Action Army under his uniform tunic.
"There must be adequate supplies for all needs, but most especially for the
weapons—the individual weapons. For the five thousand M-16s we will need there
must be
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five million rounds of 5.56mm military ball ammo—loaded in the eight hundred
round steel containers will be best. These can then be sealed with wax as I've
outlined in the master plans for the Womb. One million rounds of the .45 ACP
ammunition for the one thousand pistols- This can be packed in greater bulk and
likewise sealed. I'd suggest metal oil drums perhaps and the original
boxes—again, all military ball ammunition,"
"Yes, Comrade colonel."
Rozhdestvenskiy nodded, stepping away from the wall where the rifles leaned and
towara the catwalk. He looked below him—men moving equipment—portable
generators, arc lights. More men—crates being unloaded from large trucks onto
smaller trucks which could be rolled directly aboard the waiting C-130s on the
airfield two miles away.
"Work goes apace," he commented, leaning on the catwalk railing, swinging his
body weight back and forth, feeling what he saw, feeling the power surging up in
his blood. "But the pace must be quickened. If all the items are not secured in
the Womb in a very, very short period of time, captain—all will have been for
naught."
"Yes, Comrade colonel—Comrade?"
"Yes, captain?"
"May I ask, Comrade colonel—why is this being—"
Rozhdestvenskiy felt his smile fade. "The survival of the race, Comrade—the
survival of the race."
Rozhdestvenskiy said no more.
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Chapter 25
Rourke, Paul Rubenstein and Natalia sat, their eyes transfixed as were the eyes
of the submarine's complement not on duty—to the television monitors in the crew
mess. It had been the same with San Francisco when they had passed the
ruins—watching a city where once people lived now an underwater tomb. With this
city it was doubly difficult—a young seaman first class had been born there,
lived there—his mother, father, two sisters and wife and son had died there.
But he had insisted on watching—and now he wept.
Not one of the men touched him; Rourke, feeling perhaps like the rest of them,
not knowing what to say, to do.
Natalia—wearing a robe borrowed from the captain, moving slowly, her left hand
holding at her abdomen where Rourke had made the incisions—stood. Rourke started
up after her, but she shook her head, murmuring, "No, John," then walked. She
supported herself against the long, spotlessly clean tables, moving to alongside
the weeping man.
"I am sorry—for your family—and for you," she whispered, Rourke watching her,
watching all the others watching her.
The young man looked up. "Why'd you and your people wanna kill us—we coulda
talked it out—or somethin'?"
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"I don't know, sailor—I don't know," she whispered.
He looked at her, just shaking his head.
She moved her hands, touching them lightly to his shoulders. He looked down, his
neck bent, his shoulders slumping. Natalia took a step toward him, leaning
against him to help herself stand, her arms folding around his neck, his head
coming to rest against her abdomen.
She closed her eyes as he wept.
Rourke breathed.
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Chapter 26
Rourke stood in the sail, the snowflakes thick and large, the temperature barely
cold enough for them, he thought. They melted as they reached the backs of his
hands on the rail, the knit cuffs of his brown leather bomber jacket,
occasionally one of the larger flakes landing on his eyelashes—he would close
his eyes for an instant and they would melt.
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.
96
* '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.
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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.
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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-16 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.
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She shifted the pistol belt she now wore—inherited from one of the dead brigands
at the Mulliner farm. The .45, 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 .45. The
smaller gun—the Trapper Scorpion .45—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 .45 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."
100
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."
Sarah felt he wanted her to ask—so she did. "What happened to your girl, Bill?"
The boy licked his lips, looked at her and then looked away, knocking out the
pipe against the heel of his work-boot. "Dead, ma'am. What got me in the
Resistance. She lived in town, ya know—some of them brigand trash came through
right after it all happened. I—ahh—I found her— they'd, ahh—" He didn't finish
it.
Sarah reached out to him, putting her left arm across his shoulders, her left
hand touching his neck as he leaned forward, not looking at her.
"They'd—they'd raped her—real bad—real—it was— the stuff—all over her legs and
her belly and her face— it—it was all beat up. She just died I guess—right in
the middle of it all—her name was Mary—like my mom's—" He started to cry and
Sarah leaned close to him. There wasn't anything she could say.
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Chapter 28
"I need Doctor Rourke with me—Rubenstein can stay here. And no guns for
Rourke,*' Cole said flatly.
Gundersen wove the fingers of his hands together. "I anticipated that, Captain
Cole. I've talked briefly here with Doctor Rourke. Sending a man out unarmed
into what might be out there would be like committing murder. Doctor Rouke gets
his guns—"
"I object to that, sir!"
"I'll note that objection in my log," Gundersen went on placidly. Rourke watched
his eyes. "And as to Mr. Rubenstein—if he chooses to accompany his friend, he
certainly may. If you like, Lieutenant O'Neal—he's my missile officer and hasn't
had much to do since we fired all our missiles you know—well, he's coming along
as well as are a few of my men—a landing party. Lieutenant O'Neal can be
responsible for Mr. Rubenstein if that suits you better. And as to Major
Tiemerovna—there's no policy decision to be made there. She's not strong enough
yet to travel. So she doesn't need her guns. Questions about that, captain?"
"I still protest, sir—once we're on land, this mission is mine."
"But this mission involves my submarine, mister—and getting those missile
warheads safely on board this boat directly affects the safety of my crew. So
some of my people go along, like it or not."
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"I want to send out a recon patrol right away—before the shore party."
"A wise move—I'll let you handle that. If you'd like any of my men to ace—"
"No—no, sir. My men can handle that. That's what they're trained for."
"Can I say something?" Rourke asked.
"Certainly, Doctor Rourke," Gundersen nodded.
Rourke saw Natalia, Paul—even Cole s
taring at him. "That recon party could be a
mistake—we can recon as we go. We have to go from here anyway, regardless of
what's out there. Only way to reach Filmore Air Force Base. Sending out a patrol
from here will only serve to alert any potentially hostile force to our
intentions of going inland. I say we move out under cover of darkness—get
ourselves well inland before dawn and go from there."
"Bullshit, Rourke!"
"There's a lady present, mister," Gundersen snapped. "And I agree with Doctor
Rourke."
"The land portion of the mission is mine—I intend to send a recon patrol out
now—I've got men geared up and ready."
Rourke shrugged.
Rubenstein cleared his throat, Rourke watching as the younger man pushed his
glasses up off the bridge of his nose. "John's right—we let anybody out there
know what we're up to, all they're going to do is set a trap for us."
"If this meeting is about over, commander—I've got a final briefing for my men."