The Doomsayer ts-4

by Jerry Ahern

  Rourke stopped halfway around the stadium, beside the broadcast booth. The antenna was corroded, weather-stained, but a new-looking, almost shiny coax cable ran from it, through what seemed to be a freshly drilled hole in the concrete below the grandstand.

  Rourke turned around, his eyes searching for the nearest steps down into the stadium complex beneath the stands. He found them, then started walking toward them. He stopped at the head of the steps, looking at the twin pistols in his hands, holding them as if weighing them.

  Both pistols in front of him, elbows tucked close at his sides— he thought if he could see himself he'd be reminiscent of a cowboy in a silent picture— he started down the steps, into the darkness of the shadow there.

  Rourke stopped halfway down the steps. With the back of his right hand he pushed the sunglasses up off the bridge of his nose and into his hair. He started walking again.

  Rourke stopped, his left foot on the last step, his right foot on the concrete walkway of the tunnel. He held his breath, listening. Voices. He heard two voices, the words unintelligible but distinct enough that Rourke could tell they were in English. They were coming from the farthest end of the tunnel.

  Rourke began walking, hugging his body against the rough concrete wall, the pistol in his right hand held high, the one in his left held flat along his left thigh.

  He could hear the voices more clearly. He stopped, seeing the darker blackness of the new coax cable leading down from above, then snaking ahead into the shadow along the tunnel and toward its end. Rourke shifted the Detonics in his right hand into his belt, taking the sunglasses off his head, putting them in their case under his coat. His right fist clenched around the pistol again and he moved slowly, cautiously ahead.

  The voices were clear enough now to be understood, at least in part. One of them belonged to Soames:

  "I don't care, Veskovitch. Why worry? All that damned earthquake is going to do is kill more Americans and kill a bunch of them danged Cubans. I don't think your folks give a shit about them anyway."

  "You were wise to come," the other voice— Veskovitch, Rourke assumed— began. "But you are wrong. We must contact headquarters. This is an important development. There may be valued Soviet personnel working in Florida at this very moment. They at least must be gotten out. It is not your responsibility, nor is it mine, to determine who should live and die. You speak of a disaster which could take millions of lives. Do you wish this on your conscience?"

  Rourke, standing in the darkness along the wall, smiled. The Soviet agent, probably KGB, was sounding almost humanitarian. Soames sounded like a bloodthirsty animal. Rourke moved ahead, more slowly now, cautiously, not being able to see more than six feet ahead into the shadows.

  He stopped, holding his breath, cursing mentally, then reached down and rubbed his right shin. There had to be a ramp down into the tunnel. He had just bumped his shin against Soames's motorcycle. Rourke shoved the Detonics from his right hand into his trouser band, then using the Safariland stainless handcuff key from his key ring, he found the valve stem on the rear tire and deflated it. He didn't want Soames using the bike for a getaway.

  Pocketing the key ring, Rourke snatched the Detonics from his belt again. A pistol in each hand once more, he sidestepped the bike, then pressed against the concrete tunnel wall and moved ahead again.

  The voices were louder now. "Well, go on then and call Varakov or whoever gets it— but let 'em know I brought it to you."

  "You are still worried General Varakov will come for you, perhaps sometime in the middle of the night, and kill you for molesting a child. He did not like you. You were afraid of him and he knew that."

  "Shut up," Soames snapped.

  Rourke took two steps ahead, into the small cone of yellow light from the niche in the tunnel wall just ahead, then turned, both guns leveled, looking into the tiny room.

  "I'll go along with that, Soames— but you two shut up," Rourke whispered, the safety catches down on both pistols as he aimed one at Soames and one at Veskovitch.

  "Who—"

  "Move and I kill you," Rourke interrupted.

  Soames started for the radio, a move Rourke hadn't anticipated from the paramilitary commander. Rourke fired the Detonics in his right hand, the slug tearing into Soames's left side, kicking the man back against the far wall.

  But Veskovitch was coming toward him, a pistol in his right hand, the gun firing.

  Rourke fired the Detonics in his left hand, but Veskovitch was already on him, the 185-grain .45 ACP

  slug tearing into Veskovitch's left leg. There was a loud cry of pain and anguish. The pistol in Veskovitch's right hand discharged and Rourke could feel heat against his own left hand, glancing down to it, as he smacked the .45 in his right down across the KGB man's neck. There was no wound in the hand, but the bullet had passed close, Rourke realized, perhaps just barely grazing his skin.

  The Russian's left fist was circling upward and Rourke's right forearm blocked it. The Russian was screaming, "The radio, Soames— smash it!"

  His left knee smashing up into the Russian's gunhand, Rourke looked over the KGB

  man's back. He could see Soames staggering away from the far wall, a pistol in his right hand aimed at the radio.

  Rourke tried bringing his right hand into position to shoot, but the Russian grappling with him shoved against him and the .45 discharged into the concrete over their heads, the slug ricocheting maddeningly off the concrete walls. Rourke backhanded the Detonics in his left hand across the KGB man's face, knocking him away.

  Then Rourke brought down the Detonics pistol in his right hand, raising the left one into position as well, both pistols discharging simultaneously, both slugs driving into Soames's center of mass. The Texas commander fell back, the Detective Special .38 in his right hand discharging into the floor at his feet.

  The echo of the gunshots still reverberating in the tiny room, almost deafeningly, Rourke wheeled right. The KGB man was raising his pistol to fire.

  No time to swing his guns on line, Rourke hurtled himself sideways toward the Russian. Both Rourke's pistols clattered to the floor as his left hand reached for the KGB man's gunhand, his right hand going for the throat.

  The agent's pistol discharged and for the first time, his ears ringing with the sound, Rourke noticed it— a Detonics .45, like his own, but blued. Rourke's left hand on the KGB man's wrist, he slammed the gunhand down, the pistol firing again.

  Rourke moved his hand from the Russian's throat and smashed his right fist across the man's jaw.

  The Russian's head snapped back and Rourke moved up on his haunches, straddling the KGB man's body. He studied the eyes— the lids were closed, not fluttering. Rourke, prying the man's fingers from the blue Detonics .45 then, bent low, trying to feel for breath. Rourke touched his fingers to the Russian's neck, then to the man's wrist. He raised the head slightly. However he'd hit the man, the neck had snapped and the Russian was dead. He hadn't wanted that.

  Rourke thumbed up the safety on the blue Detonics and rammed the pistol into his belt, intending to keep it. He found his own pistols, then walked the few steps to Soames. Despite three hits from Rourke's

  .45s, the paramilitary leader was still breathing.

  Gently, Rourke rolled Soames over. The wounds would make him die, but not for several minutes if his constitution were strong, Rourke determined. "Soames, how do you make your contacts?"

  "Go to hell...

  Rourke thumbed down the safety on the Detonics in his right hand, touching the muzzle to the traitor's left cheekbone. Almost softly, Rourke told him, "I can either let you die comfortably or painfully, Soames. You know I'm a doctor. I've got a small emergency kit under my coat," Rourke lied. "I can give you a shot." There was an emergency kit with syringes, but back on his bicycle. "Morphine? Sound good? You could linger for hours," Rourke lied again. He thumbed up the safety on the Detonics and shoved it in the holster under his left armpit, then did the same on the second pistol, placing
it in the holster under his right arm.

  As if he were uncaring, Rourke took the blue Detonics that had belonged to the KGB

  man and studied it, dumping the half-spent magazine, clearing the chamber. The pistol was in pristine condition, still wearing the original checkered walnut grips. He made a mental note to check the body and the room for spare magazines which were interchangeable with his own guns.

  "Well?" Rourke studied Soames's face— it was white, drained. Soames had a few minutes at most to live and Rourke hoped Soames didn't know it. "Die in pain or get the morphine shot?"

  "Gimme the shot," Soames grunted.

  "The radio first. Tell me how to make the contact. I try it, it works, then the shot."

  "All right, all right," Soames said through gritted teeth. "Songbird to Condor One, request— request relay." Soames coughed.

  "What relay?" Rourke asked, trying to keep his voice calm. Blood spurted from Soames's mouth when he coughed.

  "Request— relay— nineteen. Gets you—"

  "Through," Rourke finished, then bent over Randall Soames, thumbing the lids on the dead eyes closed.

  Rourke stood up. He walked over to the radio and flicked it on. He assumed they were using English on the radio— that way, if the signal were intercepted it would attract less attention. Rourke picked up the microphone, staring at it a moment, then at the men to whom the radio had been so important. "Songbird to Condor One," he called. "Requesting relay nineteen, over."

  In a moment the radio crackled and there was a voice. "Relay nineteen through to Condor One— stand by."

  Rourke lit one of his small cigars. He had no intention of going anywhere.

  Chapter 34

  "Harmon maybe is doin' the right thing," Mary Beth muttered, her eyes seemingly focused on the fire in the center of the cave floor.

  "What do you mean?" Sarah Rourke asked, naked under her blanket, trying to warm herself and rid her bones of the chill they'd felt ever since the swim that previous night.

  "With goin' up to Canada— all our men are gonna be dead by tomorrow afternoon. Some Army Intelligence fella that brings us supplies was out and left just before you and Harmon got here. He says the execution is on for tomorrow. To show the Resistance what'll happen if they keep up fightin'."

  Sarah sat there silently like the rest of the women in the cave. Harmon Kleinschmidt was sleeping farther back in the cave in what seemed like an additional chamber. Some of the women were half undressed, apparently none of them worried that Harmon would wake up and see them. Sarah huddled in her blanket. "Aren't you going to try to do something to save your husbands, your boyfriends?" she asked finally.

  "Like what, lady?" Mary Beth asked her, staring up and across the fire into Sarah's eyes.

  "Like," Sarah paused, "like a rescue attempt." Sarah concluded lamely.

  "Kleinschmidt can't do nothin'. He's gonna be laid up for a long time."

  "Well, we don't necessarily need a man to do it. We could do it ourselves."

  "We?" Mary Beth asked.

  "Well, I meant the women— not me personally. Women could rescue them; you don't need a man to lead you."

  "You volunteerin'?" Mary Beth's smile was something Sarah didn't like.

  "Well, I don't really know any—"

  "What I thought. Wind is all," Mary Beth snapped, looking back into the fire.

  Sarah Rourke could feel her cheeks getting hot. Perhaps a fever, she thought— from the cold of the water. But maybe something else, she realized.

  "All right," Sarah said, her voice low, so soft she could almost barely hear it herself. "All right," she said again, louder. "I'll do it. If you need someone to lead it, I'll do it."

  "What?"

  "I'll do it," she said, standing up, catching at the blanket and pulling it around her. She felt foolish suddenly and started toward the far end of the cave to find dry clothes. It was no time to lounge around talking with the girls. Somehow that made her feel more foolish now. "I'll do it," she said again without bothering to turn around. She wished, silently, that she knew how.

  Chapter 35

  Rourke sat at the radio, speaking slowly into the microphone, "This is John Rourke. Tell General Varakov I want to speak with him. It's important, more important than he could realize."

  Rourke stopped talking, listening to the static on the receiver. Then there was a voice, barely audible in the transmission, because it was at low power and relayed several times, bad as well. "One moment." The air went dead. Rourke waited, stubbing out his cigar, then lighting another one, rolling the dark tobacco into the left side of his mouth. He studied the receiver. It was powered by storage batteries and these were charged, apparently, by a foot-powered treadle off in the corner.

  "This is Varakov. Rourke?"

  "This is Rourke, General. Can we speak freely?"

  There was a pause for a moment. He wondered if Varakov thought that perhaps he had called to discuss the death of Karamatsov which both Varakov and Rourke had caused.

  "I suppose so," Varakov said. Rourke remembered the voice from the time in Texas, as he had rescued Chambers and forced Karamatsov to walk him out.

  "I have what I think you will agree is grievous news— and, frankly, I need your help," Rourke began.

  There was a long pause, then: "My help?"

  Rourke simply said, "Yes, because I think I understand you, and I respect you. I need your help."

  There was another long pause, then the tired voice came over the static of the speaker.

  "Tell me this thing, Rourke. I will only promise to listen."

  "Agreed, sir," Rourke said slowly. He started at the beginning, how he had rescued Sissy Wiznewski from the Brigands, what she had told him regarding the artificially created fault line that would very soon precipitate the earthquake which would sever Florida from the U.S. mainland, about the hundreds of thousands of lives that would be lost. Finally, before he concluded, Rourke added, "Maybe I have you figured wrong, but I don't think so. Can you help?"

  There was a long silence, and for a moment Rourke thought something had gone wrong with the transmission. "This is all true— you give me your word on this thing?"

  "To the best of my knowledge, General, yes."

  "You have seen this seismographic evidence with your own eyes?"

  "One sheet. The rest was lost with her bike."

  "You are a man of science. This is possible?"

  "I think so," Rourke admitted.

  "You ask that I make a truce, between your U.S. II forces and the Soviets?"

  "Temporary, of course."

  "Of course. What about the Cubans? You seriously think that they will believe you— or me?"

  "If we can get them to take it seriously enough, they'll evacuate themselves I suppose. Then your people and mine can move in and evacuate the civilians."

  "Why should I do this thing?"

  "I don't know," Rourke said honestly, staring at the speaker above the radio as if he could somehow see Varakov's face in it. "I don't know," Rourke repeated.

  "But you think that I will?"

  "Yes. If you can, I think that you will."

  "Natalia is there, on a mission with Colonel Miklov to negotiate with the Cubanos over a few minor difficulties. I can contact her, have her break the news to the Cuban commander. But you must do two things."

  "What?" Rourke said slowly.

  "I think this woman— Wiznewski with the strange first name— must go to Florida, show the piece of paper, talk to the Cuban commander. And perhaps you should go, too. If this is necessary, you promise me that you will not board a plane to evacuate until Major Tiemerovna has boarded as well? Agreed?"

  "Why do you say that?"

  "She will stay to help in the evacuation— you know that."

  "I suppose Natalia would," Rourke commented into the microphone, his mind suddenly filled with her image— the dark hair, the bright blue eyes, the softness of her, the courage, too.

  "Yes, she would. I agree. I
do not leave without her. And I suppose it would be necessary for the girl to go there. But as soon as they are convinced, I must get put in contact with your emergency commanders and the Cubans. My friend Paul Rubenstein is in Florida now. I'm not certain exactly where."

  "The Jew? I think I know. We thought at first it was you." Varakov outlined to Rourke a Soviet intelligence report on a single-handed attack on a Cuban detention camp. The young man had fought "like a lion," and most of the internees at the camp were Jews. "It must be Rubenstein. Yes, we will help you to find him— in exchange for your shepherding Major Tiemerovna."