by Jerry Ahern
"Hold it— nobody moves!" he shouted in English, adding, "Sus mannos arriba!"
The Communist Cuban officer did just what Rourke had hoped, and turned to face his new challenger. As the captain moved, Natalia moved, the pistol in her hand flush against the side of the officer's head.
"Now, Captain," Rourke snapped in English. "I believe the young lady asked you and your men to do something. Order your men to drop their guns. Now!"
Natalia, her voice low, in English this time, said, "Or I will kill you, Captain."
The captain didn't move for a long moment, Rourke holding both Detonics pistols on the five guards, their AK-47s still on line against him.
"Do as they say," the officer shouted in Spanish. The guards then, one by one dropped their rifles to the floor.
"Now the pistol belts," Rourke commanded.
The Cuban officer nodded, and his men began to drop their pistol belts to the floor.
"Natalia, take the Captain's pistol."
Rourke started forward, the floor beginning again to shake under him. Rourke, jostled to the corridor wall, pushed himself to the doors of the room, then stepped inside, the shaking of the floor more violent. He looked at the Communist Cuban officer and muttered, "If I had the time right now, I'd beat the shit out of you. You're going to wait for a Cuban plane to take you back with your prisoners. You think anybody out there cares if this whole peninsula goes into the sea?
Can you imagine the tidal wave that'll hit Havana?"
Rourke backhanded the Cuban officer across the mouth with his left hand, the pistol jammed into his belt. "Idiot!" Rourke shouted.
"Come on," he said, starting the nearest of the refugees through the doorway. Then he turned to the Cuban guards, two of them holding up the officer, his mouth bleeding at the left corner. "You guys too—
no sense dying!"
There was a white-haired older man near him and Rourke snatched up one of the AK-47s, saying, "Can you handle one of these, sir?"
"I sure can, son," the old man said, prodding the muzzle at the nearest guard.
There was a sudden violent shaking of the ground beneath them, the walls of the building and the floor under their feet beginning to crack. "Get out of here!" Rourke hollered, grabbing Natalia's hand and starting to run with her, the refugees behind them. Rourke, still holding Natalia's hand, turned the corner into the entrance hallway, the roof starting to cave in, Rourke bending into his stride and hitting the shattered doorway and running out onto the airfield. He shot a glance behind him, over his left shoulder. He could see the white-haired man, a woman with him, the rest of the refugees, and even the Cubans running for their lives.
Rourke scanned the runway from side to side. In the minutes spent inside the building, the volume of the rain had increased, the cracks in the runway surfaces had broadened, and all but a few of the planes had cleared the field. There seemed to be no more aircraft coming in for landing.
There was only one plane not in motion, the DC-3 Rourke and Sissy Wiznewski had originally landed in. Rourke recognized the markings. "Over there!" Rourke shouted, starting to run toward it, still holding Natalia by the hand, one of the Detonics pistols in his right fist. The rain was falling so heavily he could barely see as he ran. He heard Natalia scream, turned and saw her falling. He caught her, the ground beneath them shaking so violently that Rourke too almost lost his balance.
He let go of the Russian girl's hand. He and Natalia helped the older refugees, some of the Cuban guards doing the same. The plane was still fifty yards away, Rourke gauged. And there was a crack, broadening almost imperceptibly, but expanding nonetheless. The crack was between them and the plane. Rourke started running again, helping an old woman across the field. There was only one plane on the field now, the DC-3, and one plane was landing. It was a twin-engine Beech-craft. Almost absentmindedly, Rourke noticed it from the corner of his right eye.
"Idiot," he thought.
The old woman started to collapse. Her cheeks were red with the exertion. Rourke jammed the Detonics into his belt beside the first gun, then swept the old woman up into his arms, running as best he could, jumping over the crack in the runway.
His feet sloshed through the deep puddles, the wind lashing the rain against his face. He heard himself shouting as he saw the DC-3's cargo door starting to close. "Wait! Wait! Don't leave!"
Then Rourke could see Natalia, just ahead of him, her dark hair plastered to the sides of her head, sprinting across the field, waving her arms toward the plane.
The plane was already taxiing, but as Natalia ran toward it, blocking its take-off path with her body, the plane suddenly stopped.
In a moment, Rourke was beside the fuselage, the cargo door opening, hands reaching down from inside as he handed up the old woman. He thought he heard her whisper, "God bless you, son."
Rourke turned around, seeing the white-haired old man with the AK-47, and beside him one of the Cuban guards, the two of them struggling an old woman aboard the aircraft. Natalia helped an old man clamber aboard.
Rourke looked back to the plane. "Not enough room!" the crewman in the cargo door was shouting. "I can't take four of you— too much weight!"
Rourke started to turn around, his eyes meeting Natalia's. She nodded.
Thoughts raced through Rourke's mind— Sarah, the children. If he died, what would become of them?
Then he looked beyond Natalia. "The damned plane over there! The Beechcraft! Come on!"
He started away from the plane. The white-haired man who'd carried the AK-47 and his wife were alone with Rourke and Natalia on the runway. Rourke had wanted it to be one of the Cuban guards, perhaps the Cuban officer. He started to shout something to the old man, but the man said, "It's all right."
Rourke started to shout, "No!" He stood there, then signaled to the crewman in the door of the DC-3.
"Come on!" he shouted to Natalia, to the old man and his wife. Rourke was already running across the field toward the Beechcraft.
Rourke shouted behind him, "I'll get to the plane first— stop them! Natalia, stay with them," and Rourke bent low, the rain pouring down on him as he went into a dead run toward the small plane at the far side of the runway.
The plane was taxiing, but Rourke couldn't be certain if it was just jockeying around the field or readying for take-off again. "Wait!" Rourke shouted. "Wait!"
Rourke kept running, snatching at the twin Detonics pistols rammed into his belt.
The ground was shaking so violently he could hardly move without falling; the cracks in the runway were widening. The plane was moving along the runway— away from him. Rourke raised both pistols into the rain-filled air and started firing them.
One shot, then another, then another, then two more. The plane wasn't slowing. Rourke kept firing. Another shot, then two rounds, then two more. He lost count, the one gun coming up empty, then the second pistol. But the plane was stopping.
Rourke jammed the guns, the actions still locked back, into his belt, then tried running faster toward the plane. The passenger door over the starboard wing opened. Rourke almost collapsed in relief. "Paul!
Paul!"
He could see Rubenstein, climbing down from the wing, running across the field toward him. As the two men met, Rourke sank forward, Rubenstein's outstretched arms catching at him.
"John! Thank God it's you!"
"Paul— what the hell are you doing here?"
"My parents, John— I've gotta find them."
"I was going to stay and look for you," Rourke said. "Try," he said as he swallowed hard, getting his breath, "try somehow to get the plane to set me down near St. Petersburg if it's still there."
"I don't think it is. My parents, though— they're here, I think."
"They may have' gotten out already," Rourke gasped.
"I've gotta know, John!"
Rourke just nodded, getting to his feet again. "I must get Natalia and an older man and his wife out. Use your plane."
"What?"
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"There!" and Rourke pointed behind him.
The ground was starting to break up now, the runway buckling in huge chunks. Paul Rubenstein didn't say anything. He started to run across the airfield, jumping the cracks, toward Natalia and the white-haired man and his wife. Rourke stood there, the rain pouring down on him, the wind rising so that he could barely stand erect against it.
Then Rourke started to run. Twenty-five yards ahead of him, he watched as Paul Rubenstein swept the older woman into his arms, kissing her, watched as the white-haired man hugged Rubenstein. Rourke watched as Natalia stepped back; then a smile came to her lips.
Rourke stopped running. "Jesus," he whispered. Somehow, out of all the refugees, the old man with the full shock of white hair and the woman with him were Paul Rubenstein's mother and father. Suddenly, Natalia was there, standing on her toes beside him, her lips close to his ear.
"John, I understand what is driving you, now— I do." And she kissed Rourke's cheek.
Rourke looked down at the Russian girl, then shouted across the field, "Come on Paul!"
Rourke grabbed Natalia's hand, then started toward the Beechcraft, reaching the open doorway, clambering up into the plane, bypassing the pilot. He spotted Rubenstein's motorcycle and whipped out his knife, cutting away the gear strapped to it. He rolled it toward the door. He shouted out to Paul, "Get you a new one, buddy. Never take the weight."
"Right!" Rubenstein helped Rourke offload the bike.
In moments, Natalia had gotten Paul's mother and father aboard the plane. Rubenstein himself was the last to board.
Rourke shouted to the pilot, "Get this thing going!"
"We'll never get out of here," the pilot shouted. Rourke climbed forward, looking over the man's shoulder. The runway was starting to split down the middle, the rain pouring down more heavily, the wind sock over the control tower spinning maddeningly. The ground was shaking beneath the plane. At the far edge of the field, Rourke could see a wall of water rising as a huge section of runway slipped across the beach area into the ocean.
"Bullshit!"
Rourke shoved the pilot out of the way and slipped behind the controls, "Paul, get in there as co-pilot!"
"I can't fly."
"I'll teach you— you'll love it!" Rourke shouted, throttling up the portside engine, then the starboard. Rourke touched his fingers to his lips, then to the control wheel.
"Hang on! Here we go."
Rourke started the plane across what was left of the runway, zigzagging despite the wind, trying to find a space clear enough of the massive, ever-widening cracks for a take-off.
"All right, now or never!" Rourke shouted. To his right beyond the tip of the starboard wing, there was a massive wall of water rising, the entire airfield starting to come apart and fall into the ocean.
Rourke throttled out and the plane lurched ahead, pumping over a crack in the runway, settling down on the runway surface again. Rourke glanced to his right. The water was rushing toward them, the runway half submerged, waves starting to slosh in front of the aircraft. "Now!" Rourke shouted, pulling up, throttling out, the plane rising unsteadily. The runway and the water now roared across it as it dropped off below them.
The control tower loomed up ahead and Rourke fought the controls, working the ailerons, trying to bank the plane to starboard to miss the control tower with the portside wing tip. "Pray!" Rourke shouted, feeling Natalia's hand on his thigh as he cut the controls, seeing the control tower drop off to his left, the building already starting to collapse.
As Rourke leveled off the twin Beechcraft, he looked down. Where there had seconds before been an airport runway, now there was ocean, waves surging as far as he could see.
Chapter 49
Sarah Rourke skidded the car to a halt. The brakes were bad, she thought, but at least it had gotten her to the beach. She could see the fisherman start toward her with the children from the rocks by the beach as she exited the car.
She ran across the rain-flooded highway, dropping to her knees in the water, hugging Michael and Annie to her.
She looked up at the fisherman. "Thank you. I just couldn't have gone back with them."
"I know, lady. That Kleinschmidt is a good fella, but comes on heavy. Hey—"
What was it, she thought. "I don't understand."
"Your name Sarah?"
"Yes, I thought you—" but she stopped. She'd sent the children down with Mary Beth, had never seen the fisherman from less than a distance of several hundred feet.
"I just put it together— you and them kids. Sarah and Michael and Annie," he said.
"Who?" Sarah started up to her feet, pushing the wet hair back from her eyes.
"He's gone now. Went to Texas there by the Louisiana border to U.S. II headquarters. Some kind of mission. Name of John Rourke. Was lookin' for you."
Sarah dropped back to her knees in the rain-flooded highway, hugging her wet children to her. "Daddy's alive!" John, she thought. John...
She could tell the difference. Now not only was there rain water running down her cheeks, but tears.
Sarah Rourke looked up at the fisherman. "After I get the horses, how far is it?"
"I don't follow you, lady."
"To Texas, I mean." She hugged Michael and Annie again, not hearing if he had answered her or not.
Chapter 50
John Rourke stood in the rain. He'd landed the Beech-craft because the plane had almost been out of fuel. As best he'd been able to judge from the maps, the plane was about twenty-five miles from Chambers and U.S. II headquarters.
Paul was sitting in the plane, talking to his parents, the pilot had gone to find some kind of transportation. The radio wasn't working well, too much static.
Beside Rourke stood Major Natalia Tiemerovna. "The truce will be over soon, John— it is over now, I think."
"At least it showed we're still human beings, didn't it?" Rourke said quietly, his left hand cupped over his dark tobacco cigar, his right arm around Natalia.
"You will go on looking?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Where do you plan to go?"
"The Carolinas, maybeGeorgia bySavannah . She was likely headed that way."
"I hope you find her— and the children."
Rourke looked at the Russian woman. Rainwater streamed down her face— and his.
"Thank you, Natalia."
The woman smiled, then lowered her eyes. She stood beside Rourke in the pouring down rain.
The End
Published by
peanutpress.com, Inc.
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ISBN: 0-7408-0311-5
First Peanut Press Edition
This edition published by
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FB2 document info
Document ID: 79ee6704-0d65-436b-a14e-11b80863bee8
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 19.12.2012
Created using: calibre 0.9.10, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Jerry Ahern
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