Total War

by Jerry Ahern

  Sitting down beside him, she said, "All right. Tell me about the retreat."

  Rourke looked at her, then said, "Okay. I'll tell you about it. You never wanted to know before." He sighed. "It was a cave to begin with. I bought the piece of the mountain first, then sealed off the cave completely—waterproofed it, everything. Using the natural configuration of the rocks, I built a second home there—for all of us. A place we could use when we wanted just to get away from things. And a place that, if everything fell apart, we could go to and still live like human beings. I turned the mouth of the cave into a long hallway. At the end of it is the great room—the ceiling must be thirty feet high and it's natural rock. It's huge. It's the library, living room, recreation room—it's just where you live. Opening off that are three smaller rooms that are bedrooms. Another room with a full kitchen. Baths, everything. The electrical power comes from an underground spring that runs the generators I installed. Heating is electric—with the rock and the high ceilings you never need cooling."

  "It sounds like something from a science fiction movie."

  "Maybe," Rourke said. "But it's nice—beautiful, comfortable, secure. The air that comes into the place is all filtered and scrubbed. Far in the back I built a humidified greenhouse that uses electric plant lights—those things last almost forever. It's self-contained, an environment within an environment. Books, music, videotape equipment, enough rations for the four of us for a couple of years. I even laid up a supply of booze. It's not an arsenal. Most of my guns I have with me all the time. I keep a few there. A lot of ammunition there. But that's just for security if necessary, and for hunting, not for a war."

  "But if there were a collapse, John, wouldn't your retreat be discovered? I mean, how can you keep something like that hidden?"

  "Our retreat, Sarah," Rourke said. "And it wouldn't be discovered. From the outside it looks like just a granite outcropping of the mountain. The entrance is completely concealed. Nobody'd find it unless they knew it was there and made an organized search of the whole area to find the entrance. It's even got an emergency escape exit along the stream that powers the place. And the water is fresh. I've got a filtering system to use if necessary, but the water apparently stays deep underground for a long time. It's clearer and sweeter than anything you've ever drunk. The temperature of the water is so cold, the spring might start off up by Canada. There's no way to tell."

  She turned her face to his and said abruptly, "Why aren't you in Canada for your lecture, John?"

  "Simple," he said, his voice low, his eyes staring down at the ground between his boots. "I was in a helicopter with my Pakistani liaison officer. On the way out we saw the first prong of the Soviet invasion from the air. I've still got plenty of contacts with CIA and State. If the Russians don't pull out of Pakistan, we're going in with troops to push them out. And you know what that could start."

  "God, John, no. No one would be senseless enough to start a world war. I just can't believe that."

  "Well," Rourke said, "I hope you're right. In case you aren't, though, I wanted to try to persuade you to come to the retreat with the kids—stay with me there until this thing all blows over, or—"

  She cut him off. "Or until the war starts and we can't leave."

  "Something like that," he said, not looking at her.

  "You go to Canada," she whispered. "And when you come back, let's try to start over again. Maybe we'll even visit your—our—retreat. How long will you be gone?"

  "It's three days—with travel, make it four. I don't have to go."

  "Yes, you do. If I want to get myself psyched up for trying again, you've got to. Can you stay the night and leave in the morning?"

  "Do you want me to?"

  "Yes," Sarah said, her voice a whisper.

  Chapter Six

  "Commanche Nine holding at Fail Safe point, sir," the young airman droned, still studying the control panel before him. The captain behind him did not indicate whether he had heard him, but continued walking along the rank of thirty-six consoles on the mezzanine overlooking the Sioux Mountain Strategic Air Command Global Layout. The lights of the console blinked on and off in various colors, indicating the positions and statuses of flights. Many of the lights were glowing amber; those flights were all within a few air miles of the Soviet mainland, and the amber color indicated they were armed with nuclear warheads and holding at the Fail Safe point—poised to penetrate Soviet defenses, armed and ready, awaiting a digitally coded attack order. Once that was issued, only a specific, complex recall code could be issued to make the bombers pull out. At the end of the rank of consoles and blue-clad airmen monitoring them, the captain turned a corner and moved along the catwalk to the other side of the mammoth, amphitheater-like room. On this side, there was a nearly identical row of airmen, with nearly identical consoles. The map on the far wall of this room was nearly identical to the one on the other, but the lights were in different patterns and of different colors.

  Here, most of the lights were navy blue—Soviet Ilyushin 28 and Myasishchev 500 bombers holding on their Fail Safe points—just a respectable distance outside the continental United States.

  Lights changed, as the captain strolled past the map, but the numbers of them did not. There were quite a few more blue lights on this board than there were amber lights on the opposite board. The thought worried the captain slightly, and he made the decision that he should alert his superior to the numbers game scoring on the twin boards.

  He picked up the receiver of the white phone nearest him, dialed the code, and waited.

  "You must go, sweetheart. Just a precaution, but a president is human, too. How can I function at my best if I'm worried about your safety and the safety of the children?" He smiled at her, not the smile he had used on election night, nor the smile he used at press conferences when one of the network reporters asked an awkward question—but the smile he saved for her and the children. As he put his arms around her, he reflected that it was likely his only real smile. There was little else to smile about these days.

  "But, Andrew," she whispered, her cheek resting against the front of his blue three-piece suit, "why can't you go with us? You can run things just as well from Mt. Lincoln as you can from here. You've told me that yourself."

  "Marilyn," he whispered, trying not to sound as concerned as he felt, "If the president were to go to his war retreat, it would look like we expected a war—and that might help to bring one about. Unless we were holding an exercise—which we aren't—I simply cannot go there. The people, would think war was imminent if I did."

  "But isn't it, Andrew? The papers, the communiqués from Ambassador Stromberg? He's been back and forth to Russia twice in as many days."

  "I know, darling. The premier is running a bluff. That particle beam weapon he talks about is still only experimental. If Moscow were ringed with operational PB devices, we'd know about it. Unfortunately, the papers, TV—they just don't believe we're telling them the truth, that the Soviets are running the risk of a U.S. retaliation. The premier is simply refusing to admit the fact that we're still militarily superior. He's running a bluff, and if I have to, I'll call it. But I want to save his credibility, as well—if I can, if he'll let me. I know the problems he faces in his own leadership in the Kremlin. I'll be on the hot line with him soon. We'll work it out. Remember, darling, the premier is no amateur. He's a reasonable man, a seasoned politician. We'll talk like reasonable men."

  The president walked beside his wife down the hall and past the Oval Office to the narrow flight of stone steps leading to the driveway abutting the living quarters of the White House. The children were all waiting there. Andrew, Jr., seventeen; Louise, fourteen—named after her maternal grandmother—and Bobby, eight.

  "Hey, Daddy!" Bobby shouted, running up to the president, a toy space ship in his hands, its laser cannons blasting.

  The president bent down and swept the boy up into his arms. "And how are you, spaceman? "What's the latest word from Alpha Centauri?
"

  "Oh, Daddy—I'm just playin'."

  "Oh, okay," the president said. "How about giving the president a kiss—that's an order from the commander-in-chief of the space fleet."

  The boy wrapped his arms around his father's neck. The president's eyes met his wife's for a brief moment as he bent to set the boy down.

  "I want you to take care of your mother, Bob. You know she doesn't like helicopter rides. Oh, and I got Lieutenant Brightston to promise to haul out any videotape you want tonight and run it on the big screen at the mountain—so don't let him forget."

  "Gotcha," the boy said, reaching up for a quick kiss, then running off toward his older brother and sister who were standing by the curb.

  Out of the corner of his eye, the president saw his chief of staff, Paul Dorian, walking briskly down the steps, right hand raised discreetly, eyes boring toward him. "You go ahead, Marilyn," the president said, then waited, his shoulders hunched against the cold for Dorian to join him.

  "What is it, Paul?"

  "The full alert is in effect, sir. All standbys are cancelled—everything. Word from SAC Headquarters at Sioux Mountain is that the Russians are doing the same. CIA confirms that. So does Air Force intelligence, everything."

  "The hot line?"

  "Ready when you are, sir. The premier is available."

  "Good," the president said, but the word soured in his mouth. "Oh, Paul?"

  "Yes, Mr. President," Dorian said. "Let's go ahead with that drill on the Eden Project thing—just in case."

  The president studied the hard set Paul Dorian's eyes took. Mention of the Eden Project worried Dorian. As the president started toward his wife and children, to take the short walk to the White House lawn where his personal helicopter awaited, he thought, "All well and good." It was about time Paul Dorian started to worry.

  Chapter Seven

  Elizabeth Jordan brushed a wisp of blonde hair back from her forehead and tucked it under the thin wire band of her headset, then tapped out a response to Yuri Borstoi, who was on the other end of the hot line.

  "Yuri, word is that the president will be on the line soon. What do you think on your end? Liz."

  She waited as the satellite hook-up carried her message and as Yuri—the man she had known by satellite for three years—formed an answer. Like herself, Yuri was unmarried. At first jokingly, but in the last few months quite seriously, they had talked about meeting someday. The hot line was always kept open, testing and retesting that the vital link between East and West remained operational. And, when formal testing was not run, Administration almost encouraged a constant chatter along the line, to make sure it was in a constant state of readiness.

  She had never heard Yuri's voice but imagined what it was like. She had never seen his face, but they had described themselves to each other, and she had a fair enough idea of his looks. Now, as she waited for his reply, she tried to picture him. It was easy. His face was thin. He had said that he was a student nights at a Polytechnic Institute with a name she could not pronounce and that he didn't get enough sleep so there were dark circles under his eyes. His hair was black and straight. He was twenty-four—a year younger than she was. He had said his eyes were brown.

  "Liz," the message began, "I too am worried. Reasonable men—I should not say this—can do unreasonable things. The premier will be coming on in a—must go. I love you." He hadn't even had time for his signature. As the line went dead—the President and the Premier would be talking now—she realized too that it was the first time he had said, "I love you."

  Chapter Eight

  "I've read all the books and articles you put out, John. Fascinating stuff. The thing on hyperthermia should save a few lives, I'd say."

  "That's the idea, Major," Rourke said, slumping back into the overstuffed chair. "It was nice of you to invite me to your home, by the way."

  "Stranger in a strange country, and all that. Anyway, I had an ulterior motive," the Royal Canadian Mounted Police inspector said, smiling and handing Rourke a drink.

  Rourke took the whiskey and sipped at it, then said, "And what was your ulterior motive?"

  "As you probably know, John—It's not much of a secret—our services here are looking into quite a number of modern small arms for the military. Made me give some thought to weaponry for our specialized teams in RCMP. I know survival isn't your only thing. You know weapons too. Thought I might pry a few opinions from you while I ply you with some whiskey and my wife's home cooking."

  "Ply away," Rourke said, smiling.

  "Your mind is somewhere else, isn't it? That snowstorm sort of put the squeeze on your plans to fly out tonight. But the meteorology people are saying everything will be clear by midday tomorrow. Tonight, just take it easy."

  "I'm worried about my family—all this war talk."

  "Just talk, I think. I hope," the Canadian said brightly.

  "Change of subject," Rourke said, raising his voice slapping both knees. "Now, what do you want to know?"

  "Well," the inspector said, touching his left hand to his small moustache, "when you're not teaching survivalism, but instead working with counter-terrorist weapons, what do you use?"

  "You mean, which guns do I like best for myself—or which would I recommend for you?"

  "I've read your recommendations on various things more often than I can remember, John. But what about you? What do you use?"

  "All right," Rourke said, standing and walking toward the small library bar. Leaning against it, he said, "Short and sweet, then—I can smell dinner. I've got a lot of guns and knives and other stuff—but the things I really bank on are just a few. I always carry these." He spread his coat open, revealing the twin stainless steel Detonics .45s in their Alessi shoulder holsters. "Best automatic I know, bar none—when you consider effectiveness of the round they throw, reliability, and concealment characteristics. The stainless steel they use is the best quality. I almost never get the time to clean these things, and there isn't a spot of rust or corrosion. They work every time, and you can interchange the standard government model magazines, the whole bit."

  "What else?" the major said.

  "What else?" Rourke repeated. "When I'm in the field, I've got this Metalifed six-inch Python, had the barrel Mag-Na-Ported, got a set of .22 Long Rifle conversion chambers, and a barrel liner for it from Harry Owens—good for everything that way from a small bear in a pinch to a squirrel for the pot. Sometimes I use a Metalifed Colt Lawman snubby, too—when I want a third gun that I can conceal." Rourke paused and lit his cigar, and as he started to speak, he heard the inspector's wife coming.

  "I think you gentlemen might want to listen to the radio," she said, her voice subdued.

  Without saying anything else, the attractive, middle-aged woman walked over to a corner of the built-in bookcases beyond the bar and clicked on the radio in the stereo. "...told that informed sources indicate the U.S. president and the Soviet premier have just completed a lengthy conversation, and that nothing has been resolved. An anonymous high-ranking military source at the Pentagon in Washington indicates U.S. Long Range Strike Force elements—a mobile military unit comprised of persons from all U.S. services analogous to our Special Commandos—are at this moment being air-lifted toward Pakistan. Official Washington has been unavailable to confirm or deny this report. We now rejoin our regularly scheduled programming. More bulletins will be forthcoming as information becomes available." The inspector's wife clicked off the set.

  "That's Roger Carrigborne," the major said, mechanically, tossing down his drink. "Fine chap—one of the best of the reporters—"

  "I gotta get out of here," Rourke said, hammering down his half-emptied drink on the bar and spilling whiskey.

  Chapter Nine

  "My brother," the young soldier said, rubbing his hands to warm them, "has an easy job. He talks with this American girl on the satellite link between Moscow and Washington. That is all Yuri does. He even tells me he has fallen in love with her—though he never met
her. He is warm. I am cold. He talks with American girls—I guard empty trucks on a mountain pass in Pakistan. He sits on a chair—I stand in the snow. This is not right."

  "You talk too much," his sergeant said. The older man leaned against the fender of the nearest truck. "Ivan, I tell you the truth, the Americans may come and fight us. Some of our officers were speaking of this a few minutes ago."

  "Good," Ivan said. "At least it would give me something to do instead of standing here, freezing, holding this damned rifle."

  "I was sixteen and holding a rifle—with no bullets—at the siege of Stalingrad. Do not complain, young one," the sergeant said, his voice almost a whisper. "It was cold then, too, and I had holes in my boots. This night, I have bullets in my rifle and no holes in my boots. Things are better."

  "Why are we here, Sergeant?" the soldier said, his voice trembling with the cold.

  "We are Russians—that is why we are here. Tell me, Ivan Meliscovitch, do you and your brother who leads the easy life have a mother, or a sister?"

  "Two sisters, Comrade Sergeant. Our mother is dead."

  "Then you fight here for your sisters," the sergeant said. "Do not fight a war because you are trying to protect something you do not understand—politics, speeches. Fight to protect something you do understand and you will be stronger, fight harder. Hold on to life and be a brave man. I have three grandsons—younger than you. I fight for them. Years ago, I fought for my wife. But I cannot do that anymore." The sergeant's voice broke then, and he turned away and coughed.

  The young soldier, Ivan, cleared his throat and started to speak. "Comrade Sergeant, I am sorry." The last word caught in his throat as a bright red flower of blood sparkled suddenly across the bridge of his nose and he crumpled back against the truck, the Kalashnikov pattern assault rifle failing from his gloved fingers.

  The sergeant dropped flat down into the snow and rolled under the truck, glancing back and reaching out toward the dead boy—confirming that for himself—then slid under the belly of the truck, shouting, "We are under attack"'