by neetha Napew
Natalia's help was the tactfu! way of handling the fact that Rourke had no
idea how well or how poorly the younger man could tie knots. And Rourke
very well understood the sort of training Natalia had undergone to become
a KGB field agent in the first place—rappelling would have been part of it
and she'd make the knot secure if Rubenstein didn't.
"Jt's set, John," Natalia's voice called down.
"Haul up on the rope—hurry up," Rourke called up. On the near end of the
rope, Rourke had Natalia's and Paul's winter jackets secured. The rope
started snaking upward. . . .
As Rourke huddled by the fire a few yards from the aircraft fuselage, the
water nearly boiling, he considered Rubenstein; the younger man had made
it down the embankment quite well. Not as professionally as Natalia had
let herself down, but well nonetheless.
The water in the pot was boiling and Rourke picked it up hy the handle,
his left hand still gloved and insulating his fingers; then he stood up.
He hated to, but he had to—he kicked out the fire. The darkness around him
was more real now as he started toward the glowing lightpf the Coleman
lamp in the fuselage.
The Space Blanket was wrapped around Natalia now, her coat being rather
light for the extreme cold of the night. Rourke was chilled still, despite
the fact that he had added the leather bomber-style jacket over his
sweater. Rubenstein looked positively frozen to the bone, Rourke thought.
"Paul—why don't you fish through the gear and find a bottle of whiskey? I
think we could all use a drink." Rourke smiled, watching Rubenstein's face
almost instantly brighten. The younger man was up and moving as Rourke
crouched down beside Natalia near the Coleman lamp.
"Here—I'll do that," she said, her gloved hands reaching for the pot of
no-longer-boiling water. "You hold the food packets."
"All right," Rourke murmured. There wasn't much of
the Mountain House food left in his gear and he'd have to
&#;*+
resupply once he got back to the Retreat, he reminded himself.
"Hope you like beef stroganoff," Rourke said, holding the first of the
opened packets up for her to add the water.
"Do you remember the camp we had that night before you scouted for the
Brigands and the Paramils—in Texas?"
"Yes," Rourke told her.
"Should I get drunk again?" She smiled. "But it wouldn't do me any good,
would it?"
Rourke, balancing one of the Mountain House packs, then opening another,
said nothing. He turned to call to Rubenstein, still searching for the
bottle. "Food's on, Taul."
"John," Natalia's alto insisted. "You remember that? I called you Mr.
Goodie-Goodie, didn't I."
"It doesn't matter," Rourke told her, his voice a whisper.
"I think I loved you then, too," she said matter-of-factly.
Rourke looked into her eyes a moment. "I think I loved you then, too."
"I won't see you after we get out of here, after this storm—will I?"
Rourke didn't answer.
Rubenstein came up, an unopened quart bottle of Seagram's Seven in his
hands. "This bottle's cold—least we won't need any ice, huh?" The younger
man laughed.
"Here, Paul." Natalia handed Rubenstein the first of the three packs, the
one with the hottest water added. Rourke exchanged a glance with her and
she smiled.
Rubenstein took the pack of beef stroganoff and settled himself beside the
Coleman lamp. "Like old
times—out there on the desert in Texas," Rubenstein remarked, giving the
food a final stir.
"John and I were just saying that," Natalia told him.
"This is good." Rubenstein's garbled voice came back through a mouthful of
food.
Rourke broke the seal on the whiskey bottle, twisting open the cap and
handing the bottle to Natalia. "I'll get a cup for you," he started.
"No—like we did that other time." She smiled, putting the bottle to her
lips and tilting her head back to let the liquid flow through the bottle's
neck and into her mouth. Rourke watched her, intently.
She handed him the bottle and, not wiping it, he touched the mouth of the
bottle to his lips, taking a long swallow; then, as he passed the bottle
to Rubenstein, he said to her—Natalia—"Like we did the other time."
He glanced at Rubenstein for a moment, but the younger man, having already
set the bottle down, was smiling and saying, "Not like I did the other
time. I can still remember the headache." And he continued with his food.
. . ,
Natalia lay in Rourke's arms, the Coleman lamp extinguished. Rubenstein
was taking a turn at watch just inside the open cargo hatch of the
fuselage. "You'll pick up the search for Sarah and the children? I'd help
if I could."
"I don't suppose it matters; an intelligence operative of Reed's in
Savannah, retired Army guy, reactivated for this—"
"The Resistance? I wonder if it has a prayer," she mused.
"I don't think that's the point of it anyway," Rourke whispered to her in
the darkness. "It's the doing that
matters, the results are secondary. But he got word to Reed at U.S. II
headquarters that he'd made a positive identification of Sarah and Michael
and Annie—they were heading toward U.S. II headquarters."
"But—"
Rourke cut her off. "U.S. II headquarters was moving out so your people
wouldn't make a raid and catch Chambers. And Sarah and the children
couldn't make it across the Mississippi valley anyway—the radiation. So
I've gotta stop them—before they get into the fallout zone."
"If somehow we learn anything in Chicago, I will or my uncle will—we'll
get word to you, somehow."
"I know that," Rourke answered.
"I hope you find them, John—and that they are well, and whole, and that
you can make a life for them. Somewhere."
"The Retreat," Rourke said emotionlessly. "The Retreat—only place safe.
It's safe against anything except a direct hit, enough supplies to live
for years, growing lights for the plants to replenish the oxygen—and that
stream gives me electrical power. I can seal the place to make it
airtight. But Sarah was right in a way; it is a cave. I don't know if I
can see raising two children in a cave—even a cave with all the
conveniences."
"You don't have any choice—you didn't start the war," she said, her voice
suddenly guilt-tinged he thought.
"Neither did you, Natalia—neither did you," he murmured. She leaned
tighter against him and he held her tighter.
"If I close my eyes, I can imagine it."
"What?" he asked, feeling dumb for saying it.
'That things were different and we could he—" She didn't finish the
thought.
Rourke touched his lips to her forehead as he leaned back, her head on his
shoulder. As he closed his eyes, he murmured the word that she hadn't
said—"lovers." He listened to the evenness of her breathing long past the
time he should have fallen asleep. ...
Using the rope—all of it—Rourke and Natalia had engineered a pulley system
fo
r getting the bikes up onto the highway. And he was committed now, he
knew: The storm showed no signs of abating, but the longer he delayed
taking up the search, the closer Sarah and the children might get to the
irradiated zone, the rnore chance there was that they would slip through
his fingers. He wanted to catch up with them in the Caro-linas—it was the
only chance now.
It was the only chance now, because without the plane, it would be
impossible to drop Natalia safely near Russian-dominated
territory—northern Indiana. Rourke's original plan had been to leave
Natalia where she would be safe, then to drop Paul in Tennessee. He would
have flown then as close to Savannah as possible—he and Paul catching
Sarah and the children between them.
The very act of starting one motorcycle toward the road was a commitment
to abandon the shelter of the aircraft fuselage, for one man by himself
could not control the bike and get the bike elevated—even with Natalia
helping him. And now, as Rourke coiled the last of the ropes, hisownHarley
and Paul's bike as well on the road surface, he glanced back down to the
shelter of the fuselage. He was already chilled, despite the fact that he
wore fwo pairs oi jeans, three shirts, his crew-necked
sweater, and jacket. Using spare bootlaces, he had secured Natalia's
sleeping bag over her coat, to give her added warmth. She would ride
behind Paul on his bike.
The plan was simple—the only one possible under the circumstances. The
heart of the storm seemed to be to the south and west. With luck, Paul and
Natalia would be driving out of the storm while he, Rourke, drove into it.
With its intensity, Rourke assumed it couldn't last much longer at any
event.
Rourke would start from Tennessee and cut down into Georgia, perhaps as
far down as the massive craters that had once been metropolitan Atlanta;
he still had a Geiger counter, as did Paut. Then he would zigzag back and
forth with his farthest range being the lower Carolinas. Paul, after
leaving Natalia in safe territory, would travel back, retracing the route
down from northern Indiana to Tennessee, then strike straight for Savannah
from there. With luck one of them would intercept Sarah and Michael and
Annie. In two weeks, he and Paul would rendezvous at the Retreat—hopefully
one of them with Rourke s family in tow.
The Metalifed and Mag-Na-Ported six-inch Colt Python in the flap holster
at his waist, Rourke began making a last minute check of his gear. The
Python and his other guns had been freshly lubricated with Break-Free CLP
which would resist the sub-freezing temperatures. The Lowe Alpine Systems
Loco pack was secure behind the seat of the Low Rider, the CAR- wrapped
in plastic and secured to the pack, a blanket under the plastic to protect
the gun in the event of a skid. He glanced along the icy road surface; a
skid was highly likely.
He started his bike, letting the engine warm up as he walked back toward
Natalia and Paul. Rubenstein's bike
was already loaded and started.
Rubenstein started to say something, but Rourke cut him off. He wasn't
certain why, but an urgency seemed now to obsess him. "You memorized those
strategic fuel supply locations so you can get gasoline?"
"Yes—yeah, I did," the younger man said, looking strange without his
glasses; but with the snow falling, it would have been impossible to see
through them.
"And (ake it real slow—really slow until you start getting out of this.
Just be careful all the way, even after you've gotten through the
weather—a sudden temperature—"
"John—I'll do all right. Take it easy." Rubenstein extended his gloved
right hand, then pulled the glove away.
Rourke hesitated a moment, then pulled off his own glove. "I know you will
Paui—I know. I just—ahh . . ." Rourke simply shook his head, clamping his
jaw tight and wishing he had a cigar there to chew on.
"I'll walk you back to your motorcycle," Natalia said quietly, taking
Rourke's bare right hand as soon as he released Paul's grip.
"All right," Rourke answered her softly. "I'll see you Paul."
"Yeah, John. I'll be right behind you real soon."
Rourke simply nodded, then started back toward his machine, feeling the
pressure of Natalia's hand inside his. Her hand was warm. He looked at her
once, then looked away. One of his big bandanna handkerchiefs was tied
over her head to cover her ears; his own ears were freezing. It was blue,
making the blueness of her eyes even bluer. The sleeping bag bound around
her made her figure virtually vanish under it and finally, as they
stopped beside his Harley, without looking at her he murmured, "If you
ever need to disguise yourself as a plump Russian peasant girl that's the
perfect outfit."
He felt her hand let go of his, then her hand on his face as he turned to
her.
"I love you, John Rourke—I'll always love you. Forever." She kissed his
mouth hard, and he thought he saw a faint trace of a smile—a strained
smile—on her face. She turned and ran away, almost slipping once on the
ice as he watched her. She clambered aboard the snow-splotched bright blue
Harley Low Rider and didn't look back as Rubenstein gunned the machine,
shot a wave over his shoulder, and started off.
John Rourke stood there for a moment—cold. He was alone. It was a lifelong
habit.
Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna hugged her arms tightly around Paul
Rubenstein; she thought of him as a brother, as Rourke thought of him.
Rourke had said it to her more than once. She held Paul in order to stay
aboard the slowly moving motorcycle, and for the warmth his body
radiated—and to give him the warmth of her body.
It had been three hours by the face of her ladies' Rolex and the ice and
snow had allowed them, she estimated, not more than a hundred miles,
perhaps less. "Do you think the storm will intensify as John heads south?"
she asked.
There was no answer from Rubenstein. She repeated the question—louder. "Do
you think the storm will intensify—as John goes south, Paul?"
"I think so. May be slacking up a little soon for us— looks like it up—"
"Paul!" It was the first time he'd turned his face toward her in more than
an hour. His eyebrows were crusted over with ice, his face red and raw to
the point of bleeding on his cheeks. She suddenly realized that while his
body had shielded hers from the wind, his face had had nothing to protect
it. "Stop the bike—now. You have
to," she shouted to him.
"What—" But then he shook his head slowly and she could hear the sounds of
engine compressionas he geared down, making the stop slowly to avoid a
skid. They had almost had one perhaps ten miles back but Rubenstein had
kept the bike aright somehow, although Natalia didn't know how he had done
it.
The bike slowed then, stopping, slipping a little as Paul shifted his
weight, Natalia's feet going out to balance it as well. "You let me
drive," she said, dismounting.
Paul looked at
her, his eyes tearing from the wind, but smiling despite
it. "If I let anything happen to your face—well, aside from the fact
John'd never forgive me—I wouldn't forgive myself," he told her.
She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him a moment, then stepped
back.
She had long ago resigned herself to Rourke's chauvinism—and liked it in
her heart. And Rubenstein treated her the same way. She pulled the
blue-and-white bandanna from her hair, her ears instantly feeling the
cold. She started toward Rubenstein again, saying, "Then you tie this over
your face and stop for five minutes every half-hour—either that or I don't
go another mile, Paul."
"But—"
"No!" She decided then that if Paul insisted on treating her like a woman,
then she could treat him like a little boy—and impose her will. She bound
the handkerchief at the back of his neck, pulling up the sides until the
handkerchief covered all his face just below his eyes. "You look very,
very much like a bandit—a handsome bandit." She smiled.
Rubenstein shook his head, shrugging his shoulders,
his voice sounding slightly muffled as he said, "We go again?"
"Yes—if you think you can. But only for a half-hour—then a rest."
"Agreed," Rubenstein told her, straddling the Harley once more. She
climbed on behind him. As the machine started along the road, she huddled
her head down into the sleeping bag which formed a collar for her—at least
as much as she could, for her ears tingled already with the cold despite
her hair covering them.
She had bathed his face and now massaged it as they huddled from the
slightly diminished storm under the shelter of a bridge, ground clothes
anchored to the bike and to the bridge itself to form a windbreak for
them. It was dark—night had come early because of the darkness that had
filled the skies throughout the day. "You don't have to—"
She cut him off. "I massage your face because I love you and want you to
be well."
He turned and looked at her. "You don't have to—"
"I do. I love both of you. You know that."