The Doomsayer

by Jerry Ahern

  Chapter 21

  Sarah Rourke slipped down from the rough wooden pier and into the icy water. She pushed her dark hair back from her eyes, looking around her, listening for sounds other than the lapping of the water against the pylons supporting the wooden walkway above.

  She’d considered carrying the boning knife in her teeth— aside from pirates in movies, she’d seen John do that once, years ago. They’d been swimming with friends, and a child’s foot had gotten entangled in something below the surface. John Rourke, seemingly without considering what to do at all, had simply snatched a knife from somewhere, clamped it between his teeth, and jumped overboard, moments later surfacing with the child— saving the little boy’s life.

  But she decided against carrying the knife in her teeth, reasoning that if she accidentally dropped it, the knife would fall to the bottom and be lost.

  She began to swim, having treaded water sufficiently long enough to get her body accustomed to the cold. She’d swum in high school and kept it up as a sport over the years until she could almost outswim John. As she moved as soundlessly as possible through the water, she thought about that. She could almost do it as well as John, her husband. Was that the problem? She’d once been sitting in her studio at the farm house, John drinking coffee, watching her work. She’d asked him to trade places with her, to sit at her work table and try his hand at a sketch. He’d been reluctant, but she’d insisted and he had finally agreed. He hadn’t wanted to draw from imagination, but she’d insisted on that too. After ten minutes she looked— against his protests— at the sketch. It was of two men, fighting in some jungle. The detail of their muscles, limbs, the expressions on their faces, the detail of the foliage around them— all of it had been almost photographically perfect, as far as he’d gone. But he hadn’t finished it.

  She’d begun to wonder then if there were anything John Rourke couldn’t do when he half tried. But she realized Rourke never half tried. It was always one hundred per cent with him.

  She stopped, treading water again. The boat she wanted to steal was just ahead of her and, except for the distant and shadowy form of a Soviet guard at the far end of the pier, there was no one in sight. She tucked down under the water, swimming toward the boat. The owner had a sense of humor, she thought. The name on the boat was Ta-ob, “boat” spelled backwards.

  With Michael and little Annie helping, she had gotten Harmon Kleinschmidt out of the farmhouse and on Sam, John’s horse. Michael had ridden with him, to alert her if the wounded Resistance fighter began to pass out or fall from the saddle.

  There was a farm some ten miles off where Kleinschmidt had friends— a man in his seventies and his wife, the woman perhaps in her late sixties. The man, Arlo Coin, had agreed to keep the horses and agreed to use his pickup truck to get Sarah and the others near Savannah. He had converted the engine to run on pure alcohol, this distilled from weeds and grass on his farm. He had told Sarah he had been doing it for years before the War and saw no problems with keeping it up. Coin had insisted on helping them once they’d hidden the truck, stating flatly that Kleinschmidt was too weak to walk unaided and too heavy for Sarah or the children to handle. Sarah had agreed, but reluctantly. Then Kleinschmidt had told her not to worry. Reaching under his coat he’d pulled a revolver. She remembered, as he showed it to her, Coin saying, “Smith & Wesson .38/44 Heavy Duty— one of the best guns anybody ever made. Had her since 1937. Never needed another.”

  Sarah stopped now, touching the hull of the Ta-ob under the water, then surfacing, taking in air. Despite the swim, she was cold with just the shorts and T-shirt on. She waited in the water, listening for any sign of someone on deck or in the cabin; there were no lights. She swam toward the bow, stopping, finding a small ladder along the starboard side. She reached out, grabbing the first rung, then started up, the boning knife secure in a plastic bag tied at her waist. As she stepped out of the water and stood crouched on the ladder, the air temperature and the night wind chilled her even more.

  She ripped the knife from the bag with her left hand; her right grasped to the railing on the side of the ladder.

  Then, the knife clenched in her left fist, she peered up over the side and into the boat. Nothing.

  Sarah went up the rest of the ladder and swung onto the deck, the knife transferred to her right hand now. Still in a crouch to stay below the level of the sides of the boat, she moved aft, finding the angular, ladder-like steps leading below. The transom was not locked. She assumed that was some Soviet edict, allowing for easier inspection of the boats at the pier. She started down the steps, into the darkness, leaving the transom open a crack above her.

  As she reached the below deck cabin, Sarah Rourke froze. Clearly she heard footsteps on the deck just above her head. She shivered, but it wasn’t the cold and the wetness of her improvised swimsuit. The transom lid was opening.

  Chapter 22

  Rourke, his coat off, his pistol belt and rifle on the floor beside him, leaned back in the leather easy chair and looked down into the fireplace.

  “Do you always wear those guns in that shoulder holster? I’d think they would feel just so heavy.” Sissy remarked.

  Rourke didn’t look away from the fire. “It feels uncomfortable when you’re first getting used to it, but I’ve been wearing a double holster for a long time. I don’t really notice it anymore. It feels more uncomfortable to be unarmed,” Rourke added.

  He lit a cigar with his Zippo, then stood up, feeling like a caged animal. He wanted Chambers to show up; he wanted Chambers to comprehend the magnitude of the impending Florida disaster; he wanted Chambers to take the ball. Rourke would then get air transport to Florida, attempt to find Paul if there was time, help Paul find his parents, then get out. There were still Sarah and the children to locate, somewhere in northern or east-central Georgia.

  Rourke studied the flickering of the fire’s flames. He knew what had to be done, but wondered if Chambers would have the sense to do it. It was the only reason Rourke had decided to take the offered flight to U.S. II headquarters near the Louisiana-Texas border.

  There was a highly polished, twelve-inch Bowie knife on a plaque over the mantle. Rourke studied it intently. Double quillon guard of brass, this, too, highly polished. He reached up, feeling the false edge— it was sharp.

  “Rourke— is it Doctor Rourke or Mr. Rourke?—! can never decide what I should call you, sir!”

  Rourke turned around, noticing that the woman was already standing. Slowly, eyeing Chambers, Rourke said, “Mr. President, it’s good to see you again.

  “And you must be Sissy Wiznewski. the seismologist who has some alarming news for us,” Chambers said, taking a few steps toward the girl. He shook her hand warmly.

  Rourke watched, listened— he decided Samuel Chambers was a somewhat different man, perhaps now more used to being President. But President of what, Rourke wondered?

  “Tell the President the alarming news, Sissy,” Rourke said, echoing Chambers’s tone.

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “I do,” Rourke interrupted, resenting the time being wasted. “She belonged to a group of scientists studying fault lines and earthquake activity in the Appalachian chain, part of a comparative survey with the San Andreas fault line on the Continental and Pacific plates. Most of their instruments kept working after the Night of the War. Correct me if I screw up anything,” Rourke said to Sissy, then continued to address Chambers. “They began picking up readings on what appears to be a massive artificially created fault line— probably a result of the bombing on the Night of the War. Anytime now, certainly within the next few days, there will be a massive quake, similar to the one along the San Andreas line that caused California to separate from the Continental plate and fall into the sea. The Florida Peninsula will separate from the Florida Panhandle. It’s a lead-pipe cinch according to her instruments.

  “That cover it?” Rourke concluded.

  “More or less.”

  “Mother of
God!” Chambers sank down into the leather easy chair Rourke had vacated moments earlier.

  Rourke lit a cigar, snapping the butt of the old one into the fireplace after firing the fresh one with it.

  “That just— just can’t be,” Chambers sighed, his voice a stammering monotone.

  “Here, Mr. President.” Sissy Wiznewski handed Chambers the one seismograph printout that she’d carried under her coat when Rourke had rescued her from the Brigands. “If you have a science advisor available, he could certainly confirm the readings. He might interpret them differently, but I don’t see where there’s any choice really.”

  “What do you mean?” Chambers looked up at her, the lines in his face deepened.

  “Well, I mean, I don’t want to presume—“

  “Evacuate as much of Florida as you can while there’s still time, if there’s still time,” Rourke interjected.

  “Yes, that’s it, really— we have to—“

  “Wait,” Chambers interrupted. “Evacuate? Florida? The Cuban Communists control it, how could we?”

  “There’s a way, to do something at least,” Rourke began, stepping away from the mantle, standing in front of Chambers’s chair.

  “I don’t—“

  “You don’t have the airpower, and even if you did, you need a truce with the Communist Cubans. You probably need their help.”

  “Their help!”

  “I think I know a way we can get it— from the Russians.”

  “You’re crazy, Rourke. They want to see us dead.”

  “Maybe they do,” Rourke told him. “Maybe there’s an advantage in this for them, too, though. If we don’t get some sort of truce for the duration of this thing— this should be the greatest loss of life in recorded history, with the exception of the Night of the War itself.”

  Chambers, his eyes glassy and hard-set, stared up at Rourke. “What do we do?”

  “Has Captain Reed told you there’s a traitor in U.S. II?”

  “A traitor? What do you mean?”

  “I’ll explain, but right now in order to contact General Varakov, I’ve got to find the traitor— fast.”

  Rourke turned around, faced the hearth a moment. Then he snapped the glowing cigar butt into the fire. The fire was undisturbed. Rourke hoped what he had said to Chambers had greater impact.

  Chapter 23

  Sarah Rourke clutched the boning knife, drawing back as tightly as possible against the starboard bulkhead at the base of the steps. She could hear the transom lid creaking open above her at the head of the steps. There was a cold rush of air as the transom opened. A beam of light followed— not natural light, she thought, but a flashlight. She watched, hardly daring to breathe, feeling the water dripping down from her hair, her blue T-shirt, her pink shorts.

  Her eyes opened wider as the flashlight beam stopped, the light unwavering on a puddle of water on the floor where she had just stood. She heard a voice from the top of the steps, a man’s voice; but the words were unintelligible to her— Russian. She didn’t move.

  The voice came again, but this time in halting English. “Who is ever down here, come out or I shoot you!”

  She pressed her wet shoulder blades back harder against the bulkhead, wishing she’d brought a gun, perhaps wrapped the .45 automatic in plastic or something. “Who is ever here, come out. Now!”

  Again, she remained motionless. She heard the voice— in Russian this time— grunt a word. She was happy she didn’t know what the word meant. She could hear footsteps starting down the steps, toward her.

  Sarah raised the knife, not really thinking about it, but suddenly aware that she was holding it up, ready to drive it down.

  The footsteps stopped; she could see a uniformed back, a Russian soldier’s cap, the profile of a rifle in the hands. She tried to move the knife downward, but couldn’t. The man’s back was within inches of her. She held her breath.

  She watched, feeling as though she were witnessing a scene unfolding in a movie. He was turning around, now facing her. The light was in her eyes, and in the gray area beyond the light she could barely discern the features of the man belonging to the Russian voice. “Your hands up!”

  “No!” She screamed, hammering the knife down out of the shadow beyond the light. The knife drove into the front of the uniformed body, her right wrist feeling as though it would break as the knife stopped.

  There was a loud sound of metal falling to the deck between them— the rifle, she realized. There was a hand coming at her, the hand holding the flashlight moving too, the light weaving in a crazy pattern on the cabin ceiling. She felt the hand closing around her throat. She pulled back on the knife handle, almost falling and losing her balance as the knife pulled free from the soldier’s chest. She could see the flashlight moving, raising high, then coming down. She moved the knife again, punching it straight forward in her hand.

  The flashlight clattered to the deck; Sarah felt something warm and wet all over her right hand. She reached up with her left hand, the soldier’s right hand still on her throat. She was starting to black out, trying to pry the fingers loose. Then she started to fall forward, the soldier’s body under her in the darkness of the deck. She let go of the knife, fighting to breathe. He was strong.

  With both hands she pried at his fingers, the grip loosening a little. She reached behind her, catching up the flashlight, hammering the flashlight against the hand, the fingers falling away from her throat.

  The flashlight slipped from her fingers. As she picked it up, she saw red-fingerprints on the lens, like something over an illuminated microscope. Her fingers were sticky with blood.

  She started to get up, then stopped. Crouched, leaning against the bulkhead, she spoke: “God...”

  She dropped the flashlight, closing her eyes. Her knife blade had sliced down through the soldier’s cheek and imbedded in his throat. Those dead eyes— she could still see them in the darkness, staring at her.

  Chapter 24

  Natalia found her way beyond the veranda to the beach, looking up and down its length and not seeing Diego Santiago. She smiled. It would have amused her if after she had intentionally solicited the swim he stood her up.

  “Diego?” she said, looking at the dark, white-crested surf. “Diego?” There was no answer.

  She turned, starting back up the beach, then heard a shout from behind her and turned back to look toward the water. “Here, Natalia, here!”

  She raised her right arm for a long, lazy wave toward the figure she saw emerging from the surf, running up the beach toward her. There was enough moonlight that she could see him well. It was Santiago, wet from the swim, his black, curly hair plastered to his forehead. He stopped a yard away from her.

  “Turn around so I can look at you,” he commanded. She smiled. As she turned a full 360 degrees, she opened the white jacket belted around her waist; the jacket dropped from her shoulders and back to her elbows as she faced him again. “Do you approve, Comrade General?”

  “Si— yes, I do indeed, Comrade Major.”

  Santiago laughed and so did Natalia. He started toward her and she took a step nearer to him. As he reached out his arms, she turned around. “Thank you,” she said and shrugged the rest of the way out of the white terry cloth jacket. There was a white-painted metal chair a few feet away by the seawall and she pointed toward it. “Would you?”

  “Of course,” Santiago said, his voice less filled with enthusiasm. She handed him the bag. He looked at her. “This is very heavy.”

  “I have my gun in it,” she told him, smiling.

  “Ha-ha! Honest— I like that.” Santiago laughed, then strode across the sand. She watched him as he set the jacket and purse on the chair, then turned to face her.

  “I will race you into the water!” she shouted, running across the sand, her shoes kicked away.

  Natalia hit the water, hearing the heavy breathing of Santiago beside her. Throwing herself into the surf as the waves flowed around her legs, she then swam out ove
r the first ridge of breakers. The water felt cold to her. She hadn’t swum in an ocean for more than a year, she recalled. She turned toward the beach, swimming until she could stand, then walking from the surf, hugging her hands against her elbows, seeing Santiago coming out of the water a few feet away from her.

  “Senorita Natalia, por favor...

  She turned back and looked at him, brushing hair back from her forehead. “What is it, Diego?” Natalia said.

  He walked toward her and this time she did nothing, standing there, waiting for what she knew was inevitable. “What is it, Diego?” she repeated.

  “Are you trying to seduce me, or to make me seduce you?” he asked, water dripping from his mustache and from the dark hair on his chest.

  “Don’t be silly,” she told him.

  “Then why are you here with me, now?”

  “I like the ocean,” she told him honestly. Then, looking into his eyes, she said softly, “I’m cold now.”

  He took a step closer and she let him put his arms around her, felt his hands on her wet back. She closed her eyes as she felt him kiss her. It was not as easy as it had been before, she thought, when she had only been married but not yet in love.

  Chapter 25

  Rubenstein muttered, “God!” The thing crawling quickly around the base of the palm tree behind which he was hidden looked to be the largest roach he’d ever seen in his life. “Eyuck!” he hissed to himself. He’d read an article once about roaches, and it surprised him not at all that they survived the Night of the War. Some scientists theorized that if all other life on the planet were to be killed, roaches and rats might still thrive. This was a wood roach or American cockroach, he thought.