by Jerry Ahern
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 fac
e 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.”
“She was a Captain,” Rourke said.
“I promoted her— for bravery. You understand?”
Rourke smiled, wishing for a moment he could see the old man’s face, wondering what it looked like now. Were the eyes sad, was there still humor there?
“Yes, General. How do we contact each other? I can bring this radio to headquarters with me.”
There was a pause. “Yes. I would speak with this Mr. Chambers and arrange the details of the truce. Did you—“ Rourke smiled. “Soames? The child molester? Did I kill him?”
“Yes... I assume.. .” The voice trailed off.
“Your man Veskovitch was very brave and died well. If he had a family—“ Rourke let the sentence hang.
“I will see that they know. Good-bye for now, Rourke.” The radio went dead. Rourke sat there by the yellow light, not saying anything, not thinking anything. There was a picture now, vivid in his mind, and he almost wanted it to go away. It was an indefinite and changing picture. Sometimes a face, sometimes a way of standing or walking— and sometimes, if a voice could be pictured, it was a voice. Natalia. They were to meet again, he knew.
Chapter 36
“The fact is, General Santiago, that if these misdirected actions of your line commanders near the border continue, it will do nothing to further the cause of harmonious relations between your people and ours,” Miklov said in perfect Spanish. Then he leaned back from across the table, seemingly studying the Cuban commander’s face across the highly polished wood separating them.
Natalia had played tennis often before the Night of the War. But she had always more enjoyed watching it well-played by two worthwhile adversaries. As she turned her head now to look at Santiago, she felt a similar feeling. It was up to Santiago either to volley the ball Miklov had served or lose the match.
“But according to the reports of my line commanders, Colonel Miklov, there have been no such incidents beyond the course of normal patrolling or pursuit of an escaping Resistance fighter and the like. There have been no intentional incursions into your country’s space.”
Natalia looked back at Miklov, smiling. “But General Santiago must realize that whatever the cause for border incursions, that again they do little to promote harmonious relations. It is my hope that such incursions can be stopped completely and this is my purpose here— to discuss these matters and work out a mutually equitable solution.”
Natalia began to turn to Santiago, but then her eyes drifted across the room to a white-coated, dark-skinned steward entering the room. The man stopped beside Santiago and placed a silver tray on the table before him. Santiago unfolded a note on the tray, nodded to the steward, and returned the note to the tray. The steward picked up the tray and left. Santiago looked at her a moment, then said, “My dear Major Tiemerovna, there is a radio-telephone message for you. You may take it on the telephone in your room if you wish.”
“Thank you.” Natalia stood and both Santiago and Miklov began to rise. “Please, gentlemen,” she murmured, sweeping past the end of the table and touching the fingers of her left hand to Santiago’s epauletted shoulder as she walked by.
Natalia crossed the room, feeling Santiago’s eyes on her, then opened the double doors and walked through the doorway, closing them behind her. She leaned against the door a moment, looking down at the carpet beneath her feet. The caller had to be Varakov, she knew. She pushed away from the door and started toward the stairs, running up to the second floor of the house, then to the door of her room, quickly opening it. She walked inside and closed the door behind her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, smoothing her skirt under her, she lifted the telephone receiver, pulling off an earring as she brought the earpiece up. “This is Major Tiemerovna,” she said into the receiver.
“Natalia, listen carefully,” her uncle’s voice began. “Rourke called me— the news he had was important. He used one of our own radio receivers. That is not important, though. Listen carefully.”
Natalia looked down at her lap, then past the hem of her light blue skirt, along her bare legs and to her feet, then along the blue carpet and toward the glass doors leading onto the balcony and past the open curtains. She could just see the ocean beyond. “John Rourke,” she whispered into the telephone. She heard her uncle telling her of the impending destruction of Florida, the meeting she had to arrange under a flag of truce for Rourke and the Wiznewski woman with General Santiago. She heard all of it, but the words that most stayed with her were, “John Rourke.” She would see him again....
For several minutes after the conversation with her uncle she lay back across the bed. It was incredibly new to her, the idea that she could love someone and yet debate whether or not she should try to kill him.
Chapter 37
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about, fella,” the red-faced, beer-bellied man told Rubenstein, then turned back to work on his boat.
“Captain Reed gave me your name, Tolliver. He said you were the man down here.”
“I don’t know no Captain Reed. Now get out of here!”
Paul Rubenstein, the sun glaring down on him, his legs tensed, realized then he’d been balling his fists opened and closed. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed the florid-faced Tolliver by the left shoulder and spun him around, his right fist flashing out and catching the larger man at the base of the chin, the man falling back across the front of his boat.
Tolliver pushed himself up onto his elbows, squinting at Rubenstein. “Who the hell are you, boy?”
“I told you,” Rubenstein said, his voice low. “My name is Paul Rubenstein. I’m just a guy who needs your help. I know Captain Reed of U.S. II. He gave me your name when I told him I was coming down here. Now you’re bigger than I am, probably stronger, but believe me, I can be meaner— I learned since the Night of the War. Now,” Rubenstein shouted, “I need your help!”
“Doin’ what?”
“You ever go down by the camp— the big one?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m going to break everybody out of there— and you’re going to help me.”
“You’re full of shit, boy.”
Rubenstein glanced over his shoulder, saw no one by the sandy cove where he’d found Tolliver working on his beached boat. Then Rubenstein reached under his leather jacket and pulled out the Browning High Power, shoving the muzzle less than two in
ches from Tolliver’s nose. The hammer went back with an audible double click. “If you can sleep nights seeing those people in there, then whatever I could do to you would be a favor. You either help me round up some people in the Resistance to get those folks out of there, or I’m killing you where you stand.”
“You’re the one caused all that fracas there this morning, ain’t you?”
Rubenstein nodded, then said, “Yeah— I am.”
“Put the gun away. Why the hell didn’t you say so in the first place. I’ll help, then we can all get ourselves killed together. Never fancied much dying alone, if you get my drift.”
Rubenstein raised the safety on the Browning and started to shift it down when there was a blur in front of his eyes. Tolliver’s right fist moved and Rubenstein fell back into the sand, starting to grab for his gun.
“Now take it easy, fella. That was just to make us even. You shoot me, and you’ll never find the Resistance people.”
And Tolliver’s big florid face creased into a smile, and he stuck out his right hand.
Rubbing his jaw with his left hand, Rubenstein looked at the bigger man— then they both started to laugh.
Chapter 38
Rourke opened the hatch on the DC-7 and looked out across the airfield. He could tell General Santiago by the ensignia on the collars of his G.I.-style fatigues; but the only face Rourke recognized was that of Natalia. He looked at her eyes, saw the recognition there and then threw down the ladder.
“Come on, Sissy,” he said to the girl standing a little behind him.
Rourke started down the ladder to the runway, helping the girl. As Rourke turned to start across the field toward Santiago and Natalia, he stopped, his hands frozen away from his body, frozen in the movement of sweeping up toward the twin Detonics pistols under his coat. There was a semicircle of men, Cuban soldiers, with AK-47s in their hands, their muzzles pointed at him.