The Doomsayer

by Jerry Ahern

  “There, I think!” The airman pointed toward the airfield control center, a complex of low buildings about five hundred yards away, nearer the water beyond the airfield than the runways.

  Rourke started running, shouting over his shoulder, “Thank you!” but the young airman was already turned around, helping a woman load a baby aboard the nearest aircraft.

  Chapter 47

  They were out of the city and there was no sign of Soviet pursuit. Sarah Rourke thought she knew why. The ground under the truck was shaking, and the rain was falling so heavily its color reminded her of staring through a cheaply made plastic drinking glass. It was almost impossible to see anything.

  “Mary Beth! Stop the truck!”

  The woman behind the wheel looked at her and hit the brakes, the truck skidding slightly, then grinding to a stop.

  Sarah Rourke turned out the window and looked into the rain again, then looked back at Mary Beth, saying, “You want to get them into hiding, where that fisherman took your children. But he was taking my children up the coast so we could get away. I’m leaving you now.”

  “You’re crazy. You’ll get killed out there alone.” Mary Beth called over the rain.

  Sarah smiled. “No I won’t.”

  She started out of the truck cab, the rain lashing at her, the long skirt of the dress plastered against her legs. “Get down!” she shouted to the Soviet major, gesturing with the MAC-10.

  The man looked at her a moment, then started out of the truck. “What are you doing, Sarah?” Mary Beth screamed.

  “I made this man a promise. I want to see it gets kept and nobody kills him.”

  There was a car coming down the highway-Russian, she thought. The car was swerving, the driver coming too fast in the rain. Sarah pressed herself against the side of the truck as the car skidded out of the oncoming lanes and across, narrowly missing the front of the truck and slamming into a utility pole.

  Sarah gestured with the MAC-10 and the Soviet major ran beside her toward the car.

  It was a recent, model, an American Ford. The two Soviet soldiers inside it were dead. She turned to the major. “Get the bodies out— and no funny business.”

  The Russian looked at her. “All right.”

  Sarah reached under her sodden dress, snatching the .45 automatic bound to her thigh, then cocking the hammer to full stand.

  She pointed the gun at the major, the Russian clearing the body from the back seat and placing it beside the man already on the ground.

  “Mary Beth— the gun!” Sarah held the MAC-10 out at arm’s length in her left hand.

  In a moment, Mary Beth was beside her. “You know what you’re doin’?”

  “Uh-huh,” Sarah answered. “Good luck to you all. Get out of here.”

  From the corner of her eye, she watched as Mary Beth ran back toward the truck, then climbed into the cab, the truck starting away.

  Sarah turned and looked at the Major. “You’ve been wearing a pistol all this time, haven’t you?” And she eyed the holster on his belt.

  “Not very efficient of you, madam.”

  Taking a step closer to him, she said quietly, rain streaming down from her hair and across her face, “Take it out and toss it into the bushes.”

  “Yes,” he answered, taking the gun slowly from the holster, eyeing her a moment, then tossing it away.

  “Now get your shoulder to that car; get behind the wheel or something. I want it away from that pole.”

  “It will not drive, probably.”

  She started to speak, then the major interrupted her. “I know— I’d better hope that it drives.” The major slowly climbed behind the wheel of the car. There was a groaning noise, but then after several false starts, the engine turned over and she gestured to the major to back the car up. She kept the gun pointed at his head.

  Sarah thought for an instant he was going to try to make a break, but the car stopped, and as she stepped back from the door he climbed out. “I can’t believe it,” he smiled. “Luck is with you today. The car drives.”

  “Now stand over there, by the utility pole,” she ordered.

  “For you to shoot me?”

  “You’d better hope—“ She stopped, hardly believing the sound coming from her own throat— laughter. The major was smiling, then he too began to laugh. He stepped back, slowly, still facing her and, as he reached the utility pole, she started into the car, behind the wheel.

  “Madam!”

  She looked into his face. He raised his right hand and saluted her, bowing slightly.

  “To another campaign, madam!”

  Sarah Rourke set the pistol down on the seat, put the gear selector into drive and started off the road shoulder, the rear wheels skidding in the mud. She could see the major, in the rearview mirror as she started onto the highway, still standing there in the rain beside the bent utility pole. The car sputtered, the windshield was cracked, and there was blood on the dashboard, but the car seemed to run adequately.

  Silently, she hoped the major made it alive.

  Chapter 48

  Rourke reached the blown-open front doors of the terminal complex, kicking aside a huge shard of broken glass as he ran through the puddled doorway and inside. What was Natalia doing here? he asked himself. But as he turned the corner into the main hallway, there was no time to search his mind for an answer.

  He stopped dead in his tracks. There were three dozen people in the room at the end of the hallway: men and women, some old, some Rourke’s own age or so.

  And Natalia was there, holding her tiny derringer pistol in her outstretched right hand. There were five Communist Cuban guards and one officer.

  Rourke flattened himself against the wall of the corridor and inched ahead, trying to make something of the Spanish coming from inside the room. “... This is immaterial to me, senorita. Until a secure Cuban aircraft can be landed, these prisoners will remain with me. I do not care for the idea of shooting a KGB officer, even a self-proclaimed one. However, if you do not, for the last time, step aside and leave this room immediately, my men will open fire. If you care so much for these American military personnel and their wives, then I should think you would not wish to risk their being killed while my men are shooting at you.”

  Then Rourke’s face creased into a smile. Natalia’s quiet, alto voice, the Spanish perfect, began, “Captain, aside from the fact that I outrank you, I also will shoot you in the face if you do not order your guards to put down their arms. Many of these people, if they ever were American military personnel, are likely retired. There is no real American military any more. Any purposes you might have to interrogate these people do not take precedence over the humane purpose of allowing them to be evacuated before this entire airfield is torn to pieces. Now,” she said as she gestured with the pistol, “stand out of my way or die!”

  Rourke shook his head, stepping away from the corridor wall, firing one of the Detonics pistols into an overstudded chair midway between where he stood and the entrance to the room at the end of the hall. “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?”

  “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.