The Prophet ts-7

by Jerry Ahern

  Rubenstein wasn't outdistancing him, but was keeping even as Rourke glanced left, the New Yorker with the high forehead pushing his glasses up on his nose again as he ran, his right hand holding the subgun tensioned on its sling away from his body. He was nearing a Jeep.

  "Go for it, Paul— watch if he hits the gas tank!"

  "Gotchya!"

  Rourke kept running, his heart pounding in his chest— he felt himself smile. Rubenstein was younger— Rourke threw himself against the timbers supporting the water tower, hearing the boom of the rifle overhead, hearing the pinging sound as a shot ricocheted off the Jeep behind which Paul had taken cover. There was the rattle of subgun fire, Rourke catching his breath, working his way around to the rear of the water tower. Assault rifle fire hammered into the timbers— from the low blockhouse.

  "Cole!" Rourke shouted, not knowing if the U.S. captain could hear him. But did Cole think he really still needed him? They had reached the base— if the missiles were here— but there was still Armand Teal, Rourke's old friend, the base commander— he was still to deal with.

  Assault rifle fire from the deuce and a half— the fire aimed toward him by the timbers ebbed.

  Rourke upped the safety catches on both Detonics pistols, holstering them in the double Alessi rig, securing the trigger guard breaks. He started up, hand over hand, diagonally, following the pattern of the cross timbers. He laughed at himself. In high school years ago, some of his friends had dared him to climb a water tower, to spray paint the name of the local football team there before the homecoming game. He'd declined it— vandalism. But now he was doing it— instead of with a can of spray paint, with two automatic pistols, a .357 Magnum revolver and a knife.

  Irony, he thought. "Irony."

  He kept going, more assault rifle fire hammering into the timbers around him, then answering fire from Cole and his men. There was fire from Natalia's position— he relied on her accuracy with his life, climbing under her line of fire to reach the parapet around the water tower where the sniper lay.

  He kept going, judging the distance remaining as perhaps thirty feet. The rattle, the chatter of Rubenstein's submachine gun. The boom of the sniper rifle.

  Twenty feet to go. Reaching out to a timber above him, the timber gave way, Rourke losing his balance, reaching out with his hands, finding the diagonal reaching support, his feet swinging in midair, then finding a purchase. He started up again.

  Fifteen feet to go.

  Rourke kept moving, more assault rifle fire coming at him, more answering fire, then the original fire ebbing.

  Once the sniper was removed— one way or the other— he thought, they could close with the men in the blockhouse. Ten feet. Five feet.

  Rourke swung under the parapet, the boom of the sniper rifle was what he was waiting for.

  He heard it, could hear the bolt being speed-cocked, pushed himself up, rolling onto the parapet, squinting against the rising sun as he snatched the Python from the flap holster on his right hip, the six inch, Metalifed and Mag-Na-Ported Colt snaking forward as the sniper turned, the muzzle of his rifle a gaping, black hole.

  "John— John? Here?"

  The voice. The face— worn, exhausted, oddly smiling.

  Rourke lowered the muzzle of the Python. "Armand Teal," he almost whispered. Without another word, Teal shouted at the top of his lungs, "Hold your fire! These are friends! Hold your fire!"

  The fire from the blockhouse stopped. The sun was fully up on the horizon now. It was quiet except for the shuffling of feet on the road surface below as the blockhouse began to empty.

  Chapter Two

  Sarah Rourke had dug the grave, her hands aching from the rough stick she had used to claw at the ground, Michael beside her scooping handfuls of dirt away still. It was shallow, but Millie Jenkins had only been a little girl, and the earth here would be deep enough to hold her, to cover her— forever.

  Sarah stared at the yawning grave— her spine tingled with what her husband John had once told her was a type of involuntary paroxysm. She called it terror.

  "That's deep enough," she whispered, reaching out and touching her son's shoulder.

  He looked up at her, his face and hands dirty from the dirt of the grave. More dirt as he smudged away sweat from his forehead.

  "It's deep enough," she repeated slowly.

  "I'm gonna kill every one of them."

  She turned around when she heard the voice— it was Bill Mulliner. "No, you're not," she whispered. "You have your mother to take care of— us to help take care of."

  She took her son's hand in hers, still looking at Bill Mulliner for an instant longer, then looking at Michael's hand. The bleeding had stopped as she removed the bandana handkerchief she'd used as a bandage. "You wash your hands, Michael— it'll hurt. Use soap with the canteen water."

  "You, too," he told her, smiling, his eyes not smiling, though. His right hand and her left had been wounded simultaneously as she'd held his hand, the edge of her hand, the fleshy part of his behind the thumb.

  "I will," she told him. "After we bury Millie."

  "I will, too, then— after we bury Millie."

  She only nodded...

  Mary Mulliner stood alone, even though Bill was beside her. He didn't reach out to his mother. He clenched his own hands together in prayer. Annie stood beside the grave, staring down into it, at the blanket-wrapped body of the slightly older little girl— a girl Annie had played with on and off since the morning after the Night of The War. Annie looked up at her then, Sarah hearing the words the little girl— her daughter— spoke. "Will the worms eat her— will they eat Millie up?

  On television once they talked about this man being buried and the worms ate his—"

  Sarah dropped to her knees, loosing Michael's hand, hugging the little girl to her. "Annie—

  don't—"

  Annie cried, like she used to cry when you told her she had done something wrong, Sarah thought. "Millie isn't here now," Sarah began. "She's gone to—"

  Sarah looked up. Bill Mulliner was singing.

  "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound—"

  His voice was poor, hoarse, choked sounding. Mary Mulliner began to sing as well.

  "That saved a wretch like me—"

  Sarah made herself join them, her own children silent, crying. "I once was lost—" she murmured...

  The grave was covered with rocks Annie and Michael had gathered, rocks of all sizes and colors, quartz types Sarah recognized— she had tried jewelry making once as a hobby— and others she couldn't. Bill Mulliner, an M-16 in his right hand, another slung cross-body across his back, stared away from them, at the grave, Sarah thought.

  "Don't know if David Balfry got hisself away," Bill's voice came, still choked sounding. "With Pete Critchfield away and all, though— there should still be a Resistance left, leastways— we'll find him. Find a safe place for you, Mrs. Rourke— and for Mom."

  "Yes, Bill," Sarah answered.

  "We can find 'em" Bill Mulliner said.

  Sarah said nothing— there was no choice with Soviet troops all throughout the countryside. And there was nowhere else to go, anyway. "Yes, Bill," she said again... Chapter Three

  The almost cylindrical-shaped coffin emitted a blue light— a ghostly light, Colonel Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy thought. He stared at the cylinder, the form inside it, the myriad lights on the console attached with electrical conduit to it. He turned to the man beside him. "When will you know, Dr. Vostov?"

  "You realize, colonel," the white-haired, white-coated man beside him began, removing his glasses, gesturing with his pipe, "that testing under field conditions is the only real way to evaluate—"

  "You realize, Comrade Doctor, that to test under actual field conditions is totally impossible."

  "This has not escaped me, Comrade Colonel." And Vostov looked away.

  Rozhdestvenskiy could see his own and the doctor' s reflection in the glass between them and the swirling blue lights of the coffin-like object
. "Perhaps if more of the details surrounding this Eden Project affair of the Americans were made available to me—"

  "You have been given, Comrade Doctor, as much of the scientific data as concerns the Eden Project as we ourselves have—"

  "Then perhaps," and he turned to face the doctor as he saw the doctor's reflected image on the glass, turning to face him, "Comrade Colonel— perhaps you have not the sufficient data yourself," and Vostov's eyebrows raised, the man replacing his glasses. "If the Americans placed such faith in this, this Eden Project, they evidently knew something which we do not, something perhaps we should know in order to achieve the success you so desire—"

  "The subject was a volunteer, was he not?"

  "The man in there? A volunteer given the choice of participating in the experiment or immediate execution— yes. I suppose he could be called a volunteer, Comrade Colonel."

  "His life signs?"

  "We do not know what to expect— of course they are not normal. I developed the serum— I have tested the serum— with only some success. Never on such a complex mechanism as the human body."

  "His physical condition was perfect, was it not?" Rozhdestvenskiy asked.

  Vostov smiled, removing his glasses again, sucking at his pipe, as if phrasing his answer— like a professor before a classroom of dolts, Rozhdestvenskiy thought. "No physical specimen is perfect. Even yourself, colonel. I have seen your medical records, all of the KGB Elite Corps medical records. Your weight and blood pressure and all other factors are perfect for your age, your physical size. You yourself are as close to a perfect physical specimen as one might wish to be."

  Rozhdestvenskiy smiled. "But?"

  "But— perfect as you are, have you never had a cold? A sudden mysterious and lingering pain, which then vanished? If we understood the human body perfectly, our task would be a simple one. If dormant cancer cells were present in the subject, for example, would the process trigger their activity? And, of course, the obvious question which has so beleaguered our previous research in the Soviet scientific establishment. A living body and a dead brain are useless."

  "I asked you— you have not answered me," and Rozhdestvenskiy returned his gaze to the cylinder beyond the glass, the blinking lights, the bluish haze emitting from the transparent upper portion. The cold, blue-seeming face inside. "When will you know?"

  "I shall attempt to discover the answer you seek— shortly. Very shortly."

  Rozhdestvenskiy sighed. "Shortly. The Womb— work here goes on apace, the weapons and supplies coming in. Should your experiment fail—"

  "Then we shall not," Vostov smiled into the glass, the sucking sound of his pipe audible in the otherwise total stillness. "We shall not be able to worry, hmm?"

  Rozhdestvenskiy continued to stare at the man inside the cylinder. "Live," he mentally ordered him.

  Chapter Four

  Teal picked up the rifle, then handed it across to Rourke. Rourke looked at it briefly. A Whitworth Express— Interarms had imported it— and the caliber was as Natalia had guessed,

  .357 H&H Magnum. The scope cost more than the rifle— a Kables.

  "Odd combination," Rourke smiled, setting the rifle down on the metal conference table.

  "Bought the rifle— had it custom stocked— like that barrel bedding. The thing would print minute of angle at two hundred yards with an el cheapo scope on it. Figured the rifle was fine—

  needed a better scope. My son was in Germany— he picked up the Kables for me when he was on a leave— that was—" And Teal stopped talking.

  Rourke cleared his throat, finding one of his dark tobacco cigars, lighting it in the blue-yellow flame of his Zippo. "I, ahh— I understand a lot of our people survived over there— still fighting the Russians— maybe Retch is still alive."

  "Yeah," Teal nodded, licking his lips, looking away. "Yeah— maybe— maybe he is."

  Rourke exhaled the smoke, watched it drift upward, then dissipate.

  "See— ahh— we don't know much here. Like you said about this new thing— U.S. II. And Sam Chambers being President— last I knew he was filling a new Cabinet post— science and technology."

  "He was the only one left."

  "How is he— I mean— a— a— a good President?"

  "He's got problems— he's trying his best," Rourke told him honestly.

  "You sure we can trust her?" Teal asked, looking at Natalia sitting between them, then at Rourke.

  "I am Russian— I don't want your people to have any more weapons. But I don't want either side to use any more. I'm his friend. You can trust me until I tell you that you can't," she answered for Rourke.

  "Seems fair," Teal shrugged. "Anyway— nothin' top secret about it. See— the Night of The War, like you folks call it— well. Ever heard of EMP?"

  Rourke nodded.

  "ENP?" It was Rubenstein, from Rourke's left.

  "EMP," Teal corrected.

  "Electro Magnetic Pulse," Rourke added.

  "A detonation sends shock waves through the atmosphere— the bigger the detonation and the higher up it is, the greater the shock-wave effect, roughly," Natalia said, looking past Rourke at Paul.

  "Mustn't have been too big or you folks woulda known about it," Teal said, his eyes moving, shifting from Rourke and past Rubenstein toward the other side of the conference table, where Cole sat, his two troopers stationed outside the bunker with the bunker defenders. "Wiped out all our communications— destroyed the printed circuitry in all our aircraft— nothing got off the ground after the first scramble. I don't even wanna think about those guys up there— suddenly, all their electrical systems go out— no communications— they—"

  Teal fell silent for a moment. "We got the communications restored after a while— scrounged up all the old vacuum tubes I could find and with Airman Raznewicz we made up a working radio. Couldn't reach too far with it though. Got several of the helicopters and a dozen fighters to where they'd work. Figured we'd at least have something our guys could use when we got help. But, ahh—" Teal lit a cigarette. "Got plenty of these— the BX just sent a shipment in day before it—

  it, ahh— happened. Enough for a couple thousand guys hooked like me for a—"

  "How did you survive, colonel?" Cole asked, Rourke looking at Cole across the table, then down into his hands.

  "With everybody on alert, I— ahh— I was in the command bunker here. With the intelligence people— you know?" He puffed on the cigarette. "In the intelligence vault. We got hit— no warning at all. The senior airman on vault duty jumped for the door and slammed it shut— he was on the outside. I wrote up a commendation for him— don't know if he has a family left to know about it. He saved our lives, though. For what, I—" Teal looked at his cigarette. "I thought— when we tried our communications— when we didn't get anybody. I thought maybe we were the last ones. All the old frequencies— dead. Lot of Soviet jamming. Didn't know—

  only eighteen of us survived the whole thing— most electronic intelligence guys, couple of senior officers.

  "There were television security monitors inside— that was before the pulse. We watched the missiles falling— thought we were all— but then people just started dying. You could watch

  'em— just dying. Sick— just, ahh—" Teal stopped, stubbing out his cigarette— a Marlboro—

  and taking another cigarette— a Winston. "See, I try all the different brands— so do the rest of the guys. So when one brand runs out, it won't be that— hard to take," and Teal sank his face into his hands. Rourke thought he heard a sob, covered up with a cough, then Teal looked up, his eyes wet.

  "Thought maybe— well— we were the only Americans left at all— anywhere."

  Rourke inhaled hard on his cigar— it had gone out. He took the Zippo and relit it.

  "Couldn't bury the guys when we got out," Teal continued. "Just too many of them— thirty-four hundred and twenty-eight. Thirty-four hundred and twenty-eight. Not just guys, women, too. Some wives and kids— my wife—"

&
nbsp; Teal stood up, his chair falling backward, slamming and echoing against the concrete floor. He walked away from the table, Rourke watching him, knowing everyone else was watching him, too.

  There was nothing to say...

  They sat now outside the bunker, the sun strong at nearly midday, Rourke eating a Milky Way from the BX, Natalia smoking from a fresh carton of cigarettes. "This is my brand— my favorite one. I always liked your American cigarettes," she said suddenly.

  "We hauled all the bodies," Teal began again suddenly. "Hauled 'em— over there," and Rourke followed with his eyes where Teal gestured— a burnt-out hangar across the field. "Took us—

  well— a long time. And the bodies— well. By that time— but we couldn't use a wooden structure— afraid the fire would spread. Had plenty of aircraft fuel though. So we doused all the bodies with it. One of the airmen used to live in Kentucky— worked at a fireworks factory for a while. Said he knew how to blow things up. We let him do it after I— I prayed—"

  Natalia dragged hard on the cigarette— a Pall Mall.

  Rubenstein visibly swallowed. "We did something like that— John and I did— we were on a plane— the Night of The War— some guys came along. We call 'em Brigands— men and women. They, ahh—"

  "A massacre," Rourke finished for him. "What about your position here— I didn't see eighteen men. The wildmen? That why the sniper post?"

  "Yeah— that and the Russians if we ever see 'em— guess we aren't important."

  Cole laughed.

  Rourke looked at him.

  "Wildmen— good a name as any," Teal laughed. "See— I'm the only qualified pilot. And I couldn't leave the base— give up my command— maybe there would be something we could do, you know? So I sent out four men— just to get the lay of the land. They had decontamination suits— everything. Should have come back. But they never came back— not at all." Teal lit a cigarette, Rourke watching as he took another bite of the Milky Way. With a medical kit, Natalia had cleaned and bandaged his left ear. He'd taken a painkiller— a mild one— but it had somehow made him hungry.

  "See," Teal continued. "We didn't have any idea about the outside world— figured the only way I could tell what to do, if there were anything to do— anything— well, we needed intelligence. Pretty much all we had left here. Intelligence men. I decided to risk three more men— if I could get volunteers. Well," and Teal threw down the cigarette, stubbing it out under the heel of his combat boot. "I got 'em," he sighed. "Only one of 'em returned. But he died right away afterward. He talked about these crazy guys— half-civilized, almost half-animal— like somethin' out of some el cheapo sci-fi movie, ya know?"