The Prophet ts-7

by Jerry Ahern

"Shithead!" Critchfield looked back at Sarah, saying, "Excuse me, ma'am—" then looked at Curley. "Didn't catch her name— moron! You get that submarine back and tell that Gundersen fella to tell Dr. John Rourke we got his wife and two children here all safe and sound and he can come and get 'em when he gets here."

  "But— I can't— the sub won't open a frequency with me for another hour—"

  "Then you goddamned well tell 'em then!"

  Critchfield turned away walking across the underground shelters s main room, Sarah hearing the hum of the electric generator as Critchfield walked, watching his face.

  She looked up from the wounded man she was attending. "My husband?"

  "There was a radio communication from a U.S. nuclear submarine on the west coast— whatever the hell the west coast is— we made the link to U.S. II headquarters for this Commander Gundersen. Him and me— we talked a little— then I hadda go relieve Bill Mulliner on guard duty— left Curley there monitoring the link— you know how— well, maybe you don't— but radio communications like this is funny— change in the air currents or somethin'. And there was lots of static— maybe all that thunder in the skies all the time. Anyways— Curley there heard them talkin' about a Dr. John Rourke and two friends of his— some Russian woman who's on our side maybe a little or leastways helped them out and a fella named Paul—"

  "A Russian woman and a man named Paul,"

  Sarah nodded.

  "Anyways— Curley there— the asshole— excuse me again, ma'am," Critchfield shrugged, his face reddening, "he didn't say nothin' about you and the children. But they'll be talkin' again in an hour— Curley says. Then maybe we can put you and your husband on the radio together and talk a bit— then he can come here and get ya."

  "John," Sarah said— to talk to John Rourke. How long had it been.

  She couldn't talk now— she just nodded her head and botched the bandage on the man she was helping.

  "You relax there, ma'am," Critchfield smiled suddenly as she looked up. "I gotta send Bill Mulliner off with some guys down into Georgia a ways— there's a Resistance group down there I gotta contact. U.S. II wants us to get a headcount of still operating groups and warn 'em Balfry maybe talked."

  "Yes," she nodded, the word all she could say.

  "I'll have Bill run down and say good-bye." She nodded, licking her lips— she tried the bandage again.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  She sat with Bill Mulliner, on the steps leading into the underground shelter, the house above them in the light through the open hatchway burned, some timbers remaining that laced a shadow across Bill's face as he sat beside her, his eyes looking down.

  "I'm glad for you, ma'am— you findin' your husband."

  "I don't know if I'll know what to say— all those times we fought over his preparing for—

  well— his preoccupation with survivalism. He was right— I could have been with him in his Retreat if I'd ever let him tell me where it was— or take us there."

  "But I'm glad for knowin' ya, Mrs. Rourke— powerful glad."

  She hugged her left arm around the boy's shoulders. "And I'm glad for knowing you, Bill—

  without your strength— the children and I wouldn't have—"

  "Seems like you do real good on your own, ma'am," he laughed, but the laughter hollow sounding to her.

  "Well— well, appearances are one thing— but to have a man to turn to— to know you were there these last days— I— I don't know what I would have done without you," and she kissed him, hard on the lips like she would have kissed a man twice his age, closer her own age. She turned her face away, feeling embarrassed slightly, wringing her hands together over her knees, her feet spread wide apart on the steps below her, but her knees locked together tight.

  She heard Bill Mulliner breathing. "Ma'am— hope I meet a girl again— and she's— ahh— she's like you," and she turned to look at him but he was standing up, running up the steps.

  Sarah Rourke closed her eyes— tight, like her knees were tight and her throat was tight. Tight.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  They used an old pickup truck that worked four-wheel drive— sometimes anyway, Bill Mulliner had determined. They were near the border with Georgia and he knew the area where they were going. It wasn't far from the little town he'd gone to once with the church group— Helen. It had been a Swiss village— right there in Georgia. He smiled, thinking about it— about the girl in the church group who had held his hand when they'd walked through the shops there.

  His hands held the steering wheel now— too tightly.

  The Resistance group— they had a name he couldn't remember— was hiding in the wild area in what had been the park around Anna Ruby Falls— he'd gone there once when he was really little, his mother had told him, kissing him good-bye as he'd boarded the truck.

  He didn't remember it.

  The truck jarred, bounced— the road was mudrutted and bad, the gravel and clay slippery as he tried to hold the steering to keep them on the road and out of the yawning ditches on each side.

  There were better roads— modern highways. But there would be Russians on them.

  Here there would only be Brigands— and there were usually fewer of them, fewer and less wellarmed these days. They had run out of people to steal from, towns to loot, food and weapons to kill for.

  They wandered the countryside— sometimes heavily armed— but sometimes like scavengers. Kings once, they had thought themselves to be, he considered.

  Now like lepers.

  But dangerous lepers still— he watched the trees as did the man beside him in the cab and the men in the open bed of the truck behind the cab.

  He could see their eyes, the leaness, the intensity their stares gave to their features as they watched the woods. Life would never be the same again, he suddenly thought.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Commander Gundersen leaned against the radio, wanted to hammer his fist against it. He didn't. If the radio broke he wouldn't be able to contact U.S. II.

  "They are there— with you?" He said it into the microphone, not bothering with pro-words, call signs. He was too angry, too saddened for that.

  "This is Undergrounder— affirmative on that, Bathtub."

  The idiocy of the words they used— it amazed him. The idiocy of the entire thing.

  By now, Rourke would be aboard his plane— the radio from the submarine wouldn't reach him— Rourke would keep the radio off to avoid Soviet detection. "Shit," Gundersen rasped, turning away from the set.

  "Sir— what'll I—"

  Gundersen looked behind him at the radio operator.

  "Tell 'em— tell Mrs. Rourke— Jesus Christ, what'll I tell Mrs. Rourke?"

  He stood there, balling his fists. In his mind, he said, "Mrs. Rourke— see, your husband left almost an hour ago. If he isn't at the plane by now, well— he will be soon and there's no way to reach him. He's planning to look around Tennessee— just stay there and maybe he'll find you—

  isn't that big a state, is it— Tennessee?"

  He shook his head. "Sir— what'll I—"

  "Tell Mrs. Rourke that— ohh, Christ— I'll tell her—"

  Gundersen picked up the microphone, then set it down again for an instant.

  He didn't know what to say at all.

  Chapter Fifty

  General Ishmael Varakov sat in his seat behind his littered desk in his office without walls, the only face left for him to see without disgust that of Cathenne.

  He looked up, calling out across the museum hall to her. "Catherine!" He called again.

  "Catherine!"

  He looked back to his desk, his papers— no word of Rourke, no word of his niece.

  In seven to ten days— perhaps far less— it would all be done. Soon, very soon, finding them would only prove useless.

  "Catherine!"

  He looked up and she stood in front of his desk.

  "Comrade General!"

  He sighed, loudly, his feet hurti
ng. He stood up, stuffing his feet as best he could into his shoes.

  "You have a mother who lives?"

  "Yes, Comrade General— on a collective farm near Minsk."

  "I am ordering her transported— to a villa I own on the Black Sea— it is still beautiful there. See to it that the orders are written. And you have a brother?"

  "Yes, Comrade General— he fights with our forces in northern Italy, I think."

  "Send my orders to his commanding general— I outrank the man. Your brother is ordered to my villa on the Black Sea as well."

  "But— but, Comrade General, I—"

  He walked— the effort great because he was very tired. He passed around the desk, taking Catherine's hands in his, taking the notebook and pencil from her.

  "We are all going to die— you should be with the ones you love at this time, Catherine, and you will issue my orders for your transportation as well— this is top priority. You will want for nothing there. You will be with the ones you love."

  Her eyes— wet, tearing, looked up into his. "I will issue the orders for my mother, Comrade General— and for my brother. To be together. I will not issue the orders for my own transportation."

  "You are loyal, child— but you must be with the ones you love, now."

  "I will stay here, Comrade General," and she cast her eyes down, her voice so low, so hoarse, he could barely hear her words. "I will be with the one I love, then."

  Varakov closed his eyes, folding the girl into his arms.

  They would all die, he knew— unless he could find Rourke and Natalia— and soon.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Rourke had placed the three motorcycles aboard the fighter bomber, Natalia and Paul— his left arm slung, useless because of the spear wound until it healed— having removed as much of the camouflage as necessary.

  He started forward, seating himself behind the main console in the nose section, testing his electrical system.

  Destroy Filmore Air Force base, fly to as near the Retreat as possible, then get the plane camouflaged once again. Go to the Retreat, get the truck, come back for the supplies, leave Paul to recuperate and read the note Natalia insisted he read, the note from her uncle. If it had been urgent, it was not urgent now, he thought.

  So much time had elapsed.

  Then regardless of the note, before doing whatever it was General Varakov was so insistent about— find his wife, his children.

  Sarah--Michael--Annie--Rourke exhaled a long sigh, chewing down on his cigar as he watched the gauges rise. It was stuffy— but he didn't want to start the climate control systems panel yet. There was still more to check out.

  What could Varakov want? he wondered. Perhaps Natalia's position had become untenable and Varakov merely wanted her with him— safe. Rourke smiled— he hardly considered himself safe, or anyone with him.

  But whatever, the note would not be the important thing. It would be secondary. He would search Tennessee, search for Resistance units— perhaps one had seen something of a woman and two children. Were they still on horseback? he wondered.

  He smiled as he thought of the animals— Tildie, his wife's, and Sam, his own, the big gray with the black mane and tail and four black stockings.

  It would be good to ride with them again— to ride Sam, to ride with Sarah.

  He could hear the thunder as it rumbled in the sky. He would maintain radio silence to avoid accidental Soviet detection. He imagined static would be unbearable at the higher altitudes anyway. He kept checking his instruments...

  Filmore Air Force base came into view as Rourke, flying low as he planned to do cross country, came over the ridge of rocks. He adjusted his altitude to match the lower level of the valley floor, beginning his attack run.

  "John— if it will be easier," Natalia's voice came through his headset radio, "I can launch the missiles from my controls."

  Rourke nodded in his helmet. "No— I'll do it," he told her, his face mask clouding a little as he spoke. He overflew the field, climbing slightly to bank, mentally picking his targets on the computer grids, verifying with the television optical unit mounted under the nose that the base was still untouched and the assault would be necessary. There were human figures on the ground— wildmen, from the quick look at them. There would be some left, wandering, leaderless.

  Their loss would be necessary— and useful, too. He finished the bank, rolling over into a level flight path, checking his angle of attack indicator, his approach indexer, these mounted to his left front.

  He reached out his gloved-left hand, his right on the control stick, adjusting the switches on his air combat maneuver panel.

  Rourke overflew the field again, climbing to bank, the rollover, then leveling off, his weapons systems panel controls armed. He checked the wing sweep indicator on his lower left.

  "Going in," he said into the headset microphone built into his helmet.

  He poised his left hand over the controls— he fired, a Phoenix missile targeting toward the ammo dump, the ammo dump suddenly exploding as he launched the second Phoenix, the armory erupting into a fireball. He did a slight rollover, banking to port, leveling off, loosing a cluster of 24Mk82 580-pound mass iron bombs, pulling his nose up, the plane light now as the weight of the pylons was gone from the wings, the bombs impacting and exploding as he swung his visual scanning television monitor rearward, watching it as he nosed up and climbed.

  The runway was gone— there would be a crater there once the smoke and debris and flame cleared— there would be no runway. He switched the TFR, the terrain-following radar helping him as he dropped his altitude, to maintain a constant elevation regardless of the ripples and rises in the terrain.

  "We're going home," Rourke said quietly. Neither Paul Rubenstein nor Natalia answered him.

  But he hadn't expected they would.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The Womb radar system— once the Mt. Thunder North American Air Defense Command Center Radar in the Colorado Rockies— showed a blip.

  The technician punched the alert button, in the next instant his supervisor was beside him.

  "Comrade Lieutenant— this is not in our approach paths for the field— flying low— a TFR

  flight— hypersonic— the pattern of the blip matches that of the American F-111— perhaps a variant."

  He looked up at the lieutenant, taking his eyes off the blip for an instant.

  "I will contact weapons—" The lieutenant picked up the red telephone receiver from its red cradle on the console.

  "Radar has a confirmed American blip— F-111 type fighter attack bomber— request use of the particle beam weapons system. Yes, comrade— I will hold."

  The technician watched his blip.

  "It is moving fast, comrade— at approximately eight hundred miles per hour—"

  "Comrade— we are losing the blip," he heard the lieutenant say.

  "It is leaving my screen, Comrade Lieutenant," the technician said, watching the green blip fading to his left.

  "Very good, comrade," and the technician heard the receiver click down to its carriage— he didn't take his eyes from the radar screen to watch it.

  "Use of the particle beam weapons system was denied."

  "The blip is lost, Comrade Lieutenant," the technician said.

  "Let him live— at least for a bit longer." And the lieutenant laughed.

  The technician kept his eyes on the screen— perhaps there would be another one— or if this blip returned, to attack the field, perhaps then the particle beam weapons system would be employed. He had seen the test when it had been installed days earlier at the Womb. The pencil-thin beam of light, barely visible— the drone aircraft had been vaporized, disintegrated— it had been the most impressive thing he had ever seen. He watched his dull radar panel again— nothing but supply craft for the Womb.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Sarah Rourke walked slowly past the burned farmhouse— it was so much like her own home—

  gone.<
br />
  And now John was gone again— with the Russian woman— the name of the woman, the submarine commander had told her, was Major Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna. She rolled the name, trying to taste it— she hadn't asked if the woman was beautiful. And the man he traveled with— Paul Rubenstein. She had no doubt that if the woman— this major— were the woman of either John Rourke or the man Paul Rubenstein that she was John's woman. She smiled for a moment, stopping her walk— what woman, given the option to be, would not be John Rourke's woman.

  Except perhaps herself— it had crossed her mind more than once before the Night of The War. But divorce was a word she could never say to him— she loved him too much, and he loved her.

  Perhaps he thought she was dead— but then why did he tell Gundersen he would be searching for her?

  There were questions to ask— but they would come when he found her. She decided something. The Resistance fought an important fight— she was part of it. She would stay with Critchfield and the others— and Bill would someday be back. She would stay with them, fight— and someday John Rourke would find her.

  "Someday," she said.

  She felt silly— and she started to cry. She kept walking.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  They had left the truck, the concentrations of Russians on the only roads through the mountains too great for them to risk the noise. Camouflaged more than a mile back, Bill Mulliner and his three men walked on. It would be risky— no code words or countersigns existed within the Resistance— it was not even an organization. Once they encountered the Resistance, he would have to rely on convincing the leader— reportedly a man named Koenigsburg— that Pete Critchfield had indeed sent him, that the messages he carried— all verbal— were indeed those of Critchfield and of President Chambers and Reed, Chambers' intelligence aide.

  He let out a long sigh— he wondered if, by the time he did eventually get back to the new headquarters, Mrs. Rourke would already be gone as they had thought. He hoped someday to see her again, to meet a woman like her.

  He walked on, his right fist on the pistol grip of his M-16. She would remember him, he knew—

  if for no other reason than his father's pistol, the Trapper .45, which he had given her. But he hoped for other reasons, too...