by Ahern, Jerry
flag flying."
"Could be the Russians," Rourke told him.
"Sure—but we've tried contacting the base-interference, static—we can't get through and no one answered when the reconnaissance overflight tried radio contact. If it had been the Commies, they would have answered."
"What's so important about Filmore Air Force Base and Armand Teal—you want me to tell you about him?"
"We want you to talk with him," Cole smiled.
"Go to California? Bullshit!" and Rourke turned and
started walking back down the hillside. He heard the sound of a gun coming out of the leather behind him, wheeled, both Detonics pistols coming into his fists as he dropped into a crouch. He heard the clicking of M-bolts, the different sounding rattle of steel as the bolt of Rubenstein's Schmeisser opened.
Cole had a Government Model A half out of the leather, letting it roll out of his hand on the trigger guard.
"You put your gun away—or I'll kill you," Rourke hissed at him.
X
"At least let me explain."
"You wanna explain, I'll be down there—with my friends. You tell me, you tell them. And tell your own people to put their rifles down—or you'll be the first."
Cole said nothing for a moment, then only nodded. Bolstering his pistol, he shouted loudly, "As you were!"
Rourke pointed the pistols in his balled-tight fists toward the ground, then lowered the hammers with his thumbs. Every human being had a right to weapons—handguns, rifles, edged weapons—for his own self-defense, the defense of loved ones. Regardless of the unrealistic, immoral laws there had been, regardless of the do-gooders who had tried to make America weaponless and Americans helpless.
But no man had the right to impose his will—with a gun or anything else—by force. It was a lesson Cole hadn't yet learned—as Rourke turned his back to the Army captain and started down the hillside again, he felt that somehow Cole would learn the lesson still. The hardest way there was.
Chapter 6
"John!"
Rubenstein. A shout. Rourke picked up the CAR-from the sling where it hung, starting to run, leaving the bike in the trees, not quite reaching it before he'd heard the call—the shout.
Rourke stopped on the top of the rise, Natalia and Cole were faced off, Cole reaching out to slap Natalia, Natalia's reflexes taking over, catching the hand at the wrist, her body twisting as she sidestepped, Cole sailing up, forward, rolling over, crashing down onto his back. An assault rifle discharged as Natalia started settling her hands on her hips—too close to the twin stainless . Magnums she wore there. One of the troopers' M-jumped in his hands; Natalia spun around, both pistols still in the leather, her hands clutching at her abdomen.
"John . . ." It was like a wail as she sprawled forward, "Natalia—" He'd felt fear before—but never this fear, He started to run.
Rubenstein was running too, his Schmeisser covering the six soldiers and their commander, "Natalia!" Rourke screamed it now, feeling the muscles in his arms and back, the tendons in his neck—his eyes—all tightening, his heart pounding in his chest. "Natalia!" He was out of the trees, running toward her, the woman's body writhing on the ground, the soldier with the M-stepping toward her, the right foot kicking out at her as Cole moved faster than Rourke thought he could have, the pistol he'd pulled twenty minutes earlier coming from the leather again, the base of the frame this time smashing down, Rubenstein half-wheeling, the Schmeisser falling from limp hands, but the hands grasping out for Cole's throat.
"Get him—alive!" It was Cole's voice.
Rourke wheeled, his CAR-coming up, firing a three-round semiauto burst with the CAR-, Cole spinning, falling back. Rourke kept going—toward Natalia. He heard the working of the bolts, saw the muzzles raising—four M-s, pointed at his face.
He stopped, his rifle up and on line with them. "I'm going to the woman—if you try to stop me, I'll kill you."
Rourke started ahead, pushing the muzzles of the rifles aside. He didn't care to look at the man behind him. The man beside Natalia—the one who'd shot her—simply stood beside her, his right foot kicking out again—to check if she were dead, Rourke knew.
Rourke snapped the telescoped butt of the CAR-up and out. His body wheeled with it, the metal buttplate at the.end of the tubular stock hammering square into the soldier's face. Rourke's right knee smashed up, finding the groin, impacting against the scrotum, the man's bloodied face going white as he fell.
Rourke held his left hand out, palm outward, the five «t
other troopers raising their assault rifles to fire, Rourke holding his aimed toward them. "The woman," Rourke rasped. "Or your deaths—"
Rourke dropped to his knees beside her, her fingers covering her abdomen, the fingers pale, laced, woven together, blood seeping through between them as he rolled her over.
The eyelids fluttered.
"Rourke—Rourke!"
It was Cole.
"Rourke—you fuckin' shot me!"
Rourke began to examine the wound—he himself was on borrowed time with Cole, he knew that; but Natalia's borrowed time was coming due. Had he not been a physician, never seen a gunshot wound—had he never seen death, he knew, he would have recognized it in her face.
"You're goin' with me—for those six missiles. Eighty megatons apiece, Rourke—eighty megatons apiece. The woman's good as dead. You want your Jew friend dead too?"
Rourke looked up for an instant, his eyes flickering across the field toward Cole, Cole's left arm bloodied and limp at his side, but in the right hand the Government Model . held steady, the muzzle pointed at Rubenstein's head, Rubenstein moving slowly on the ground, trying to get up.
"Where's your base camp, Cole? How do you contact headquarters?" Rourke began examining Natalia's wound in greater detail, spreading her fingers, but slowly.
Sometimes the body is its best defense—were the hands holding in her intestines?
Gently, he broke the tight weave of her red and sticky fingers. "Where is it?"
"A submarine—two hours away—maybe three. Nuclear submarine—one of the last ones we could contact. Full complement crew—full medical facilities."
The Retreat, Rourke judged, even if he could get Natalia aboard a bike and ride her there without her bleeding to death, was seven hours away by the fastest route, likely spotted with brigand activity, possibly Soviet Army as well. But the likelihood of meeting with Soviet troops for once did not alarm him. They would have access to blood and the facilities for typing, medivac choppers available on call as well. Without massive transfusions, Natalia would likely die. Even with them—Rourke shuddered. Mechanically, he had counted the number of shots in the burst she had taken. Seven rounds.
He heard a moan behind him—the trooper who had shot her, then kicked her—the one Rourke had smashed in the face with the rifle butt, the nose broken and twisted to the side of the face, the lips puffed and gushing blood.
"We keep our guns—we get Natalia the best medical attention available," Rourke called out over his shoulder, his voice low.
"Agreed," Cole snapped. "Then you're coming to Filmore Air Force Base—"
"I didn't say that. I'm taking her to the submarine. And we'd better make it fast. That bullet in your arm should come out before the wound infects seriously. And your trooper here—he could bleed to death too."
He'd need to perform a laparotomy to inspect her abdominal organs. Regardless of where the bullets had actually impacted, there would be the trauma of blast effect to deal with. As he started applying a pressure bandage with materials from his musette bag, he realized the peritoneal cavity and the organs there could be cut to pieces. He recalled reading an adventure novel once where the .mm slug had been referred to as a "tumbler"— and it was that. There had been cases in the warfare in Southeast Asia where limbs had been severed by the buzz sawing effect of the ..
What he saw of her exposed intestines seemed a very pale
tan, almost grey in color—like pieces of underdone sausage in appearance. As he tightened the pressure bandage, he prayed that he could keep her alive until they reached the facilities he'd need to operate. That she wouldn't die.
"Paul—" Rourke called the name but never looked. "Get on your feet—and keep that thing you call a Schmeisser handy. Anything happens to Natalia . . ." Rourke let the sentence hang.
The voice that came back sounded strained—tired, perhaps in pain. "Killing would be too good."
Chapter 7
Her own children—Michael and Annie—played with Millie, the daughter of the ill-fated Jenkins couple. She smiled at the word—what did "Ill-fated?" mean? Was she ill-fated? The children played with the Mulliner dog, they laughed and ran.
Ill-fated.
John—
She squeezed her thighs tight together, feeling self-conscious suddenly sitting there on the porch steps, smoothing the borrowed blue skirt over her knees and then hugging her knees up against her chest, almost but not quite resting her chin on them.
She studied her hands—the nails were short, shorter than she'd ever kept them.
But cycling the slide of a .—she seemed to remember cycling was the correct word—was hard on the nails. Hers had all but broken and she had filed them down.
But at least underneath the nails she was clean—it had been a long time before she'd been able to keep them clean.
She heard the humming of a song, realizing almost absently that she herself was humming it—a song she had danced to with John. At their wedding. The photo was waterstained, bent, almost unrecognizable. But it was smoothed now inside a Bible in Mary Mulliner's house, in the bedroom Sarah used. And Sarah opened the Bible
frequently—not for the words there which Mary Mulliner had told her would comfort her, but for the picture being pressed there. John in his tuxedo, herself in her wedding dress. She smiled—trying to remember how many yards of material had been in the skirt.
She hugged her knees again. It was still early enough in the day—perhaps Mary's son would return with news of successfully contacting U.S. II and finding her husband. How many days had she told herself that? '
Again, she contemplated the word "ill-fated"—she had thought of it a great deal.
Chapter 8
Varakov stood beyond the abandoned astronomy museum, on the spot of land, the rocks beyond it separating him from Lake Michigan. For once it was not too cold, though he had yet to find himself able to describe the lake wind as warm.
"Comrade general?"
General Ishmael Varakov recognized the voice—warm, athletic, resonating—somehow just the thought of Colonel Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy made his feet hurt all the more.
"Yes, colonel." He still did not turn around.
"Have there been any private communiques from your niece, Major Tiemerovna, Comrade general?"
"No—she is involved in an operation of the most delicate nature even as we speak."
"The Eden Project, Comrade general? For this is the prerogative of the KGB and a KGB agent involved in research on this matter should be under my direct control rather than that of the Army—"
"I have put her on detached duty to my specific command, colonel—she is responsible only to me. As is the nature of her sensitive mission."
"Infiltrating the American resistance perhaps?"
"Colonel—you can make as many lateral references as you wish—but I will divulge no further information at this time. Suffice it to say, her mission is on behalf of the
welfare of all."
"Comrade general—though such an action would grieve me greatly, if no news of the major's activities is forthcoming, I shall be left with no other choice than to contact Moscow."
"I am sure you have already contacted Moscow, colonel—were I in your position, that is exactly what I should do. If Moscow becomes sufficiently worried, I will be contacted regarding the matter. In the meantime—"
"Yes, Comrade general?"
"I come here for a few moments of solitude, colonel—" Varakov began to walk, the wind, he reasoned, drowning out the click of the heels from Rozhdestvenskiy's spit-shined boots.
Varakov repeated the words he had used to describe Natalia's mission—but this time to the wind rather than the commander of the North American KGB—"She is involved in an operation of the most delicate nature." He smiled, his feet hurting though to the point where he was ready to sit down. "Delicate operation indeed."
Chapter 9
Whole blood—and while hers was being typed, Rourke had coordinated with the ship's doctor, Rourke already working with transfusions for the injured trooper who, like Natalia, but less in real danger, had lost too much blood.
He looked at the name tag on the pharmacist mate's white jacket. "Kelly—get the blood pressure cuff inflated to one hundred millimeters of mercury so I can distend and locate the vessels."
Rourke began the same procedure with the soldier—there had been no time to change the man, Rourke for the first time read his name from the sewn tag on the fatigues. "Henderson—if you can hear me, you son of a bitch, we're gonna save your life now." Rourke secured the velcro closures on the blood pressure cuff, then started pumping air. He ran his hand along the inside of the forearm, selecting a likely looking vein. He pumped up a little more so he wouldn't lose it.
"You ready, Kelly?"
"Yes, Doctor," the pharmacist's mate answered. "I never did a direct transfusion before."
"You'll get the hang of it," Rourke nodded. "Got the tube in?" He looked but didn't wait for an answer. "Secure that with some adhesive tape," then he looked at the donor. An ordinary seaman—his name was White. "Mr. White, I'd be lying if I said this won't hurt at all—kind of a numbing sensation. We're just gonna get a pint or so from you.
Afterward, in case I forget—go He down, get some orange juice into you. And thanks for volunteering."
"Yes, sir," the seaman nodded, not looking at the tube now extending from his arm.
Rourke cranked down the table on which the injured man—Henderson—was lying, to get a better flow. He made the veinapuncture on Henderson's forearm, readying the tube—it was already filling, nearing the end. As it did, Rourke attached the tubing to the needle, his left hand already starting to deflate the blood pressure cuff on Henderson's arm.
"Losing a little pressure in White's blood pressure cuff, Doctor," Kelly murmured.
"Mr. Kelly—then get it back up—I need pressure until we're completed. Sing out and have that next donor ready."
Rourke heard a door opening behind him, glanced over his shoulder—it was the ship's doctor—He tried to remember the name. Milton, he thought.
"Doctor Rourke—we typed her at positive—lucky for her it wasn't a negative RH
factor. I'm getting as many five hundred millih'ter size transfusion bags made up as I can."
"You've got filters for clot removal?" Rourke asked automatically.
"Yes—we're getting the tubing ready now as soon as we wheel her in."
Kelly again. "Doctor—Doctor Rourke I mean—we're at twenty drops per minute—"
"Hold the rate of transfusion there for ten minutes." There was more noise behind him, then he noticed Doctor Milton was gone.
Rourke glanced at the clock on the wall—he gave Natalia another fifteen minutes at best. "Doctor Milton,"
he shouted- "She ready yet?"
He heard the door open behind him into the smalter of-the two surgery rooms.
"Yes—just now, Doctor Rourke."
"Why don't you finish up this man—Kelly's set for the next donor." Rourke moved aside, letting Milton take over for him, walking toward the swinging door, another pharmacist's mate there, scrubbed, helping Rourke as he degloved, then regtoved.
"I'm getting started stitching this man's lips," Milton called out.
"I'll begin work then," Rourke nodded, not looking. He steppe
d into the second and larger surgery. Two men with medical training attended the table, neither of them a surgical nurse, neither really a pharmacist's mate either. "Get that pharmacist's mate—Kelly—get him in here quick," Rourke called out, again not looking—his eyes were riveted on Natalia. He knew it was anesthesia working on her now—that she wasn't dead—not yet.
He approached the operating table, hearing the door swing to behind him.
"It's Kelly, Doctor."
Rourke nodded. "Let's start those transfusion bags." He glanced at the chart Milton had begun, then at Natalia's blood pressure—it was falling too fast.
Chapter 10
"What's the name of this boat anyway?"
"Well, Mr. Rubenstein—you've got the terminology right. We call her a boat. I guess calling her a "her" is kinda dumb—but it's tradition. She's the U.S.S.
John Paul Jones."
"How'd you know my name?" Rubenstein asked the older man sitting across from him at the officer's mess table. Rubenstein looked at the radiation badge he'd been given as soon as he'd come aboard. No name appeared on it.
"My business to know everything that goes on aboard this boat—" The man smiled, extending his hand. "I'm Bob Gundersen—Commander Gundersen, sort of an affectionate title the men use with me. Sometimes they just call me Captain, though."
Rubenstein took the hand—it was warm, dry—solid.
"My friends call me Paul, Commander."
"Paul it is then—"
Rubenstein wished again he'd not given up smoking years earlier. "If you know everything that goes on on this ship, then tell me how Natalia's doing?"
"Major Tiemerovna?" He glanced at his watch—Rubenstein noticed it was a Rolex like Rourke wore. "Dr. Rourke started transfusing blood into her about ten minutes ago. He may be operating by now—I don't know that."