by Jerry Ahern
“It’d be nice if somehow they could know what we’re talk-ing of here tonight, and learn from our mistakes. It’d be nice if they could.”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t think they will—you got an extra cigarette? If I light a cigar, the smell’ll wake up Natalia.”
“I hope you like them,” Rourke heard Vladov laugh. “They are American cigarettes.”
“Any port in a storm.” Vladov fired the cigarette from his own already lit one, passing it to Rourke. “Camel?”
“Yes, I like them. I used to buy them on the black market and smoke them in Russia, and in Poland, too.”
“Don’t tell Natalia I bummed a cigarette,” Rourke smiled. “I’m always telling her to quit—that it’s bad for her health,” and he laughed, hearing Vladov laughing too.
“I had quit smoking cigarettes for two years, before The Night of The War. After this, I started again. It did not mat-ter.”
“Yes,” Rourke told the Soviet captain. “It didn’t matter.” In the distance, Rourke heard the drone of aircraft engines. He turned his body to see his wrist beyond Natalia’s shoul-ders, rolling back the cuff of the battered brown bomber jacket to read his watch. It was set still to Eastern time. In an hour or so, in the East, it would be sunrise. It was hard to think that in Europe, in what remained of Great Britain, perhaps the world had already ended.
John Rourke inhaled the cigarette smoke deeply into his lungs — wondering what it mattered.
But he felt Natalia’s breath against his skin as she moved in his arm. And Rourke realized that it still did matter.
Chapter Twenty-two
Vladov had aroused his men, the men going out onto the prairie and lighting the flares already set there after their arrival. For the second time in the darkness that night, Rourke watched an aircraft land. But there were no radio communications—to have agreed on a frequency would have been risking the security compromised.
The aircraft — an old civilian aircraft Rourke couldn’t im-mediately identify—slowed, turning, prepared for take-off, the fuselage door opening, men pouring from it, dropping flat in the high grass, the wind stiff now and the clouds moving briskly overhead, making the moonlight come and go with the nagging irregularity of a flickering strobe light, making the movements of Reed’s men as they assumed de-fensive postures surrounding the aircraft look jerky, like something from a silent film that had been shown once too often.
Rourke had awakened Natalia. Vladov on one side of him, now, Natalia on the other side, Rourke walked across the prairie, the grass high, something he could feel as it moved against his Levis, the grass nearly to his knees in spots. Natalia squeezed his left hand in her right. He squeezed hers back.
He kept walking, toward the aircraft, seeing Reed now in a flicker of moonlight standing beside the wing stem.
He heard Reed’s voice. “I should have figured you’d have her with you, Rourke.”
Natalia answered. “I too looked forward to seeing you again, Colonel Reed.”
“That’s not Rubenstein unless he’s grown a couple of inches—got yourself a new sidekick, have you?”
Rourke answered him. “I found Sarah and the children. Paul was injured. He’s recovering at the Retreat and look-ing after my family.”
“Good for you—spend these last few days with them— why the hell are you here?”
“A job to do,” Rourke answered, his voice low, stopping walking, standing two yards or so from Reed. He had seen the bristling of Reed’s men when they had spotted Vladov’s Soviet fatigue uniform.
“That’s a clever disguise—he looks just like a Russian Special Forces captain.”
“Colonel Reed, I am Captain Vladov, at your service, sir.” Vladov saluted, Rourke watching from the corner of his right eye. Reed didn’t move. Vladov held the salute.
“I’m not in full uniform, Captain,” Reed nodded, gestur-ing to his hatless condition.
Vladov held the salute.
Reed snapped, “Shit,” then returned the salute.
Rourke felt a smile etch across his lips. “Glad to see you haven’t mellowed, Reed.”
“You got any more Russians, or just these two?”
Natalia answered. “There are eleven other Soviet Special Forces personnel, surrounding the field.” Rourke wanted to laugh—she couldn’t pass it up. “One officer and ten enlisted personnel. In addition, one officer and one enlisted from GRU.”
“Aww, that’s fuckin’ wonderful. What we got here, a Commie convention?”
“What we’ve got,” Rourke answered for her, “is fourteen highly skilled men who value human decency over dialec-tics. You got any problems with that, climb back on your goddamn airplane and we’ll knock out The Womb all by ourselves.”
“The Womb?”
“One thousand of Rozhdestvenskiy’s Elite KGB Corps, one thousand Soviet women picked for their health and ge-netic backgrounds. Maybe a couple hundred support per-sonnel. The president tell you about the cryogenic chambers?”
“Yeah, he told me.”
“Well, that’s where they’re at. And particle beam weap-ons installations to destroy the Eden Project before they can land. The entire Soviet Politburo is either on its way to The Womb or already there. They’ll all wake up in five hun-dred years or so — well. You know the rest.”
“There are twelve of us — even. I’m the only officer. When do we get started?”
“I will order the camouflage removed from our aircraft,” Vladov answered, taking off in a dead run.
Reed turned to a white-haired master sergeant beside him. “Dressier, send one of our guys—make it two of ‘em— to give the Soviet captain a hand.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll sure do that,” and Dressier started barking orders.
Rourke watched Reed. Natalia squeezed Rourke’s hand tighter.
Chapter Twenty-three
Patches of snow dotted the rocks, drifts occasionally sev-eral feet high in the depressions as Rourke, at the head of the column of U.S. II and Soviet Forces, Natalia beside him, Vladov and Reed behind them, walked on. The two planes had dropped them what Rourke judged from map distance as ten miles from the main entrance of the Chey-enne Mountain underground complex. The light around them was grey as they walked, climbing slightly now, the Colorado Rockies air thinner, cold, and exertion telling on all of them, he realized, as he led them onward.
In another mile or so, he would send out an advance party to scout for Soviet patrols. But he waited, holding back. In a few moments they would reach the height of the lower elevation peak they traveled, and from there, be able to see the horizon.
If it were aflame, sending out an advance party would be pointless, for they would all be dead in minutes.
He felt Natalia’s gloved right hand brush against his gloved left. “If it happens,” he heard her whisper, “I shall love you after death as well.”
He found her hand, holding it, climbing upward with her.
Thunder rumbled in the sky, so loud that at times it drowned the beat of his heart that he could hear in his ears. It was not the exertion, but instead what he knew might happen.
Rourke suddenly realized that if this morning were the morning, that his wife and his children, that Paul—if they had been caught outside, or failed to completely secure the Retreat—that they were dead.
If they had been inside, and the Retreat sealed, the fresh oxygen the plants under the grow lights generated from ex-haled carbon dioxide would allow them to survive for per-haps several weeks until the air became too foul to breathe. The food would last for years. The electrical power from the underground stream—if the stream itself never reached the surface as he had always suspected was the case — would run on infinitely, or until the generators and the back-up generators malfunctioned and stopped.
But his family would be gone to him forever.
John Rourke loosed Natalia’s hand, folding his left arm around her shoulders as they ascended the last rise.
The sun�
�lightning crackled round it in the air on the ho-rizon, but there were no flames.
John Rourke put on his dark lensed sunglasses, staring eastward.
“There is another day, John.”
“Yes,” he told her, just holding her for a moment, watch-ing it, for the first time in his life appreciating it.
One of the Americans standing behind them began to say the Lord’s Prayer aloud.
Chapter Twenty-four
Colonel Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy stood beside the corpsman at the master radar control screen, watching. The blips—the corpsman had described them as an Aeroflot passenger jet and six Mikoyan/Gu-re-vich MiG-27 fighters — were at the ninety-mile radius. The Aeroflot was a special craft, similar to the Presidential E4 747 Doomsday Plane which the late and last president of the United States, suc-ceeded by Samuel Chambers and U.S.II —had not been able to use even to save his own life let alone direct a successful war effort.
The timing would be critical.
He turned to his aide, Major Revnik. “Major, order that the system be energized to ready status.”
“Comrade Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy—are—”
“You have your orders,” Rozhdestvenskiy nodded, not taking his eyes from the radar screen. Sixty-five miles now and closing. “Sergeant, order the airfield elevated for recep-tion of the premier, the Politburo and the Committee Lead-ership.”
He heard the sergeant who assisted the duty officer echo-ing the commands. “Duty Officer, begin tracking.”
The captain nodded, answering, “Yes, Comrade Colo-nel.”
Rozhedestvenskiy waited.
His aide announced, “Comrade Colonel. The system is energized to ready status.”
“Very good,” Rozhdestvenskiy nodded. He was letting them come in close. He wanted to see it when it happened, not just as radar blips disappearing from a screen. He turned his eyes to the high resolution television monitors overhead in the command center. They were faint, the im-ages he saw on the screen at the center. “Greater resolution, technician!”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” and then to another technician, “Bring up camera two—four, three, two, one—on camera two.”
The image suddenly changed on the screen—enhanced, he realized. But he could see them.
One large, passenger-sized aircraft. Six smaller aircraft— the fighters.
“Excellent, excellent. Stay on them.”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”
Rozhdestvenskiy addressed the duty officer, “You have them.”
“Tracking, Comrade Colonel.”
“I shall take charge of the firing sequence. Do not hesi-tate to correct me, Captain, in the event that I should make an error.”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”
Rozhdestvenskiy picked up the microphone. “Firing cen-ter, act on my commands. Zero deviant flux on my signal. Ten. Nine. Eight.” He watched the growing images of the six aircraft on the center screen. “Seven. Six. Five. Four.” It was the ultimate act. “Three. Two. One. Activate laser charge through the particle chamber now!” He eyed the du-plicate control panels in front of him. He had memorized the firing sequences, learned the very functioning of the sys-tem itself to be sure. He could trust it to no one else’s hands. He served as commander and technician.
“Switch on. Charging — one-quarter, one-half, three-quarter power—full power. Boost two and three.”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel, actuate firing,” the technician’s voice came back.
Rozhdestvenskiy focused on the computer readout di-odes. “Boost ionization fifteen points,” he called into the microphone.
“Boosting ionization fifteen points,” the technician’s voice came back.
“Capacitance function readout check,” Rozhdestvenskiy called.
The technician’s voice came back, “Ten to the fourteenth capacitance, to the fifteenth, to the sixteenth.” The techni-cian’s voice paused for a moment. “Ten to the seventeenth capacitance—”
“Hold on ten to the seventeenth,” Rozhdestvenskiy or-dered.
“Holding on ten to the seventeenth capacitance, zero flux.”
“Designating targets. Grid placement!”
Over the radar screen before him a grid of green lines ap-peared, masking the screen, Rozhdestvenskiy command-ing, “Television—put up grid Theta.”
“Putting up grid Theta on Camera Two—on my signal, Comrade Colonel. Five, four, three—ready animation— roll—two, one, punch up—grid Theta on Camera Two, Comrade Colonel.”
“Very good,” Rozhdestvenskiy murmured. The grid on the radar screen and the grid overlay on the television moni-tor were perfect matches. “Switching from radar to video on my mark,”
Rozhdestvenskiy announced. “Three, two— ready to switch—one—switch now!”
The weapons system was feeding from the video screen, the radar running now as a crosscheck—at the range visual more precise than radar. “Designating targets now! Grid fif-teen, target one, twenty-six, twenty second delay, target two, grid thirty-eight, target three, grid forty-three, target four, grid fifty, target five, grid nineteen, target six. Grid twelve, target seven.”
He licked his lips. “Automatic target acquisition and destruction on my mark—six, five, four, three, two, one—Mark!”
He could see it on the monitor.
He had programmed the delay between target one and the taking of target two so there would be time for the cam-era to restore picture function, time for him to visually con-firm the strike.
One instant—the Aeroflot aircraft carrying the Polit-buro, the premier, the leaders of the KGB—one instant it was there. A blinding flash of light, Rozhdestvenskiy invol-untarily closing his eyes against it, counting from the flash. “...fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.” He opened his eyes—the airliner was gone, “eighteen, nineteen, twenty—” Another flash, the flash brighter now, the camera totally disfunctioning.
“We have lost our video, Comrade Colonel Rozhdest-venskiy.”
Rozhdestvenskiy began to laugh. “We have lost our video— indeed — but we have gained something far greater. Tell me—to please stand by,” and he laughed so loudly he realized all of them must have thought he had suddenly be-come insane.
But the master of an entire planet could afford the luxury.
Chapter Twenty-five
“Holy shit—what the hell was that—it’s starting!” Reed stared skyward, Rourke looking upward as well. There was fire in the sky, a pencil-thin beam of light visible for an in-stant—Rourke shouted, “Look away!” He turned his own head away, the roar from above deafening now, Rourke sweeping Natalia into his arms, pulling her to the ground.
The roar gradually died.
Rourke opened his eyes, Natalia’s blue eyes staring at him.
“Was that it?” Reed snarled. “But we’re still alive—”
“That wasn’t the ionization,” Rourke rasped. “It was the particle beam system.”
“But what is it that they were firing at to make such a loud—”
Rourke interrupted Vladov. “Those weren’t drones. It wasn’t a test.”
Natalia, still in his arms, beside him on the ground. Her voice was low, even, steady. “My uncle had predicted Rozhdestvenskiy would do this thing. And he was right. He has just destroyed the entire Soviet government. He has killed them all. The premier. The Politburo. The heads of the various branches of the KGB. It must have been that for Rozhdestvenskiy to utilize the particle beam system.”
Rourke pushed himself up to his elbows, the fire gone from the sky.
“All those people—he just murdered them,” Reed whis-pered.
“Assassination—that’s the better term,” Rourke advised.
“I cannot believe this thing,” Vladov murmured.
Natalia sat bolt upright from the ground, her blue eyes saucer wide as she spoke. “He has made himself—Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy has—he has made himself the master of the entire world should we fail. The total master. Rozhdest-venskiy alone.”
>
It was one of the U.S. II troopers who spoke, one of the two black men of the group.
“Me—ma’am—I don’t like folks what thinks they’re somebody else’s master. We’re gonna have to get that sucker. Get him good, we are.”
Rourke got to his feet, helping Natalia to stand. Her hands were shaking as he took them in his.
“The corporal said it, we’re gonna have to get Rozhdestvenskiy—gonna have to get him good. Reed, you and Vladov pick some men—ones who can be good and quiet. Put out a recon ele-ment so we don’t go walking into something.”
“I’ll take ‘em, sir,” Sergeant Dressier said, pulling his fa-tigue cap off, running his five pound ham-sized right hand through his hair then replacing the cap.
“All right, Sergeant, co-ordinate with Captain Vladov,” Reed nodded.
“I think,” Vladov said quietly, “that the good Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy has just made all of us into one unit, has he not?”
Reed nodded. “Agreed, Captain, for now at least,” and Reed started forward.
Vladov just shook his head, turning to converse with Ser-geant Dressier.
As Rourke started ahead, he held Natalia’s right hand in his left—somehow that had become more important to him.
And her hand still shook.
Chapter Twenty-six
Rourke imagined himself in Rozdestvenskiy’s shoes. He doubted the KGB commander had any more precise data on the exact time of terrestrial destruction than did anyone else. With his armored Bushnell 8x30s now, Rourke peered across the corridors of granite and toward the entrance of Cheyenne Mountain. A level plain was before it, surround-ing this when Rourke had seen the complex once years ago — only from the outside—there had been a single twelve foot high chain link fence with electrified barbed wire at the top. Now, some distance forward of this, there was a sec-ond fence of identical seeming construction. He judged the distance between the fences as perhaps twenty yards.