by neetha Napew
you think, captain?" Varakov asked, his voice softening.
He watched the woman as she moved uneasily in her chair, her uniform skirt
sliding up over her knees a moment, a wave of her dark hair falling across her
forehead as she looked up to speak. Varakov watched as she brushed the hair away
from her deep blue eyes. "Comrade general, I realize the importance of the tasks
you have enumerated. But in order to successfully reactivate industry here, we
must be secure against sabotage and organized subversion. Comrade Major
Karamatsov, I am sure, only wishes to begin working to eliminate potential
subversives from the master list in order to speed on your goals, comrade
general."
"You should have been a diplomat—Natalia. It is Natalia, is it not?"
"Yes, comrade general," the girl answered, her voice a rich alto. Varakov liked
her voice best of all.
"There is one small matter," Varakov began, "before we get to your master list
of persons for liquidation. It is not an intelligence matter, but I wish your
collective input. The bodies. In the neutron-bombed areas such as Chicago, there
are rotting corpses everywhere. Wild dogs and cats have come in from the areas
that were not bombed. Rats are becoming a problem—a serious problem. Public
health, comrades. Any suggestions? I cannot have you arrest and liquidate rats,
bacteria and wolflike hounds."
"There are many natives in the unaffected parts of the city that were suburban
to the city itself,' Karamatsov said. "And—"
Varakov cut him off. "I knew somehow, comrade major, that you would have a
plan."
Karamatsov nodded slightly and continued. "We can send troops into these areas
to form these people into work battalions, designating central areas for burning
of corpses and equipping some of these work battalions with chemical agents to
destroy the rats and bacteria."
"But, Vladmir," Captain Tiemerovna began. Then starting again, "But comrade
major, such chemicals, to be effective, must be in sufficient strength that
those persons in the work battalions could be adversely affected by them."
"Precautions will of course be taken, but there will be adequate replacements
for those who become careless, Natalia," Karamatsov said, dismissing the
remark. Turning to Varakov, then standing and walking toward the edge of the
semicircle, then turning abruptly around—Varakov supposed for dramatic
effect—Karamatsov said, "But once these work battalions have completed their
task, they can be organized into factory labor. If they are utilized in
twelve-hour shifts, working through the night—the electrification system is
still largely intact—the city can be reclaimed within days. A week at the most.
I can have the exact figures for you within the hour, comrade general," and he
snapped his heels together. Varakov did not like that—Karamatsov reminded him
too much of Nazis from the Second War.
"I do not think your figures will be necessary—but unfortunately your plan seems
to be the most viable," Varakov said.
"Thank you, comrade general, but providing the figures will be of no difficulty.
I had anticipated that this problem might be of concern to you and have already
had them prepared, pending of course the actual number of survivors available
for the work battalions and the quantities of chemical equipment that can be
secured for the program—but I can easily obtain these additional figures, should
you so desire."
Varakov nodded his head, hunching low over his desk, staring at Karamatsov. "I
am not ready to retire yet, my ambitious young friend."
"I assure you, comrade general," Karamatsov began, walking toward Varakov's
desk.
"Nothing is assured, Karamatsov—but now tell me about your list."
Karamatsov sat down, then stood again and walked to the opposite end of the
semicircle of chairs occupied by KGB and military officials. Turning
abruptly—once again for dramatic flair, Varakov supposed—Karamatsov blurted out,
"We must protect the safety of the State at all costs, comrades. And of course
it is for this reason that many years ago— before the close of World War Two—my
predecessors began the compilation of a list—constantly updated— of persons who
in the event of war with the capitalist superpowers would be potential
troublemakers, rallying points for resistance, etc. The master list, as it came
to be called, has, as I indicated, been constantly updated. It was impossible
to predict with any acceptable degree of accuracy who might survive such a war
and who might not, and to determine which targets would be most readily able to
be eliminated in any event. For this reason, since its inception, the master
list was broken into broad categories of persons—all of equal value for
elimination purposes."
"These are names we might recognize?" Varakov interrupted.
"Oh, yes—comrade general, many of these names are important public officials.
Yet many of the other names are not so easily recognized—except to us!"
"Give to me some examples of this, major," Varakov interrupted again.
"Well—they are from all areas of life. In the Alpha section for example, one of
the most important names is Samuel Chambers," Karamatsov said. "This Chambers
person, as best as we can ascertain, is the only surviving member of something
called the presidential Cabinet. He was the minister—secretary, that is—of
communications. According to our interpretation of the American Constitution,
he is, in fact, whether he knows it or not, the president of the United States
at this moment. He must be eliminated. Chambers is an excellent example. He was
in the Beta section until his elevation to the Alpha section corresponding with
his elevation to the presidential advisory Cabinet. He has always been ardently
opposed to our country—an anticommunist he called himself. He has always had a
great popular support because of this position. He owned several radio and
television broadcasting stations, had a radio program broadcast on independently
owned radio stations around the country for several years— his name was a
household word, as the Americanism goes."
"This homeheld word—he is president now? Then do we not wish to negotiate formal
surrender with him?" Varakov asked, forcing his voice to sound patient,
interested.
"Under normal circumstances, yes, comrade general—we would. But, this Chambers
would never agree. And, if we forced his signing of a conciliatory statement,
the people here would never accept its validity. His only value is as a dead
man. In his very utility as a symbol of American anticommunist feeling, his
death would be but another blow to American resistance, showing them how useless
such activity is—how counterproductive."
"Give me still another example," Varakov said, killing time for himself until
the situation demanded he give Karamatsov formal orders to begin working on the
list—he did not like ordering people to die. He had trained as a soldier too
long to value life as cheaply as did the KGB.
"I—yes," Karamatsov said, pacing across the room between the semicircle of
/> chairs and Varakov's desk. "Yes—a good example. I have no inclination that the
man is still alive. He was a writer, living in the American southeast. Adventure
novels about American terrorists fighting communist agents from the Soviet
Union and other countries. He wrote often as well in magazines devoted to
sporting firearms. Several times he openly condemned our system of government in
print in national periodicals here. He attempted to exalt individualism and
subvert the purposes of social order through his articles and his books—his name
I do not recall at this point in time. He would be on a low-priority list, but
nonetheless his liquidation would be necessary.
"Still another example would be retired Central Intelligence Agency personnel
who remained provisionally active. Reserve officers in the armed forces would be
still another list. There are many thousands of names, Comrade General Varakov,
and work must be begun immediately to locate and liquidate these persons as
potential subversives."
Varakov slowly, emphatically and quite softly, said, "Purge?"
"Yes—but a purge for the ultimate furthering of the collective purposes of the
heroic Soviet people, comrade general!"
Varakov looked at Karamatsov, then glanced to Natalia Tiemerovna. She was moving
uncomfortably in the folding chair. He looked back to Karamatsov, watched as
Karamatsov watched him. "I will sign this order," Varakov almost whispered. "But
since individual execution orders would not be necessary, I will have it amended
to read that only such persons as currently are named on the master list can be
liquidated without express written order, signed by myself." Coughing, Varakov
added, "Ido not wish to initiate a bloodbath." Then looking at Karamatsov,
staring at the younger man's coal-black eyes and the intensity there, Varakov
extended the first finger of his right hand, pointing it at Karamatsov, and
said, "Make no mistake that I will be so foolish as to sign a blanket order that
could someday be turned into my own death warrant, comrade."
Chapter Five
The red-orange orb of sun was low on the horizon at the far end of the long
straight ribbon of flat highway reaching toward El Paso, still some ten or more
miles away, as Rourke figured it. He turned his bike onto the shoulder and
braked, arcing the front wheel to the side and resting on it, looking down the
road. He didn't bother to turn as Rubenstein pulled up beside him, overshooting
Rourke by a few feet, then walking the bike back. "Why are we stopping, John?"
"We're about eight or ten minutes out of El Paso. It doesn't look like it was
hit. But it wasn't what you might call the gentlest town in the world before the
war, I remember. Juarez is right across the bridge from it over the Rio Grande."
"We going into Mexico?"
"No—not unless I can't avoid it. Those paramilitary troops we locked horns with
were bad enough to worry about and they're on our tail by now again. Probably
had a radio, right?"
"Yeah," Rubenstein said, looking thoughtful a moment. "Yeah, I think they did."
"Well, we might have a reception waiting for us up ahead. But in Mexico we could
have federal troops on our tails—they do their number a hell of a lot better.
With the guns and the bikes and whatever other equipment somebody might imagine
we had, we'd have everybody and his brother trying to knock us off to get it. I
don't know if Mexico got caught up in the war or not, but things might be awful
rough down there."
"Well," Rubenstein said, "maybe we should skip El Paso entirely."
"Yeah, I've thought of that," Rourke said slowly, still staring down the
highway. He lit one of his cigars and tongued it to the left corner of his
mouth. "I thought about that a lot on the road the last few miles. But I haven't
seen any game since we got started, have you?"
Rubenstein looked at him, then quickly said, "No—me neither."
Rourke just nodded, then said, "And that baby food I snatched isn't going to
make more than a day's rations for both of us. And you're right, it does taste
kind of pukey. We need food, we're almost out of water and we could use some
more gasoline. I wouldn't mind scrounging some medical instruments if I could
find them. I've got all that stuff at the retreat, but it's a long way getting
there still."
"You never told me," Rubenstein asked, staring down the highway trying to see
what Rourke was staring at so intently. "Why do you have the retreat? I mean,
did you know this war was going to happen, or what?"
"No—I didn't know it," Rourke said slowly. "See, I went through medical school,
interned and everything. I'd always been interested in history, current events,
things like that." Rourke exhaled a long stream of gray cigar smoke that caught
on the light breeze and eddied in front of him a moment before vanishing into
the air. "I guess I figured that instead of training to cure people's problems,
maybe I could prevent them. Didn't work out though. I joined the CIA, spent some
years there—mostly in Latin America. I was always good with guns, liked the
out-of-doors. Some experiences I had with the company sort of sharpened my
skills that way. I married Sarah just before I got out. I was already writing
about survival and weapons training—things like that. I settled down to writing
and started the retreat. The more friction that developed between us, the more
time and energy I poured into the retreat. I've got a couple of years' worth of
food and other supplies there, the facilities to grow more food, make my own
ammo. The water supply is abundant—I even get my electricity from it. All the
comforts—" Rourke stopped in midsentence.
"All the comforts of home," Rubenstein volunteered brightly, completing the
sentence.
"Once I find Sarah and Michael and Ann."
"How old is Michael again?"
"Michael's six," Rourke said, "and little Annie just turned four. Sarah's
thirty-two. That picture I showed you of Sarah and the kids is kind of off—but
it was a kind of happy time when I took it so I held on to it."
"She's an artist?"
"Illustrated children books, then started writing them too a couple of years
ago. She's very good at it."
"I always wanted to try my hand at being an artist," Rubenstein said.
Rourke turned and glanced at Rubenstein, saying nothing.
"What do you think we'll run into in El Paso?" Rubenstein asked, changing the
subject.
"Something unpleasant, I'm sure," Rourke said, exhaling hard and chomping down
on his cigar. He unlimbered the CAR-15 with the collapsible stock and
three-power scope and slung it under his right arm, then cradled the gun across
hs lap. He worked the bolt to chamber a round and set the safety, then started
the Harley.
"Better get yours," he said to Rubenstein, nodding toward the German MP-40
submachinegun strapped to the back of Rubenstein's bike.
"I guess I'd better," the smaller man said, pushing his glasses up off the
bridge of his nose. "Hey, John?"
"Paul?"
"I did okay back there, didn't I—I mean with those paramilitary guys?"
; "You did just fine."
"I mean, I'm not just hangin' on with you, am I?"
Rourke smiled, saying, "If you were, Paul, I'd tell you." Rourke cranked into
gear and started slowly along the shoulder. Rubenstein—Rourke glanced
back—already had the "Schmeisser" slung under his right arm and was jumping his
bike.
Chapter Six
Sarah Rourke reined back on Tildie, her chestnut mare, pulling up short behind
Carla Jenkins' bay. Sarah watched Carla closely, and the little girl Millie
astride behind her. To Sarah Rourke's thinking, Carla handled a horse like she
handled a shopping cart—she was dangerous with either one. Leaning over in the
saddle, Sarah glanced past Carla to Carla's husband, Ron, the retired army
sergeant to whom she had temporarily entrusted her fate and the fate of the
children. The children . . . she looked back over her shoulder at Michael and
Annie sitting astride her husband John's horse. The big off-white mare with the
black stockings and black mane and tail was named "Sam," and she reached back
and stroked Sam's muzzle now, saying to the children, "How are you guys doing?
Isn't it fun riding Daddy's horse?"
"His saddle's too big, Momma," Michael said.
Annie added, "I want to ride with you, Mommie. I don't like riding on Sam—she's
not soft." Annie looked like she was going to cry—for the hundredth time, Sarah
reminded herself.
"Later—you can ride with me later, Annie. Now just be good. I want to find out
why Mr. Jenkins stopped." Sarah turned in her saddle, standing up in the
stirrups to peer past Carla again. She couldn't see Jenkins' face, just the back
of his head, the thick set of his shoulders and neck, and the dark rump of the
appaloosa gelding he rode.
"What's the problem, Ron?" Sarah asked, trying not to shout in case there were
some danger ahead.
"No problem, Sarah, at least not yet," Jenkins said, not turning to face her.
Hearing Ron Jenkins call her by her first name still sounded odd to her, but she
reminded herself she had never called him Ron until a few days ago when he and
his wife and daughter had come to the farm and asked if she wanted to accompany
them. They moved slowly, the Jenkins family, and Ron Jenkins had meticulously
avoided every possible small town between them and "the mountains" he kept