by neetha Napew
Rourke also assumed they were getting cut to pieces from the air.
The shirt Rourke was holding against Rubenstein's open wound was saturated with
blood now and Rourke pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and placed it over
the shirt to absorb more of the blood.
He looked down to Rubenstein's face—the younger man was pale, the circles under
his eyes bluish in the harsh light. The pulse was weak and the breathing
labored.
Rourke looked up as he heard boots sloshing across the mud toward him. It was
Natalie, holding a Kalashnikov pattern assault rifle in her right hand, a Soviet
officer and two enlisted men with her. She stopped, standing in front of Rourke
where he knelt in the mud, holding Rubenstein. "John—I've identified myself to
the commander—Captain Machenkov. I had to tell him both of you were my
prisoners. But don't worry. I'll straighten everything out with Karamatsov. Paul
will get the best medical care we can give him and you and Paul and I will be
flown out of here in a few minutes to Galveston where we have a small base
already operational. I know there's a field hospital there and between what you
can do and our own doctors, I know Paul will be all right. Don't worry."
"What now?" Rourke said, looking up at her.
"I'm going to have to take your guns—the .45s. I told them you were my
prisoners, but you have saved my life and because of the situation here on the
ground I'd let you remain armed. It was the best thing I could think of—they
don't speak English. This officer is a doctor."
Rourke glanced around the camp. Mentally and physically he shrugged, looking
back up at Natalie, saying, "I can't move my right hand until we get a better
bandage worked up for Paul—explain that to the doctor. If you need my guns now,
you'll have to take them yourself."
"John—please don't try anything—I know you, remember. And I promised, everything
will be all right. After Paul is well, you and Paul can leave— with your weapons
and everything. I've even arranged for your motorcycles to be taken along."
"You really believe that?" Rourke said in a low whisper.
"Karamatsov is my husband, John—I really believe you'll go free. He'll do as I
ask."
"Mrs. Karamatsov, huh? Any kids?"
"Don't be funny," she snapped. "No one knows about it—except for you, now."
With his left hand, Rourke opened his leather jacket, exposing one of the twin
.45s under his arms. "Go ahead—without the right facilities, Paul's going to
bleed to death. Go ahead—take them," and Rourke held open his coat. Natalie
reached down, grasping one of his pistols, her face inches from his.
She whispered, "There wasn't any other way— believe me."
Rourke said nothing.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Rourke ran his hands through his hair and stood under the steaming hot water. It
was the first real shower he had had since the war had started and he was mildly
surprised that he hadn't contracted head lice or something worse. He had washed
his hair and his body at least four times and now stood under the steaming
water, letting it work itself across his aching muscles and joints—he had been
more tired than he had realized. Rubenstein was in surgery and Natalie had
convinced Rourke that the doctors would do all they could. Rourke doubted little
the efficacy of Russian medicine—they had pioneered a great deal since the close
of World War II and he respected their methods. There was an armed guard
standing outside the shower room, and after Rourke was finished and dressed, the
next step would be actually meeting Karamatsov—and then the whole thing would
start, Rourke knew. He closed his eyes and let the water splash across his face…
Wearing clean clothes—they had been washed for him—and his boots, he walked
along the corridor between the four armed uniformed men toward the door at the
far end. The complex was entirely underground, and Rourke supposed it had once
been used by American forces. Above it was a small air base where the Soviet
helicopter had landed. After Natalie had given some instructions to the KGB
squad that had met them on the ground, Rubenstein had been whisked away by
medics already waiting, and Rourke had been taken below then as well. He had
been treated well, even given hot food—but all under the eye of armed guards. He
assumed that by now Natalie had rejoined her husband—he had suspected the
marriage—and Rourke also assumed that if the girl had been sincere in her
promise, she had by now realized that it had been a promise she would be unable
to keep.
No plan of escape had yet presented itself and Rourke realized he could do
nothing really until Rubenstein's condition stabilized. He hoped he could stall
until then, but he doubted it. Karamatsov would assume that he was still active
with the CIA and act accordingly. Rourke absently wondered if, were the shoe on
the other foot, he would do any differently.
The guards stopped, the lead man on the right knocking on the single light gray
door. Rourke heard something in Russian, then the door opened. Karamatsov stood
in the doorway. Rourke had seen the man before. He said, "Major—haven't seen you
since Latin America—how many years ago?"
"John Rourke—the middle name is Thomas—you have a wife—"
Rourke interrupted. "Many men have wives, major." Rourke's eyes were smiling but
his voice was level, even.
As if he hadn't taken note of Rourke's comment, Karamatsov continued, "Yes—a
wife and two children—a boy and girl, if I remember your file correctly. I see
you are still active in the Central Intelligence Agency."
"Where do you see that, major?"
"Let us talk inside." As the guards started into the office, Karamatsov waved
them away, saying in Russian, "He cannot escape—wait at the end of the
corridor." Then, turning to Rourke, he said in English, "You speak our language,
don't you?"
"You know I do," Rourke said, his voice sounding tired to himself.
"Yes, I know—come in." And Karamatsov stepped aside and Rourke walked into the
office. There was a dirty ring on the wall behind the desk at the far end of the
long, low-ceilinged room—Rourke assumed there had been an air force or other
military insignia on the wall, taken down after the neutron bombing of the area
had killed most of the resistance and the Soviets had occupied the facility. As
the helicopter carrying himself and Rubenstein and the girl had swept over
Galveston coming into the base, the sun was already up, and Rourke had seen much
of the real estate below them generally intact, but no signs of life, the trees
and other plant life dead—even the grass brown and withered.
He saw Natalie sitting on a soft chair by the wall flanking Karamatsov's desk.
She looked at him and smiled. Rourke sat down in the chair opposite Karamatsov's
desk and waited, hearing the soft footsteps of the KGB officer coming across the
carpet behind him, then seeing the major circling the desk. Karamatsov stood
behind the desk for a moment, smiling, then sat down, saying, "So—I understand
you saved Natalia's life—you and the injured one— Rubens
tein. He's a Jew, isn't
he?"
"I thought you were a communist, not a Nazi."
"We have found Jews to be troublemakers in the past—I was only curious. We as
yet have located nothing about him in our data banks. He is new to your agency?"
Rourke started to answer, but Natalie cut him off. "Vladmir—stop it! I have told
you—Rourke no longer works for the CIA and Rubenstein is just a magazine editor
who fell in with John after their plane crashed."
"Then what about this?" and Karamatsov hammered his fist down on the desk,
Rourke's identity card revealing the reserve connection with the CIA in his
hand, the same card Rourke had shown on the airplane before he had taken over
the controls after the pilots had been blinded the night of the war.
"You know they have a reserve list," the girl said.
"That is easy for you to say, Natalia—you are tired, this man saved your life,
you have both undergone a great deal together. But I will handle this!"
Rourke reached across onto the end of Karamatsov's desk, opened a small wooden
box there and saw cigars inside. He took one, unbidden, and then reached for the
desk lighter. As Karamatsov reached toward his hand, Rourke eyed the man and
Karamatsov drew his hand away. The KGB major said, "You apparently were given
to understand by Captain Tiemerovna that you would be released after the Jew was
treated by our doctors. You will not be released, of course, as I'm sure you
realized. But, you will have the opportunity of assuring your continued safety
and good treatment, simply by telling us everything you know about the remaining
strength of the CIA in your country, all that you have learned in your travels
since the purported crashing of your commercial jet—everything. If you do this,
you will remain alive and be treated fairly. Otherwise, I need not be specific.
We are both men of the world."
Rourke studied the tip of his cigar, saying to Karamatsov, "No, I didn't believe
her—but I'm glad she believed herself. I'm no longer in the CIA, haven't been
for a long time. And if I were, I wouldn't tell you anything anyway—you want
information, get out the guys with the pentathol and the hypos, then you can
find out I don't know a damned thing. If you want to know what I saw after the
plane crashed, I'll tell you—it's no military secret. Every town we passed was
either abandoned or knocked off by the brigand gangs—like the people your troops
grabbed back on the plateau when they picked us up. At least you guys did
somethin' right."
"He's right," Natalie said, her voice sounding low and cold to Rourke.
"Then I will tell you some things, Rourke—your president committed—he is dead.
You have a new president—Samuel Chambers. We captured him less than an hour
before you arrived here. He is resting comfortably under guard in this same
complex. I will give you time to rest as well—while the surgery is completed on
your fellow agent. Then—"
"He is not my fellow agent," Rourke almost hissed, hammering his right fist down
on the edge of Karamatsov's desk.
Karamatsov leaned back, a smile crossing his lips, saying, "Rourke—I remember
when we met in Latin America. You were so confident, so good at what you
did—even Natalia commented about it. I understand from what she has reported to
me that your talents have remained undiminished. If you now show the
intelligence you did then, you will make a decision— a decision for life, rather
than death. Natalia tells me you still entertain the hopes that your wife and
children survived the bombing. As well you should. I will propose to you
something that you may wish to consider.
"If you show what you are really made of, if you are the man of wisdom Natalia
has told me of," Karamatsov went on," you will not only survive—you can become
one of us. We will help you to find your family if they still survive. You can
have a position of prominence in the new order—"
Rourke interrupted him. "You sound like a Gestapo officer from The Late Show or
something. Bite my ass."
Karamatsov stood, his face livid, his voice quaking with rage, "You speak to me
this—"
Rourke, his voice barely above the level of a whisper, said, "I'd chew you up
and spit you out if those guards weren't out there, Karamatsov. And I'll tell
you this. You'd better make sure your people keep a good eye on me, or kill me
right now, or you're gonna wind up with the prettiest widow in the KGB." And
Rourke glanced toward Natalie, watched her face, emotionless, watched her hands
bunching into nervous-looking little fists.
Karamatsov pushed a buzzer on his desk and in seconds the door behind Rourke
opened and Rourke could hear the guards coming. He didn't turn around. In
Russian, Karamatsov, his voice still unsteady, rasped, "Take this man out and
secure him in the rooms on the lower level—watch him!"
Rourke smiled, standing. He set the burning cigar down on the desk, stubbing it
on the blotter and letting it lie there. "Get out," Karamatsov growled in
English.
Chapter Forty
Captain Reed sucked on the empty pipe in his mouth, glanced one more time over
the shoulder of the radio operator and turned on his heel and started through
the doorway. He strode down the narrow basement hallway and up the stairs two at
a time to the main floor of the house. He could hear through the open doors to
the library the voice of Colonel Darlington, calm, collected, and the raving of
Randan Soames, the paramilitary commander. Soames was shouting, "Over a hundred
of my men were killed by them gawd-damned commie bastards, colonel—and you want
me to calm down!"
Reed knocked on the door, then entered without waiting to be bidden to do so.
Soames was starting to speak and Reed cut him off. "Colonel—I just checked down
in the radio room personally. The frequency for the Harrier is open, and if
Lieutenant Brennan were aboard, he'd be picking us up—I ordered a shutdown on
that frequency. I figured the Russians could try and use it as long as we keep
it open to get a fix on us. I think they got Brennan and captured the
president."
Soames was still talking, as if, Reed thought, what he had just said had no
meaning. "They got more than a hundred of my boys while they was attackin' this
gang of renegades up on some damned plateau out there in the middle of the night
in a gawd-damned rainstorm. Just come down in their helicopters nice as they
pleased like they owned the whole damned place."
"They do, for now at least," Colonel Darlington said, knitting his fingers
together and glancing to Reed.
Reed said to Soames, "Sir—haven't you heard what I said? I mean, the loss of
your men is important, it's terrible—but they must have nailed President
Chambers, when he landed in Galveston!"
"We can get a new president," Soames said quietly,
"No—we can get this one back," Darlington said. "I've been considering this, and
I think Captain Reed and the others would agree with me. It's time we showed the
Russians we can still fight. According to what's left of military intelligence
in the Galveston a
rea, the Russians have taken over one of our top secret air
bases down there—I worked there for a time. The underground complex is hardened
and would have protected anyone inside from a neutron air burst. They would have
been trapped there until the Russians landed and by then it would have been too
late. That air base is probably being used by the Russians right now—probably
where they have Chambers. Probably got a couple hundred of our airmen imprisoned
there too—wouldn't have had the time to get 'em out to a detention center, or
the equipment free to do it with."
"You want to make a strike, sir?" Reed stuffed tobacco into his pipe and looked
at Darlington.
"What do you think captain—your boys on the ground, some of my people in the air
in some more of those Harriers—could we do it? Get in and get Chambers out,
maybe free our boys—hurt the Russians a little and let 'em know we're still
alive and kicking? Soames' men could back you up—he's got the numbers on his
side there."
"We could land about seventy-five miles from there, then push in."
"Closer than that—I can get you within twenty miles of the base. You want to try
it—they're your men. Reed?"
Reed looked at the air force colonel and nodded, striking a match to his pipe.
Soames was still muttering about the "gawd-damned commies."
Chapter Forty-One
Rourke heard a knock on the door of the small two-bunk room he was locked in,
then the door opened and Natalie was standing there. She was wearing a
long-sleeved white blouse, a black pleated skirt and low-heeled shoes, her hair
styled, make-up—it was hard for Rourke to remember the way she had looked back
on the plateau—the mud stained jeans, the wet hair plastered to her face. And
she hadn't looked vastly different, just drier, in Karamatsov's office— Rourke
checked his watch—three hours earlier. "May I come in, John?" she asked.
"You run the place, I don't—come ahead, "Rourke told her, standing up as she
entered the room.
"I thought I'd let you know—they got Paul out of surgery and they're holding him
in what you'd call intensive care—but he's fine. No major damage to the
intestines or whatever—I don't know a lot about anatomy. They've got a tube in