'Jt's set, John,' Natalia's voice called down.
'Haul up on the rope—hurry up,' Rourke called up. On the near end of the rope, Rourke had Natalia's and Paul's winter jackets secured. The rope started snaking upward. . . .
As Rourke huddled by the fire a few yards from the aircraft fuselage, the water nearly boiling, he considered Rubenstein; the younger man had made it down the embankment quite well. Not as professionally as Natalia had let herself down, but well nonetheless.
The water in the pot was boiling and Rourke picked it up hy the handle, his left hand still gloved and insulating his fingers; then he stood up.
He hated to, but he had to—he kicked out the fire. The darkness around him was more real now as he started toward the glowing lightthe Coleman lamp in the fuselage.
The Space Blanket was wrapped around Natalia now, her coat being rather light for the extreme cold of the night. Rourke was chilled still, despite the fact that he had added the leather bomber-style jacket over his sweater. Rubenstein looked positively frozen to the bone, Rourke thought.
'Paul—why don't you fish through the gear and find a bottle of whiskey? I think we could all use a drink.' Rourke smiled, watching Rubenstein's face almost instantly brighten. The younger man was up and moving as Rourke crouched down beside Natalia near the Coleman lamp.
'Here—I'll do that,' she said, her gloved hands reaching for the pot of no-longer-boiling water. 'You hold the food packets.'
'All right,' Rourke murmured. There wasn't much of the Mountain House food left in his gear and he'd have to &#;+
resupply once he got back to the Retreat, he reminded himself.
'Hope you like beef stroganoff,' Rourke said, holding the first of the opened packets up for her to add the water.
'Do you remember the camp we had that night before you scouted for the Brigands and the Paramils—in Texas?'
'Yes,' Rourke told her.
'Should I get drunk again?' She smiled. 'But it wouldn't do me any good, would it?'
Rourke, balancing one of the Mountain House packs, then opening another, said nothing. He turned to call to Rubenstein, still searching for the bottle. 'Food's on, Taul.'
'John,' Natalia's alto insisted. 'You remember that? I called you Mr.
Goodie-Goodie, didn't I.'
'It doesn't matter,' Rourke told her, his voice a whisper.
'I think I loved you then, too,' she said matter-of-factly.
Rourke looked into her eyes a moment. 'I think I loved you then, too.'
'I won't see you after we get out of here, after this storm—will I?'
Rourke didn't answer.
Rubenstein came up, an unopened quart bottle of Seagram's Seven in his hands. 'This bottle's cold—least we won't need any ice, huh?' The younger man laughed.
'Here, Paul.' Natalia handed Rubenstein the first of the three packs, the one with the hottest water added. Rourke exchanged a glance with her and she smiled.
Rubenstein took the pack of beef stroganoff and settled himself beside the Coleman lamp. 'Like old
times—out there on the desert in Texas,' Rubenstein remarked, giving the food a final stir.
'John and I were just saying that,' Natalia told him.
'This is good.' Rubenstein's garbled voice came back through a mouthful of food.
Rourke broke the seal on the whiskey bottle, twisting open the cap and handing the bottle to Natalia. 'I'll get a cup for you,' he started.
'No—like we did that other time.' She smiled, putting the bottle to her lips and tilting her head back to let the liquid flow through the bottle's neck and into her mouth. Rourke watched her, intently.
She handed him the bottle and, not wiping it, he touched the mouth of the bottle to his lips, taking a long swallow; then, as he passed the bottle to Rubenstein, he said to her—Natalia—'Like we did the other time.'
He glanced at Rubenstein for a moment, but the younger man, having already set the bottle down, was smiling and saying, 'Not like I did the other time. I can still remember the headache.' And he continued with his food.
. . ,
Natalia lay in Rourke's arms, the Coleman lamp extinguished. Rubenstein was taking a turn at watch just inside the open cargo hatch of the fuselage. 'You'll pick up the search for Sarah and the children? I'd help if I could.'
'I don't suppose it matters; an intelligence operative of Reed's in Savannah, retired Army guy, reactivated for this—'
'The Resistance? I wonder if it has a prayer,' she mused.
'I don't think that's the point of it anyway,' Rourke whispered to her in the darkness. 'It's the doing that
