'I'm worried about my family-all this war talk.'
'Just talk, I think. I hope,' the Canadian said brightly.
'Change of subject,' Rourke said, raising his voice slapping both knees. 'Now, what do you want to know?'
'Well,' the inspector said, touching his left hand to his small moustache, 'when you're not teaching survivalism, but instead working with counterterrorist weapons, what do you use?'
'You mean, which guns do I like best for myself-or which would I recommend for you?'
'I've read your recommendations on various things more often than I can remember, John. But what about you? What do you use?'
'All right,' Rourke said, standing and walking toward the small library bar. Leaning against it, he said, 'Short and sweet, then-I can smell dinner. I've got a lot of guns and knives and other stuff-but the things I really bank on are just a few. I always carry these.' He spread his coat open, revealing the twin stainless steel Detonics .45s in their Alessi shoulder holsters. 'Best automatic I know, bar none-when you consider effectiveness of the round they throw, reliability, and concealment characteristics. The stainless steel they use is the best quality. I almost never get the time to clean these things, and there isn't a spot of rust or corrosion. They work every time, and you can interchange the standard government model magazines, the whole bit.'
'What else?' the major said.
'What else?' Rourke repeated. 'When I'm in the field, I've got this Metalifed six-inch Python, had the barrel Mag-Na-Ported, got a set of .22 Long Rifle conversion chambers, and a barrel liner for it from Harry Owens-good for everything that way from a small bear in a pinch to a squirrel for the pot. Sometimes I use a Metalifed Colt Lawman snubby, too-when I want a third gun that I can conceal.' Rourke paused and lit his cigar, and as he started to speak, he heard the inspector's wife coming.
'I think you gentlemen might want to listen to the radio,' she said, her voice subdued.
Without saying anything else, the attractive, middle-aged woman walked over to a corner of the built-in bookcases beyond the bar and clicked on the radio in the stereo. '...told that informed sources indicate the U.S. president and the Soviet premier have just completed a lengthy conversation, and that nothing has been resolved. An anonymous high-ranking military source at the Pentagon in Washington indicates U.S. Long Range Strike Force elements-a mobile military unit comprised of persons from all U.S. services analogous to our Special Commandos- are at this moment being air-lifted toward Pakistan. Official Washington has been unavailable to confirm or deny this report. We now rejoin our regularly scheduled programming. More bulletins will be forthcoming as information becomes available.' The inspector's wife clicked off the set.
'That's Roger Carrigborne,' the major said, mechanically, tossing down his drink. 'Fine chap-one of the best of the reporters-'
'I gotta get out of here,' Rourke said, hammering down his half-emptied drink on the bar and spilling whiskey.
Chapter Nine
'My brother,' the young soldier said, rubbing his hands to warm them, 'has an easy job. He talks with this American girl on the satellite link between Moscow and Washington. That is all Yuri does. He even tells me he has fallen in love with her-though he never met her. He is warm. I am cold. He talks with American girls-I guard empty trucks on a mountain pass in Pakistan. He sits on a chair-I stand in the snow. This is not right.'
'You talk too much,' his sergeant said. The older man leaned against the fender of the nearest truck. 'Ivan, I tell you the truth, the Americans may come and fight us. Some of our officers were speaking of this a few minutes ago.'
'Good,' Ivan said. 'At least it would give me something to do instead of standing here, freezing, holding this damned rifle.'
'I was sixteen and holding a rifle-with no bullets-at the siege of Stalingrad. Do not complain, young one,' the sergeant said, his voice almost a whisper. 'It was cold then, too, and I had holes in my boots. This night, I have bullets in my rifle and no holes in my boots. Things are better.'
'Why are we here, Sergeant?' the soldier said, his voice trembling with the cold.
'We are Russians-that is why we are here. Tell me, Ivan Meliscovitch, do you and your brother who leads the easy life have a mother, or a sister?'
'Two sisters, Comrade Sergeant. Our mother is dead.'
'Then you fight here for your sisters,' the sergeant said. 'Do not fight a war because you are trying to protect something you do not understand-politics, speeches. Fight to protect something you do understand and you will be stronger, fight harder. Hold on to life and be a brave man. I have three grandsons-younger than you. I fight for them. Years ago, I fought for my wife. But I cannot do that anymore.' The sergeant's voice broke then, and he turned away and coughed.
The young soldier, Ivan, cleared his throat and started to speak. 'Comrade Sergeant, I am sorry.' The last word caught in his throat as a bright red flower of blood sparkled suddenly across the bridge of his nose and he crumpled back against the truck, the Kalashnikov pattern assault rifle failing from his gloved fingers.
The sergeant dropped flat down into the snow and rolled under the truck, glancing back and reaching out toward the dead boy-confirming that for himself-then slid under the belly of the truck, shouting, 'We are under attack''
There had been no sound of the shot. Was it a sniper with a silencer?
As the sergeant slid from under the truck, his long great coat was white with the snow. He scrambled to his feet. His knees ached with the cold. He ran in a low crouch toward the main body of his fellow soldiers. Already, as he ran, he heard sounds from the camps-shouts, rapidly barked commands, gunfire. 'Fools!' the Sergeant thought. 'Who are they shooting at?' He turned his head to glance back into the darkness from which the bullet that had killed Ivan Meliscovitch had come. The sergeant could see nothing.
He started to fall. As he went down he thought he had tripped on something in the snow, but when he tried to stand up, there was fire in his left ribcage. He touched his gloved right hand across his body to his coat, and his glove came back dark with blood. The sergeant pushed himself to his feet, lurched forward, two steps, then three,
