War.
Chapter 15
Wearing a borrowed windbreaker, his hat below deck, Rourke joined Cal Summers at the wheel of the fishing boat. 'How far out are we going?' Rourke shouted over the wind and the engine noise.
'Far as we want. Ain't no where to go in the world really, so the Ruskies don't care much if we leave—
but it's only a couple more miles. I didn't want to get caught with a radio— Russians took
'em all off the boats before they let us use 'em again. So, I packed the radio in a waterproof container, then swam down and stowed it under some rocks. It's a good swim, but it ain't too deep along here yet. I had this fella Harmon Kleinschmidt who worked with me a while do most of the divin' every time we needed the radio. Harmon might have got killed dunn' that Resistance roundup— I ain't sure. Best I can learn, he ain't in prison, though. You swim, right?'
Rourke nodded, not smiling. The water, he thought, would have to be warmer than the air.
After another fifteen minutes, Rourke noticed the boat slowing. He returned from the stern to stand beside Cal Summers again. 'You got any diving equipment?'
'Nope. Russians took it. Figured diving gear could be used to plant mines or somethin'. You won't need none— if you can hold your breath good.'
'Wonderful!' Rourke shouted over the wind, the engine noise subsiding as the boat slowed, moving almost imperceptibly forward now, swaying with the waves that the wind whipped up against them.
Rourke began to strip away the borrowed windbreaker, watching Summers checking a compass. A smile crossed the sweater-clad, older man's face, his blue eyes brightening. 'Dead over her— pretty good. Hell. I shoulda been in the Navy, not no Army!'
Rourke laughed, shivering already as he tugged open the snaps on the front of the dark brown western-cut shirt he wore.
Leaning against the portside railing, Rourke pulled off his cowboy boots, then skinned out of his Levis, then his socks.
'Want me to hold your watch for you?'
Rourke looked at Summers, then grinned. 'It's a Rolex— more waterproof than this boat. Thanks anyway.'
Rourke stood by the rail, Summers pointing out about six feet away from the hull. 'There and straight down,' he said.
'Same to you,' Rourke muttered with a grin, swinging his left leg over the portside rail, then his right. He perched there on the rail a moment, then added, 'And if the Russians come or something, let me know.' Without waiting for an answer, Rourke pushed himself off with his feet, diving out into the water, the wind and the water temperature chilling him so badly that he began to shake with the cold.
He glanced up at the fishing boat, Summers giving him a quick salute, then Rourke tucked down, under the water, his mouth closing as he broke the surface. His lungs already felt it as he swam downward. At least a weight belt would have been useful, Rourke thought. The water was reasonably clean and he could already see the sandy bottom. That the water was so clear indicated nothing had disturbed the bottom recently. Rourke made a mental note to check himself with the Geiger counter in case the ocean here was radioactive— but he doubted the Russians would have allowed fishing if it were. And he was almost certain they periodically checked. It was only common sense, Rourke reasoned.
His arms fanned away from his sides, and Rourke's feet touched bottom. Immediately the sand and silt there stirred up in a cloud from his disturbing it. He could see the mound of rocks there which Cal Summers had described, then moved along the bottom the few feet remaining to reach them. Had Summers not described it, Rourke thought, he would have spotted something strange at any event. The clouds of silt increased in density as Rourke reached the rocks. Then he pried the top, flat rock away, letting it bounce to the bottom beside the pile, a large amount of the sand and silt now clouding the water.
Rourke waved his left hand in front of him, as one might do it in the air to clear away a smoke cloud.
There, inside the cup of rocks, was a waterproof container. A small fish Rourke couldn't instantly identify swayed past it as he reached down, carefully prying at the radio lest some small sea creature had decided to use the rock nest as a home— some small sea creature that could bite or stick.
In the water, the weight of the object seemed off to him, but he assumed it was the radio. The waterproof packing seemed to have kept its integrity. Leaving the capping rock where it had dropped, the radio under his left arm, Rourke pushed himself up with his knees and feet and started clawing toward the surface. He glanced awkwardly at the Rolex— he had been down better than two minutes and the burning feeling in his lungs told him his time was running out.
He could see the light shimmering from the surface as he reached out toward it, the radio suddenly feeling heavier to him. His hand broke the water above him, then his head. Rourke opened his mouth, exhaling hard and sucking in air with his mouth and nose. Scanning from side to side, he saw the boat—
he'd come up on the starboard side.
To be on the careful side, he thought, he didn't shout to Summers. He swam instead the dozen or so feet toward the fishing boat. There was a small ladder over the side and, clinging to the bottom rung, balancing the edge of the radio against it, Rourke shifted his grip quickly, two rungs up, hauling his right foot to the bottom rung, still holding the radio. Balanced there, Rourke peered over the side, into the fishing boat. He could see Summers, standing there looking out to port. A smile crossed Rourke's lips as he watched the man. 'Captain,' he said, his voice low.
Summers wheeled, the gun coming into his right hand, his face twisted into something Rourke thought seemed half between a snarl and a look of surprise.
'God, man! You scared ten years out of me!' Summers shoved the revolver back in his trousers and started across the deck.
Rourke said, 'Just being on the safe side. Now help me with this blasted radio!'
Chapter 16
