him to trade places with her, to sit at her work table and try his hand at a sketch. He'd been reluctant, but she'd insisted and he had finally agreed. He hadn't wanted to draw from imagination, but she'd insisted on that too. After ten minutes she looked— against his protests—
at the sketch. It was of two men, fighting in some jungle. The detail of their muscles, limbs, the expressions on their faces, the detail of the foliage around them— all of it had been almost photographically perfect, as far as he'd gone. But he hadn't finished it.
She'd begun to wonder then if there were anything John Rourke couldn't do when he half tried. But she realized Rourke never half tried. It was always one hundred per cent with him.
She stopped, treading water again. The boat she wanted to steal was just ahead of her and, except for the distant and shadowy form of a Soviet guard at the far end of the pier, there was no one in sight. She tucked down under the water, swimming toward the boat. The owner had a sense of humor, she thought. The name on the boat was Ta-ob, 'boat' spelled backwards.
With Michael and little Annie helping, she had gotten Harmon Kleinschmidt out of the farmhouse and on Sam, John's horse. Michael had ridden with him, to alert her if the wounded Resistance fighter began to pass out or fall from the saddle.
There was a farm some ten miles off where Kleinschmidt had friends— a man in his seventies and his wife, the woman perhaps in her late sixties. The man, Arlo Coin, had agreed to keep the horses and agreed to use his pickup truck to get Sarah and the others near Savannah. He had converted the engine to run on pure alcohol, this distilled from weeds and grass on his farm. He had told Sarah he had been doing it for years before the War and saw no problems with keeping it up. Coin had insisted on helping them once they'd hidden the truck, stating flatly that Kleinschmidt was too weak to walk unaided and too heavy for Sarah or the children to handle. Sarah had agreed, but reluctantly. Then Kleinschmidt had told her not to worry. Reaching under his coat he'd pulled a revolver. She remembered, as he showed it to her, Coin saying, 'Smith & Wesson .38/44 Heavy Duty— one of the best guns anybody ever made. Had her since 1937. Never needed another.'
Sarah stopped now, touching the hull of the Ta-ob under the water, then surfacing, taking in air. Despite the swim, she was cold with just the shorts and T-shirt on. She waited in the water, listening for any sign of someone on deck or in the cabin; there were no lights. She swam toward the bow, stopping, finding a small ladder along the starboard side. She reached out, grabbing the first rung, then started up, the boning knife secure in a plastic bag tied at her waist. As she stepped out of the water and stood crouched on the ladder, the air temperature and the night wind chilled her even more.
She ripped the knife from the bag with her left hand; her right grasped to the railing on the side of the ladder.
Then, the knife clenched in her left fist, she peered up over the side and into the boat. Nothing.
Sarah went up the rest of the ladder and swung onto the deck, the knife transferred to her right hand now. Still in a crouch to stay below the level of the sides of the boat, she moved aft, finding the angular, ladder-like steps leading below. The transom was not locked. She assumed that was some Soviet edict, allowing for easier inspection of the boats at the pier. She started down the steps, into the darkness, leaving the transom open a crack above her.
As she reached the below deck cabin, Sarah Rourke froze. Clearly she heard footsteps on the deck just above her head. She shivered, but it wasn't the cold and the wetness of her improvised swimsuit. The transom lid was opening.
Chapter 22
Rourke, his coat off, his pistol belt and rifle on the floor beside him, leaned back in the leather easy chair and looked down into the fireplace.
'Do you always wear those guns in that shoulder holster? I'd think they would feel just so heavy.' Sissy remarked.
Rourke didn't look away from the fire. 'It feels uncomfortable when you're first getting used to it, but I've been wearing a double holster for a long time. I don't really notice it anymore. It feels more uncomfortable to be unarmed,' Rourke added.
He lit a cigar with his Zippo, then stood up, feeling like a caged animal. He wanted Chambers to show up; he wanted Chambers to comprehend the magnitude of the impending Florida disaster; he wanted Chambers to take the ball. Rourke would then get air transport to Florida, attempt to find Paul if there was time, help Paul find his parents, then get out. There were still Sarah and the children to locate, somewhere in northern or east-central Georgia.
Rourke studied the flickering of the fire's flames. He knew what had to be done, but wondered if Chambers would have the sense to do it. It was the only reason Rourke had decided to take the offered flight to U.S. II headquarters near the Louisiana-Texas border.
There was a highly polished, twelve-inch Bowie knife on a plaque over the mantle. Rourke studied it intently. Double quillon guard of brass, this, too, highly polished. He reached up, feeling the false edge—
it was sharp.
'Rourke— is it Doctor Rourke or Mr. Rourke?—! can never decide what I should call you, sir!'
Rourke turned around, noticing that the woman was already standing. Slowly, eyeing Chambers, Rourke said, 'Mr. President, it's good to see you again.
'And you must be Sissy Wiznewski. the seismologist who has some alarming news for us,' Chambers said, taking a few steps toward the girl. He shook her hand warmly.
Rourke watched, listened— he decided Samuel Chambers was a somewhat different man, perhaps now more used to being President. But President of what, Rourke wondered?
'Tell the President the alarming news, Sissy,' Rourke said, echoing Chambers's tone.
'I don't know where to begin.'
'I do,' Rourke interrupted, resenting the time being wasted. 'She belonged to a group of scientists studying fault lines and earthquake activity in the Appalachian chain, part of a comparative survey with the San Andreas fault line on the Continental and Pacific plates. Most of their instruments kept working after the Night of the War. Correct me if I screw up anything,' Rourke said to Sissy, then continued to address Chambers. 'They began picking up readings on what appears to be a massive artificially created fault line— probably a result of the bombing on the Night of the War. Anytime now, certainly within the next few days, there will be a massive quake, similar to the one
