along the San Andreas line that caused California to separate from the Continental plate and fall into the sea. The Florida Peninsula will separate from the Florida Panhandle. It's a lead-pipe cinch according to her instruments.
'That cover it?' Rourke concluded.
'More or less.'
'Mother of God!' Chambers sank down into the leather easy chair Rourke had vacated moments earlier.
Rourke lit a cigar, snapping the butt of the old one into the fireplace after firing the fresh one with it.
'That just— just can't be,' Chambers sighed, his voice a stammering monotone.
'Here, Mr. President.' Sissy Wiznewski handed Chambers the one seismograph printout that she'd carried under her coat when Rourke had rescued her from the Brigands. 'If you have a science advisor available, he could certainly confirm the readings. He might interpret them differently, but I don't see where there's any choice really.'
'What do you mean?' Chambers looked up at her, the lines in his face deepened.
'Well, I mean, I don't want to presume—'
'Evacuate as much of Florida as you can while there's still time, if there's still time,' Rourke interjected.
'Yes, that's it, really— we have to—'
'Wait,' Chambers interrupted. 'Evacuate? Florida? The Cuban Communists control it, how could we?'
'There's a way, to do something at least,' Rourke began, stepping away from the mantle, standing in front of Chambers's chair.
'I don't—'
'You don't have the airpower, and even if you did, you need a truce with the Communist Cubans. You probably need their help.'
'Their help!'
'I think I know a way we can get it— from the Russians.'
'You're crazy, Rourke. They want to see us dead.'
'Maybe they do,' Rourke told him. 'Maybe there's an advantage in this for them, too, though. If we don't get some sort of truce for the duration of this thing— this should be the greatest loss of life in recorded history, with the exception of the Night of the War itself.'
Chambers, his eyes glassy and hard-set, stared up at Rourke. 'What do we do?'
'Has Captain Reed told you there's a traitor in U.S. II?'
'A traitor? What do you mean?'
'I'll explain, but right now in order to contact General Varakov, I've got to find the traitor— fast.'
Rourke turned around, faced the hearth a moment. Then he snapped the glowing cigar butt into the fire. The fire was undisturbed. Rourke hoped what he had said to Chambers had greater impact.
Chapter 23
Sarah Rourke clutched the boning knife, drawing back as tightly as possible against the starboard bulkhead at the base of the steps. She could hear the transom lid creaking open above her at the head of the steps. There was a cold rush of air as the transom opened. A beam of light followed— not natural light, she thought, but a flashlight. She watched, hardly daring to breathe, feeling the water dripping down from her hair, her blue T-shirt, her pink shorts.
Her eyes opened wider as the flashlight beam stopped, the light unwavering on a puddle of water on the floor where she had just stood. She heard a voice from the top of the steps, a man's voice; but the words were unintelligible to her— Russian. She didn't move.
The voice came again, but this time in halting English. 'Who is ever down here, come out or I shoot you!'
She pressed her wet shoulder blades back harder against the bulkhead, wishing she'd brought a gun, perhaps wrapped the .45 automatic in plastic or something. 'Who is ever here, come out. Now!'
Again, she remained motionless. She heard the voice— in Russian this time— grunt a word. She was happy she didn't know what the word meant. She could hear footsteps starting down the steps, toward her.
Sarah raised the knife, not really thinking about it, but suddenly aware that she was holding it up, ready to drive it down.
The footsteps stopped; she could see a uniformed back, a Russian soldier's cap, the profile of a rifle in the hands. She tried to move the knife downward, but couldn't. The man's back was within inches of her. She held her breath.
She watched, feeling as though she were witnessing a scene unfolding in a movie. He was turning around, now facing her. The light was in her eyes, and in the gray area beyond the light she could barely discern the features of the man belonging to the Russian voice. 'Your hands up!'
'No!' She screamed, hammering the knife down out of the shadow beyond the light. The knife drove into the front of the uniformed body, her right wrist feeling as though it would break as the knife stopped.
There was a loud sound of metal falling to the deck between them— the rifle, she realized. There was a hand coming at her, the hand holding the flashlight moving too, the light weaving in a crazy pattern on the cabin ceiling. She felt the hand closing around her throat. She pulled back on the knife handle, almost falling and losing her balance as the knife pulled free from the soldier's chest. She could see the flashlight moving, raising high, then coming down. She moved the knife again, punching it straight forward in her hand.
The flashlight clattered to the deck; Sarah felt something warm and wet all over her right hand. She reached up with her left hand, the soldier's right hand still on her throat. She was starting to black out, trying to pry the
