The plane was already taxiing, but as Natalia ran toward it, blocking its take-off path with her body, the plane suddenly stopped.
In a moment, Rourke was beside the fuselage, the cargo door opening, hands reaching down from inside as he handed up the old woman. He thought he heard her whisper, 'God bless you, son.'
Rourke turned around, seeing the white-haired old man with the AK-47, and beside him one of the Cuban guards, the two of them struggling an old woman aboard the aircraft. Natalia helped an old man clamber aboard.
Rourke looked back to the plane. 'Not enough room!' the crewman in the cargo door was shouting. 'I can't take four of you— too much weight!'
Rourke started to turn around, his eyes meeting Natalia's. She nodded.
Thoughts raced through Rourke's mind— Sarah, the children. If he died, what would become of them?
Then he looked beyond Natalia. 'The damned plane over there! The Beechcraft! Come on!'
He started away from the plane. The white-haired man who'd carried the AK-47 and his wife were alone with Rourke and Natalia on the runway. Rourke had wanted it to be one of the Cuban guards, perhaps the Cuban officer. He started to shout something to the old man, but the man said, 'It's all right.'
Rourke started to shout, 'No!' He stood there, then signaled to the crewman in the door of the DC-3.
'Come on!' he shouted to Natalia, to the old man and his wife. Rourke was already running across the field toward the Beechcraft.
Rourke shouted behind him, 'I'll get to the plane first— stop them! Natalia, stay with them,' and Rourke bent low, the rain pouring down on him as he went into a dead run toward the small plane at the far side of the runway.
The plane was taxiing, but Rourke couldn't be certain if it was just jockeying around the field or readying for take-off again. 'Wait!' Rourke shouted. 'Wait!'
Rourke kept running, snatching at the twin Detonics pistols rammed into his belt.
The ground was shaking so violently he could hardly move without falling; the cracks in the runway were widening. The plane was moving along the runway— away from him. Rourke raised both pistols into the rain-filled air and started firing them.
One shot, then another, then another, then two more. The plane wasn't slowing. Rourke kept firing. Another shot, then two rounds, then two more. He lost count, the one gun coming up empty, then the second pistol. But the plane was stopping.
Rourke jammed the guns, the actions still locked back, into his belt, then tried running faster toward the plane. The passenger door over the starboard wing opened. Rourke almost collapsed in relief. 'Paul!
Paul!'
He could see Rubenstein, climbing down from the wing, running across the field toward him. As the two men met, Rourke sank forward, Rubenstein's outstretched arms catching at him.
'John! Thank God it's you!'
'Paul— what the hell are you doing here?'
'My parents, John— I've gotta find them.'
'I was going to stay and look for you,' Rourke said. 'Try,' he said as he swallowed hard, getting his breath, 'try somehow to get the plane to set me down near St. Petersburg if it's still there.'
'I don't think it is. My parents, though— they're here, I think.'
'They may have' gotten out already,' Rourke gasped.
'I've gotta know, John!'
Rourke just nodded, getting to his feet again. 'I must get Natalia and an older man and his wife out. Use your plane.'
'What?'
'There!' and Rourke pointed behind him.
The ground was starting to break up now, the runway buckling in huge chunks. Paul Rubenstein didn't say anything. He started to run across the airfield, jumping the cracks, toward Natalia and the white-haired man and his wife. Rourke stood there, the rain pouring down on him, the wind rising so that he could barely stand erect against it.
Then Rourke started to run. Twenty-five yards ahead of him, he watched as Paul Rubenstein swept the older woman into his arms, kissing her, watched as the white-haired man hugged Rubenstein. Rourke watched as Natalia stepped back; then a smile came to her lips.
Rourke stopped running. 'Jesus,' he whispered. Somehow, out of all the refugees, the old man with the full shock of white hair and the woman with him were Paul Rubenstein's mother and father. Suddenly, Natalia was there, standing on her toes beside him, her lips close to his ear.
'John, I understand what is driving you, now— I do.' And she kissed Rourke's cheek.
Rourke looked down at the Russian girl, then shouted across the field, 'Come on Paul!'
Rourke grabbed Natalia's hand, then started toward the Beechcraft, reaching the open doorway, clambering up into the plane, bypassing the pilot. He spotted Rubenstein's motorcycle and whipped out his knife, cutting away the gear strapped to it. He rolled it toward the door. He shouted out to Paul, 'Get you a new one, buddy. Never take the weight.'
'Right!' Rubenstein helped Rourke offload the bike.
In moments, Natalia had gotten Paul's mother and father aboard the plane. Rubenstein himself was the last to board.
Rourke shouted to the pilot, 'Get this thing going!'
