She stared toward the hills, the engine noises getting louder, then turned her head quickly, watching the children's mounts heading toward the farmhouse. She drew in tight on Tildie's reins, loosing the modified AR-15 from the saddle thongs, slinging it across her back.
'Come on, girl,' she snapped, heeling into the horse, bending low over its flowing mane as the dark hairs whipped her face in the wind, tears coming to her eyes because of it.
Sarah passed Annie's horse, swinging her right hand out and swatting the horse on the rump. Then she snatched at the reins, leading out the left rein as she pulled ahead on Tildie. Glancing behind her, first at Annie, then to the hills, Sarah thought she saw the profile of a truck or car coming into view. She shouted to Tildie, 'Giddup! Come on, girl!' Michael was already starting to rein in, the farmhouse just ahead.
'Michael!' Sarah shouted. 'Get your horse inside— hurry!' Sarah, as Michael began dismounting, reined in old Tildie, swinging easily from the saddle, shifting the AR-15 on her back, snatching out with both hands for the reins of Annie's horse. She hauled the animal down, then grabbed the little girl from the saddle. 'Run— into the house.' Sarah pushed Michael ahead of her, holding the reins now of all three horses.
Michael was struggling with the farmhouse door. Sarah almost pushed the boy aside, throwing her weight against the door as she tried turning the knob, the rough unpainted wood scratching against her hands. But the door gave and she hurried Michael through, Annie after him. She could see over to the brow of the hill now— they weren't trucks. They were tanks, with red stars on their sides. 'Russians,' she rasped, swatting the horses in through the door ahead of her. She stepped through the door, swinging it shut, collapsing against it.
Sarah Rourke heard Michael call out, 'Momma!' She spun on her heels, the .45
automatic in her hand, her thumb pushing down the safety. Two ideas came to her as one— how conditioned she had become to danger, to defending herself and the children from it; and who was the man with the bloodstained shirt, a revolver falling from his limp right hand as he collapsed onto the floor from a cot in the corner. He had what she'd learned was a South Georgia accent as he rasped, 'I'm with the Resistance...
As Sarah started toward him across the floor, she realized there were Russians outside her door— but there was a new, unwanted responsibility within.
Chapter 5
John Rourke watched as the needle of the Harley's fuel gauge hovered near the 'E'— he made it another ten miles before he reached the site of the strategic fuel reserve, one of the sites pinpointed on the map given him by Samuel Chambers, the President of United States II. Rourke had memorized the map, then destroyed it, later reproducing a copy and storing it at the Retreat where Paul Rubenstein memorized it as well. This was the first time Rourke had found it necessary to tap into the fuel reserve supply— finding gasoline, stealing it, trading for it as he had gone along. But this was the farthest he had been from the Retreat as well.
He had taken the auto ferry as far as he dared toward Savannah, abandoning it and leaving the girl in as secure a spot as he could find. He did not want the injured girl to slow him as he made his way to the gasoline supply, nor would he unnecessarily endanger her. As best he knew, Soviet troops honeycombed the Savannah area, using it as a primary southeastern port facility now. And there were Brigands, as the earlier encounter attested. Rourke had left the woman the little Colt Lawman two incher as last ditch protection, as well as food and water in case something went wrong. There was a rise ahead and Rourke took the bike up, then over it. Checking the black- faced Rolex Submariner on his wrist, he made it another ten minutes before he reached the site given the current terrain— and remembering the map he didn't foresee the terrain improving. It was uneven, untraveled. All in all, Rourke reflected, a smile crossing his lips, the perfect location for a strategic oil and gas reserve. Off the beaten path, accessible by motorcycle or the heaviest of trucks. Rourke pitied the fuel tanker drivers who had traveled the rough road to bring the gasoline there originally.
After several more minutes driving the Harley, the needle fuel gauge settled well below Empty, and Rourke stopped the bike, the engine running a little rough, he thought. In his mind's eye he pinpointed the spot from the map, then checked his lensatic compass to make certain the coordinates he'd memorized were correct. He started the Harley Davidson down off the rise, slowly, the CAR-15 slung under his right arm. Rourke realized he was now at his most vulnerable. He could be stopped, in the open, the motorcycle unusable while he refueled then filled his emergency container. Rourke circled the big black bike around the clearing, then slowed it, cutting the wheel slightly left. He stopped, putting down the kick stand. Then he dismounted the bike, snapped back the bolt on the CAR-15 and let it fly forward, chambering a round. Rourke thumbed on the safety and walked out to the clearing, checking the compass again against the memorized map. He spotted a likely stand of trees and walked toward it, pushing his way through the pine boughs several feet, then finding the valve.
Chambers had explained that the strategic fuel reserves shown on the map were emergency supplies as opposed to massive reserves for civilian, industrial, and military use. Because of their emergency nature, they had been designed to operate on air pressure rather than electricity. And that meant that the time to refuel an average full-sized automobile, for example, as Chambers had explained it, would be roughly ten to twelve minutes— a slow process. Rourke smiled at the thought. He wondered if he'd ever drive an
'average automobile' again. He went back to the Harley, then walked the bike back toward the edge of the tree line and began the refueling process. Even with the vastly smaller tanks, including the auxiliary tank, the process still seemed interminable as Rourke worked the pump, leaving the key on to watch the fuel gauge. He realized that with air in the system and the nearly bone-dry tank he could easily make a mistake, assuming his tanks were full when in reality they weren't. As he fueled the Harley, then began working on his emergency container, he scanned the clearing and the crude road leading down and through it. He was still vulnerable.
Rourke froze, hearing something that chilled his spine— it was another human voice, the words unmistakably Russian. It was cool, clear and there was a strong wind blowing from the direction from which he'd come, and despite the apprehension gripping Rourke now, he continued the fueling operation. The voice came from beyond the low ridge over which he'd entered the clearing. Rourke calculated the situation— there were at least two men, probably an advance Soviet patrol. Rourke swung the CAR-15
forward, telescoping out the stock. He glanced at the emergency fuel container— it was almost full. He tightened the gas cap on the Harley Davidson, visually inspecting the area to make certain he'd left no other signs of his presence beyond the tire tracks. He'd spilled a few drops of fuel and he kicked dirt over the damp spots in the ground. The container was full and Rourke stopped pumping. Quickly, his eyes riveted through his dark aviator-style sunglasses to the ridge, Rourke sealed the emergency container, securing it on the Harley.
He coiled the pump hose back into its base, then shut down the valve, working the combination lock to secure it— Chambers had given Rourke the combination, too, at the time Rourke had received the map.
He heard the Russian voice more clearly now, closer. Moving the bike without starting it toward the center of the clearing, he went back over the ground and obliterated any footprints or tread marks as best he could, using the leather jacket he'd stripped from his back. Shouldering back into the jacket, reslinging the CAR-15 and collapsing the stock, Rourke mounted the motorcycle and waited. If the voice came no closer, he would wait until it was no longer audible, then go up to the ridge and, when all seemed clear, steal away. It was of paramount importance not to attract too much attention to the clearing and cause the Soviets to initiate a detailed search for the fuel reserve.
He could hear the voice clearly now, saying something in Russian about having followed tire tracks. A smile
