gambling— he knew it.
'Throw down your weapons!' The voice sounded again, as if whoever spoke had not heard him.
'The ultimate power is what I offer— power undreamed of for your leader!'
A man stepped forward then. He held no torch. He held no rifle. What looked like a fur pelt— at the distance Cole could not tell if it was the skin of a dog or a bear— was draped around his shoulders. He seemed short, or perhaps only by comparison to the well-armed men with torches who flanked him. His body seemed thick— but it could have been the animal skin he wore like a robe.
The voice was not the one that had called for Cole to lay down his weapons.
It was higher-pitched, almost amused-sounding.
'An audacious man— there are hundreds of us. Four of you and one is apparently your prisoner. You offer me power— undreamed of, ultimate power? I like a sense of humor. My followers, I'm afraid, are relatively humorless types, as you might imagine. So— tell me. What's this ultimate power you offer me?'
Cole paused for a moment, then shouted back, 'An eighty-megaton thermonuclear warhead mounted on an intercontinental ballistic missile, which I can arm and target.'
The man on the ridge said nothing for a moment, then, 'I am called Otis— who knows, we may become great friends.'
Cole's palms stopped sweating and he wiped them, one at a time, along the sides of his fatigue clad thighs.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sarah sat in the darkness at the base of an oak tree, Bill Mulliner beside her, the children and Bill's mother further along in the woods with some of Critchfleld's men. Pete Critchfield sat opposite her, cross-legged, Indian fashion, shielding one of his foul-smelling cigars with his hand— she knew why. So the glow from the cigar's tip wouldn't show light. She wondered if it had ever occurred to Critchfleld that an enemy could track him simply by the smell.
'We can't wait none for the Resistance leadership— with David dead or captured—'
'God bless him,' Sarah whispered.
'Amen to that,' Bill Mulliner intoned.
'Yeah— Amen, but with him out of the picture now, we gotta act. There's a big supply base the Commies are runnin' out of Nashville— been hoardin' stuff there for the last few days. Even more stuff than they had—'
'For what?' Bill asked him.
'Beats the hell outa me, Bill— but they got stuff we need. Medical supplies for openers— I got three men with bad gunshot wounds back in the woods there— no ampicillin or nothin', and no painkiller. The one guy's so bad, got two fellas sittin' with him to keep his mouth shut if he starts screamin'— been pourin' whiskey into him—'
'It's not a stomach wound, is it?'
'No, ma'am— legs.'
'You should be careful— alcohol's a depressant— depressants act funny with blood loss,' she told him.
'Well, Sarah— I guess I jes' started a-callin' ya that, ma'am—'
'That's fine— Sarah's my name.'
'Well, Sarah— seems to me we could use you helpin' out in two ways— lessen' you got yourself somewheres to go—'
She laughed. 'Well, I had a dinner engagement—'
'I'd offer y'all some food, Sarah— but we ain't—'
'I ate this morning,' she told him.
'They got food there too at that supply base. If n you could keep an eye on the wounded, tend to
'em maybe— well, you're pretty good with a gun, too, ma 'am. I seen ya, Sarah. You could do that, maybe get your kids to help a might— that'd free up Bill and me and the men to hit that supply depot. We got two trucks stashed out in the woods. We can get to Nashville and be back soon enough—'
'If you come back,' she said candidly.
'Well— ain't no arguin' that with ya, Sarah— that's a true fact.'
'I'll play nurse,' she nodded.
Sometimes, on the other hand, she reflected, being a woman, despite the lack of ego problems, was not such a good thing. 'I'll play nurse,' she said again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He sat on the ground opposite Otis— the ground was the only place to sit and Otis seemed well at home sitting there, Cole thought.
'You must have a great number of questions.'
'Who the hell are you people?' Cole began.
'We are the people who control the entire Pacific Northwest. Anyone who is obviously a stranger here is killed. Those who live here when they are encountered are taken prisoner, given the choice of joining, or dying. Most join. Some die.'
'I don't know how many guys you got, Otis— but no way you'd be able to take on a real army.'
'That could be a problem someday, I suppose.' Cole watched Otis's eyes in the firelight. They were a light brown color, lighter in shading than Cole had ever imagined a human being's eyes could be. 'Someday, you and I maybe'll be enemies, Otis— but now we can be allies. There are six missiles.'
'So you have said.'
'I need five only— you can have the sixth.'
'But Captain Cole— why don't I just kill you and take the missiles?'
'A bomb blast with any conventional explosive you name won't get through those doors into the bunker. Use something too big and you'll destroy the launching equipment inside. And you don't know how to arm the missiles or how to target them. I do, only I do.'
'I can have you taken prisoner and tortured, then,' Otis smiled. 'You see, before the war— I assume it was a war, wasn't it?'
'The United States and Russia— yeah. It was a war.'
'Well— before the war, I was arrested and tried for a multiple homicide. I was acquitted— lack of evidence. But I became a cult figure. I was guilty, of course. There were people who wanted to follow me. We came up here, into the mountains, and I was able to live like a tribal chieftain. You see, I studied social anthropology and group dynamics and comparative religions— all that. I made my own religion. This was before the trial. During the trial, the publicity generated caused my star to rise, so to speak. After this— this war, well— it was natural for me to provide order where there was chaos—'
'A religion?'
'More or less— all that is foreign is corrupt, evil. Other races are to be despised— from the cross you burn, I can see you may have heard of such an ideology—'
'The truth is universal,' Cole told him.
'Truth? Hardly. But,' Otis smiled, 'if my followers believe it, I suppose there's no reason you shouldn't too. You see, I ran what the police might call a religious scam— a cult that took money from people for things like prayer shawls, incense, promised miracle cures— we collected many thousands of dollars in money left to us by the faithful. A black gentleman— quite rich— came to me, partook of our prayers and curses— he left his entire fortune to us. A sizable fortune. I broke into his home with two of my— my followers— and I killed him. His whole family, as well, so no one could contest his will. Unfortunately, a neighbor heard the screaming and police arrested us. My two followers committed suicide as I'd ordered them to. The papers were full of racial remarks attributed to me, ideals of racial superiority and a master race— all that drivel. After the acquittals well— certain types of people were drawn to me. Then this war thing and—
well— here we are, aren't we. I mean, I can certainly have you tortured.'
'To tell you stuff, yeah,' Cole nodded. 'But not to make me actually arm and target the missiles. You could never know if I did it right, could you?'
'I suppose not,' Otis laughed. 'A man after my own heart. And what do you propose to do with your five missiles?' Otis laughed again. 'I mean, if that isn't prying, of course?'
'The Russians occupy much of the East Coast and Midwest— what they didn't bomb out of existence.'
