'Really— hmmph.'
'They use Chicago as their headquarters—'
'A lovely city, Chicago.'
'Five eighty-ton warheads will obliterate the entire Soviet High Command in the United States, and tons of supplies, thousands of troops— the land war they're fighting with China is already draining them— they'd never be able to reinvade America and they wouldn't waste their missiles on us— they used most of them during the Night of The War—'
'Is that what you call it?' Otis asked. 'Very nice ring to it— the Night of The War. Yes— I like that— I'll incorporate that in my ritual, if you don't object.'
'We'd be free again, Otis— kill the fuckin' Commies, then track down the Jews and the niggers that helped 'em along, got them the footholds they needed— make this a country for Americans again.'
'Wouldn't many of your Americans— I mean the white, Christian ones— wouldn't they die during this missile strike you propose?'
'Not more than a couple hundred thousand— a million or so at the most— and they'd willingly give their lives if I told them, explained it to them— they would.'
'Would they? I wonder.'
'They would,' Cole told him, trying to reason with him. 'First the Commies, then the scum that helped them come to power— get the United States back, build up a supply of warheads again while the Commies fight each other in China— then launch on China and Russia— kill 'em all. Make the world a decent place to live in again. Give our children a world where they can grow up safe— where white girls don't have to—'
'I don't doubt the sincerity of your convictions, captain— but isn't four hundred megatons a bit much for one city?'
'No— we've gotta be sure.'
'Yes— we would be sure that way.'
'You talked about torture— that man there, the air force colonel— he knows where the bunker is located. If you could—'
'I know where the bunker is located— I always wondered what they kept there. But as to the torture part, well— why don't we give him to my people— they've been so patient. We can let them amuse themselves with him while we discuss some of the fine points of our agreement.'
'Then you'll help me to fight for America?'
Cole didn't like Otis— he couldn't understand why the man simply sat there, saying nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rourke watched the bonfires below him and far to port. It would be the wildmen— perhaps they had trapped Cole, he thought. He heard the voice coming through his headset.
'John— do you see those fires?'
'The wildmen.'
'Should we go in?'
Rourke didn't answer her for a moment. Teal could be down there. But if Cole were still in control of his small party of men— and of Teal— Teal would be alive until the missile silos and the control bunker were reached, penetrated. If a stray shot from the wildmen disabled one of these two last functional helicopters, bringing back a full, heavily armed landing party from the submarine would be impossible.
'No, Natalia— we keep going to the coast,' he said finally into the small microphone just in front of his lips, a cigar clenched— unlit— in the left corner of his mouth.
'All right,' he heard her voice come back. 'You are a strange man,' her voice sounded in his ear after a moment.
'Why is that?'
'I would have expected you to storm in there— like that story Paul tells about you riding your Harley into the Brigand camp in the desert and killing the leader, then—'
Rourke thought back— it seemed so long ago. He remembered Paul then— like two different people in terms of skills and abilities. He studied the lights on the instrument panels. 'That served a purpose,' he told her.
'Revenge?'
'Yes.'
'And now the purpose is—' She let the question hang.
'Keep Cole from launching those missiles— it's the only thing he can be planning. The only thing. Millions of lives maybe— against one life.'
He wondered if Armand Teal would understand. Rourke smiled to himself— he wondered if he himself understood it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It felt primitive— that was the word, Cole thought. 'Primitive,' and he verbalized it, watching Teal, tied to one of the crosses, a large man using a knife whose blade gleamed orange in the firelight near the foot of the cross, slicing skin in narrow strips from Armand Teal's legs.
Teal had stopped screaming, only moaning incoherently now as the knife edged slowly upward.
'It's an art— like everything done with skill,' Otis explained, standing beside him. 'To torture without inducing total unconsciousness or death is a precision craft. My man Forrester does it with such consummate grace— I rarely tire of watching him. He seems always to find a new and more subtle variation— oh, there— watch!'
Otis was gesturing now, enthused for the first time since Cole had seen him.
Cole watched, too.
Forrester was holding the naked Teal's testicles, using a different knife now— small-seeming.
'That's as sharp as a razor— as they say,' Otis whispered conspiratorially and smiled. 'What he's doing I've only seen him do once before— it's wonderful.'
Cole thought Otis was insane— but he watched anyway, almost compelled to. The man with the knife— the one Otis had called Forrester— was seemingly shaving Teal's testicles.
'He's removing the upper layer of skin— but so slowly and patiently as to prevent most bleeding. Then— after that, he'll move to the—'
'I don't wanna—'
'Ohh— but it's exquisite. One of the women will come up to him— arouse him— and— well, he bleeds to death, captain—'
Cole turned his face away— he threw up across the top of his combat boots.
'Really, captain— for a man who wishes to slaughter so many— well, I hardly see where this should be —'
Cole turned and looked at Otis, the gleam in his light brown eyes. He did not look at Armand Teal.
He closed his eyes, hearing a woman's voice, hearing Teal moaning— then hearing a scream after a very long time.
There was something half a chant, half a cheer coming from the self-imposed darkness around him.
Otis' voice sounded in a whisper at his ear. He could feel the man's breath— it smelled like marijuana. 'It's over now, captain— you can open your eyes.'
Cole opened his eyes. Otis had lied. It wasn't over. And he heard Otis laugh.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rourke hung back, his complement of the shore party boarded on his chopper, Natalia— her craft landed on the missile deck of the submarine— still loading. Gundersen spoke to him through his headset. 'You get these men back, Rourke— otherwise I won't have enough manpower to run my little boat.'
Rourke laughed into the microphone. 'Little boat?'
'Well— you got me straight, though?'
'I understand,' Rourke said into his microphone. The sea was rough, a wind blowing in off the mainland now, a wind that would make headwinds he'd have to fight in returning to Paul and Lieutenant O'Neal. The sea itself was gray, whitecaps dotting it like freckles on a child's face.
'You got any idea what the weather is looking like, commander?'
'Negative on that— at least beyond the fact that it looks crappy from here.'
