'You sound just like a professional meteorologist.'
'It's worse for me— I open up a window, I get my feet wet— submarines are like that.'
Rourke shook his head, saying, 'Standup comic before you joined the navy?'
'No— but thanks for the compliment.'
'I wasn't making a compliment,' Rourke told him. Because of cross winds, it had been rough landing on the missile deck— rougher by the time Natalia had done it. And now— the winds visibly rising as the waves tossed higher and higher— it would be hazardous in the extreme to take off. This was why he waited— if the helicopter ran into problems he would be there to fish out survivors.
'Natalia— you reading me?'
'Yes, John. Over.'
'Don't be so formal— only you and me and Gundersen on the line here. How you reading those winds?'
'Twenty-five knots and gusting higher.'
'Rourke?' It was Gundersen. 'I'm gonna have to dive soon— these seas are getting rough. I've got some people in sick bay this is playin' hell with.'
'Got ya,' Rourke answered. 'Natalia? How long?'
'Another minute— maybe two. The deck is slippery— we're using guidelines to get the men out to the helicopter.'
'Right,' he told her, watching her craft now— tense. From his vantage point two hundred feet up and to the sub's starboard side, Rourke could see what seemed to be the last two men, struggling along the missile deck on the manila rope guidelines, wind lashing at the raingear the men wore against the salt spray that broke over the bow as the submarine lurched violently with each swell.
The last of the two men disappeared inside the helicopter Natalia piloted. She was a good aviatrix, Rourke knew— but the best helicopter pilot in the world would have been hard-pressed to judge his controls right to get off the swaying, rolling missile deck against the wind.
The helicopter— as if a living thing itself— began to move, rising slightly, edging forward and to the right side, then rising more, spinning several times then dipping slightly downward—
Rourke's heart went to his mouth— then skimmed along the surface of the waves, then was airborne.
'She flies good.' Gundersen's voice echoed through his headset.
Rourke chewed down harder on his unlit cigar. 'Yeah,' he murmured.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Paul Rubenstein sat cross-legged in the rocks, his head bothering him slightly. 'The hell with it,' he murmured, reaching into the pocket of his O.D. green field jacket, finding the container Rourke had given him and removing one of the painkillers Rourke had prescribed. The octagonsided tablet in his mouth, he splashed it down with a swallow of canteen water. 'Lieutenant?'
'Yes, Mr. Rubenstein?' And O'Neal turned toward him. O'Neal's M-16 was nearly to the level of the rocks, ready to come up to fire.
'When John gave me these for pain, he told me to try and rest for a few minutes after I took one— do me a favor and keep a good eye out— I gotta close my eyes— my head's killing me.'
'Right, Mr. Rubenstein.'
Rubenstein nodded, then hunkered down in the rocks. The bolt was closed on the Schmeisser and his High Power was holstered. Rourke had often lectured on mixing firearms with any type of depressant or stimulant— with any foreign substance— and Rubenstein took the advice seriously. Having had, for all intents and purposes, no familiarity with firearms before the Night of The War, he now considered himself well-skilled— he'd had what he considered the best teacher. But firearms were not second nature to him as they were to Rourke. Almost subconsciously, he took advice literally and intended to until more familiarity deepened his judgment.
He set the Schmeisser aside on the ground next to him, folding his hands in his lap. He stretched his legs, tired from the sleepless night. He saw a face— she had been his girl. He wondered if all the people who inhabited New York City had died quickly...
'Mr. Rubenstein! Mr. Rubenstein— Paul!' She had been so pretty in a very soft way— he didn't want to lose— 'Mr. Rubenstein! Wake up!'
Rubenstein opened his eyes, feeling warm, sleepy still, then moved, suddenly feeling the cold and dampness, his eyes reacting to the bright grayness of the morning.
'How— ahh— how long—'
'About three-quarters of an hour maybe— look, Mr. Rubenstein.'
Paul shook his head, snatching up his Schmeisser, then getting to his knees— the headache was gone— and peering over the rocks. Across the small depression where the mounded-over bunker was on the far ridge he could see wildmen massing. And now, faintly, he could hear the rumbling of vehicles.
He could see the first one— a battered Jeep— rolling up onto his far left on the ridge. Then, on his right, another Jeep.
And then at the center— a massive pickup truck, the wheels high off the ground and suspended from the winch supports at the front of the vehicle was a body— burned black in spots, blood covered, the left arm missing, the eyes catching the glint of sunlight and reflecting it like glass—
it was Armand Teal.
'Look!'
'I see him,' Rubenstein murmured to O'Neal. 'No— no— look!' Rubenstein turned his head right, toward O'Neal, then past him. Wildmen behind them, wildmen on either side, heavily armed with assault rifles, spears and machetes, some of the wildmen standing like toy figurines, almost frozen, their spears poised for flight.
And at their head—'Cole— you son of a bitch!'
'Mr. Rubenstein— you and Lieutenant O'Neal— lay down your arms,' Cole shouted.
'Bullshit!'
'Lay down your arms and you'll be spared— at least for now. I came for the missiles— not to kill you!'
Rubenstein worked back the bolt of the Schmeisser, pushing O'Neal aside, on his knees still, the submachine gun snaking forward. He saw it— the shadowy form in flight as he fired, Cole dodging, two of the wildmen with him going down.
Something— the shadowy thing that flew— was in his line of vision, tearing into him now, dragging him back and off his knees. He felt himself spreadeagling, his subgun still firing, upward, his left arm unmoving. He stared at his arm— a massive stick seemed to be holding him to the ground.
'The spear— my God, Mr. Rubenstein!' It was O'Neal.
'Spear—' Rubenstein coughed the word, his subgun firing out. He tried to move his left arm, felt the tearing, the ripping at his flesh. 'No!' He screamed the word.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bill Mulliner squirmed on his knees beside the right front wheel of the van— it was his stomach. His father— the Russians had killed him— had called it 'butterflies,' and Bill Mulliner had them every time before a raid. As soon as the raid would start, the butterflies left. He wondered if it was fear of death— or fear of what came afterward. In church on Sundays they used to talk about the glory that awaited you when you had been born again in Jesus Christ, the glory of Heaven when you never wanted, never needed, but were filled with the happiness of being in God's presence. He wondered sometimes how you could be happy with the life gone from you. Or was the life something that wasn't physical at all?
He gripped his M-16 more tightly.
He looked to his left and up. Just inside the slid-open door of the van he could see the heels of Pete Critchfleld's shoes— Pete would be hunkered down low, waiting, his M-16 with the collapsible butt stock— admittedly homemade— ready to kill Russians.
Bill Mulliner looked to his far right and down. In the drainage ditch on the other side of the fence, already penetrated past Russian security, would be Curly and Jim, Jim with a Thompson submachine gun. He'd been a police officer before the Night of The War and the weapon had been legal and licensed.
The others— fifteen additional men, making nineteen all told, were scattered along the base perimeter. All of them were waiting for the signal.
