machete as the man hurtled himself laterally across the hood, Rourke's right fist arcing out with the Detonics still clenched there, using the butt of the pistol like a piece of pipe or a roll of quarters to back his knuckles, his fist impacting the man on the left side of the forehead, the eyes going wide, the body rolling, tumbling down, the right front wheel crushing the man's legs— but there was no scream, the blow to the head apparently having killed him.
Ten yards to go, the roar of the engine and the vibration louder, louder than Rourke had thought it could have been— he jumped clear as they hit five yards, the roar louder still as Rubenstein—
Rourke glanced to the younger man as he jumped— hammered the gas pedal flat against the floor.
Rourke hit the ground, half rolling against a wildman, the wildman— tall, lean, the half-naked torso rippling with muscles under a fur poncho and cut-off jeans, lashing out with a Bowie bladed knife. Rourke's left fist groped for the second Detonics, found it, his left thumb passing behind the pistol's tang to work down the safety, then sweeping around as he fired the pistol point blank against the wildman's throat, blood bursting out of the wound in a wet sticky cloud as Rourke turned his eyes away.
He pushed himself to his feet, hearing the grinding and tearing of metal, looking now toward the bunker doors, the outer door at least caved in.
Rourke started to run, hammering the empty pistol in his right fist against the face of a woman with a revolver, knocking her down, splitting her nose down the center, her scream shrill, agonized as he ran on. A wildman from his left— Rourke fired the second Detonics, a two-round burst into the chest, the man toppling back.
Rourke was beside the truck, Rubenstein visible through the still open right side door, sprawled across the seat.
'Paul!'
The younger man looked up. 'All right— okay— I'm all right.'
Rourke punched the Detonics pistol in his left fist forward. 'Down!' He fired three times, emptying the pistol, mutilating the face of the wildman with the butcher knife starting for Paul through the sprung-open driver's side door.
Rubenstein rolled against the seat back, pushing up the CAR-15, firing through the open door behind him as more of the wildmen rushed the truck.
Rourke, both pistols empty, wheeled, a short, stocky man wearing animal skins and blue jeans hurtling his body toward him.
Rourke took its full force, sprawling back against the side of the bunker, the concrete rough and hard against the skin of his neck as he slipped down along its length, the man going for his throat. Rourke found his knife with his left hand, dropping the Detonics to the ground, his right arm pinned at his side, his left hand arcing forward and around, driving the knife in under the right rib cage— there was a scream, a curse, the body slumping away for an instant, Rourke's right arm free, his right fist hammering down with the Detonics, the butt crushing into the face of the wildman, smashing the nose, as Rourke's left knee slammed upward, smashing into the groin.
Rourke sidestepped as the body fell, the second pistol still on the ground, buttoning out the magazine in the pistol in his right hand, catching the empty and ramming home a fresh one from the six pack. His right thumb worked down the slide stop, his first finger pulling the trigger, killing a wildman lunging at him with a spear.
Rourke slumped back against the concrete wall for an instant, inhaling hard— He reached across the body of the man he'd knifed, found his second pistol, reloaded it, then found his knife— he had emptied the Sparks six pack and had only the remaining magazines in his musette bag and on his belt— 'John— inside!'
Rourke looked to his right— Rubenstein and O'Neal were gone, the door to the bunker pried partially away from the jamb.
He glanced skyward, Natalia in the helicopter making another pass over the ground— Rourke threw himself up, over the hood of the truck, swinging his legs over and dropping down, firing the pistol in his right hand at a man with a spear as he hit the ground, then pushing himself through the space between the metal door and the jamb.
'Here!'
It was half in shadow in the narrow space behind the door and he felt a hand on his left forearm.
'Me, John!'
Through the crack between the door and the jamb, Rourke could see wildmen massing for an assault against the door, the one called Otis, blood oozing through his fingers as he held his shoulder, at their head.
Rourke looked behind him, his eyes gradually accustomed to the gloom. He ripped his sunglasses from his face, stuffing them into the inside pocket of his bomber jacket.
'Paul— you and O'Neal get as far back as you can go— hurry.'
Rourke edged back, away from the door, the assault starting, the Detonics in his right hand coming up, in his mind's eye trying to judge the perfect spot for hitting the fuel pump— he fired, throwing himself back, the truck roaring into an explosion, Rourke suddenly gasping for air as he looked back, the heat of the explosion making a wind, sucking air from inside the bunker. Rourke coughed, lurching forward on his hands, his fists still clenched on the twin Detonics pistols— there was screaming from outside.
Rourke pushed himself to his feet and half threw himself into the deeper shadow ahead, down the tunnel leading into the main body of the bunker.
Cole would be arming the missiles to launch— and millions would die.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rourke raced ahead, leaving Rubenstein and O'Neal beside the second door— the one with the combination lock, wide open— if Cole had closed it, Rourke would have been powerless to stop him. Rourke ran on, lights gleaming in the corners where the low concrete ceiling met the walls, such little room in the passage that if Rourke jogged slightly left or right, his shoulders would brush against the walls.
He could hear the humming of machinery— generators working— the lighting and the missiles— firing devices were all on the same electrical system, he assumed.
He could see brighter light at the far edge of the tunnel and he threw himself more into the run, his arms at his sides, his pistols clutched in both fists— he would kill Cole in cold blood if he had to to stop him.
The end of the passage was less than twenty yards away, Rourke cocking his head back, his mouth wide open gulping at the stale, cool air, Rourke skidding on his combat boot heels across the last yard or so, lurching against the door frame— the missile control room.
Cole— leaning across a panel of switches and lights, computer tapes whirring.
Rourke shouted, 'Cole— don't!'
Cole turned, his face a snarl, his lips drawn back across his uneven teeth, his eyes glinting, the front of his body covered in mud-smeared blood. 'For America!'
Cole threw himself across the panel nearest him, both pistols in Rourke's fists bucking and bucking again and again, the noise deafening, his ears ringing, Cole's body sliding down from the panel, his left arm extended.
Rourke saw it— as if in slow motion— the push of a button, a red button.
The lighting in the control room switched from whitish yellow to a dull red, a mechanical voice booming over a speaker near Rourke's head, his ears still ringing from the concentrated gunfire in the confined space.
Cole's body fell to the floor, rolled, the eyes blank and staring upward.
The computer voice announced, 'T minus ten minutes and counting— irretrievable launch sequence initiated. T minus nine minutes forty-five seconds and counting.'
Rourke stared at the speaker. 'Shit.'
Chapter Thirty-Six
Rourke whirled the dials on the radio— praying the electromagnetic pulse hadn't reached this far into the ground, the electromagnetic pulse that had wiped out the air base communications until Teal— the late Armand Teal— had jerry-rigged to restore them.
'Calling the helicopter— Natalia! Come in, damnit!'
'John— where are—'
'No time— in the bunker— launch is—' the mechanical voice again— 'T minus eight minutes fifty seconds and counting'—'You hear that?'
'Yes— yes—'
'Get down here— I'm going into the silos— try to disarm the electrical system that would trigger the launch—
