Rourke ran, picking up his feet, laying them down, shouting to himself internally—'Run!'
Twenty-five yards to the ladder now. Twenty— the conduit overhead here was afire as well, Rourke feeling the heat searing at the exposed skin on the back of his neck, the roar of the fireball so loud he could no longer even hear his own labored breathing.
Ten yards. Five.
Natalia was up the ladder, two rungs at a time.
Rourke threw himself against it— Natalia's hands were reaching down— there was no time, no sense— to argue. He took her hands, Natalia half pulling him up the ladder. He stumbled forward, after her, jumping over Cole's body, Natalia ahead of him, shouting, breathless—
'Paul— get out of here— run for it!'
Rourke stumbled, caught himself against the wall— the concrete seemed burning hot to the touch. He kept running, Natalia was ahead of him, daylight there, the fluorescent tubes on the tunnel sides exploding still, the conduit itself making a sheet of flames above their heads, the fireball being sucked faster, he knew— toward the oxygen.
The doorway— five yards. Two yards. Natalia was through, Rourke throwing himself through and past the burnt truck and behind her, running, throwing himself to the ground and right, the fireball belching out as he rolled, his hands going to protect his face.
Then it was gone. No missile contrails were in the air as he moved his hands from his face.
He didn't know how long it was— he was too tired to look at his watch.
But after a time— she was crawling toward him on her knees, then slumped against him, he heard Natalia's voice, felt her hands touch at the back of his neck— he was sore there, tender.
'You have the worst sunburn I've ever seen,' she laughed.
Rourke put his arms around her and held her body close against him.
He closed his eyes.
Chapter Forty
'As best I can make out,' O'Neal smiled, rubbing his dirty hands across his dirty, soot-smeared face, 'when that fireball hit the air out here it got hot enough to melt down everything that wasn't concrete— that tunnel is sealed tighter than a drum and there wasn't a cook-off— no radiation at all. We lucked out— or I should say you did.' Rourke looked up at him. Rourke squatted on the ground, Natalia behind him rubbing a cream into the burn on his neck. 'We can put a charge over that mound along the ridge there and bury the missile bunker entrance completely— what about an earthquake someday here?'
'Well, maybe—'
'Unless a fault was created on the Night of The War, they wouldn't have built this anywhere near one— it should be safe forever.
'Maybe somebody a thousand years from now will dig it up—'
'Perhaps someone a thousand years from now will be too smart to want to,' Rourke heard Natalia murmur from behind him.
'A shame our people and your people couldn't have worked together— well, like we did here—
before— well, before all—'
'Before the Night of The War,' Paul Rubenstein added somberly, his jacket and shirt gone, his left arm and shoulder heavily bandaged, his eyes glassy from the painkiller Rourke had given him before cleaning and dressing the wound.
'Maybe someday,' 0'Neal said, squinting against the afternoon sun— Rourke was reminded to find his glasses in his bomber jacket pocket— 'somebody'll remember what this place was—
maybe build a little marker here, you know?'
Thunder rumbled out of the cloudless sky, the sun blood-red.
'Maybe someday,' Rourke almost whispered. 'Maybe.'
Chapter Forty-One
Bill Mulliner realized two things— one was he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life because, since the successful raid on the supply depot in Nashville and the theft of arms, ammunition, and medical supplies, Russian troops were everywhere. The other thing he felt was pride— his father had died in an abortive attempt at a similar raid— the success now in at least a small way avenging his father's death.
His father— he still hadn't, he realized, adjusted to the idea of his father's not being there. The scratchy beard stubble when he hadn't shaved— despite Bill's age, he would kiss his father on the cheek. The warm, sweatiness of the man's skin, the dry firmness though of his hand when it had clasped his.
The man he could talk to, not always well, but talk to— this was gone from him forever, and as he walked, three M-16s slung on his shoulders and one eight-hundred-round can of 5.56mm ammo in each hand, he cried.
But only the darkness of the forest could see him— Pete Critchfield and the others walked far ahead...
Sarah Rourke looked up from the injured black man whose bandage she had just changed, the man's eyes wide in the darkness as he too had heard the sound. She had the Trapper
'What is it?' Mary Mulliner whispered hoarsely.
Sarah heard Michael make the sound, 'Shh.'
Annie, who had helped her with the injured man's bandage— mainly making him smile—
clutched her left arm.
'Mrs. Rourke?'
It was Bill Mulliner's voice, beside him, slightly ahead of him coming into the clearing, Pete Critchfield— before he reached the edge of the sheltered fire on which she boiled water, she could smell the fetid smoke of his cigar.
'Bill— Pete— how 'd it—'
'Lost two men— and Jim Hastings and Curly got the rest with them, stashing the loot—'
'You make yourself sound like a criminal for stealing American supplies from the Russians—
don't call it loot, Pete,' she said hastily.
'All right— the stuff, then— weapons, ammunition, explosives, some medical supplies— I'm carrying the medical stuff and some explosives— Bill here's got the ammo and Tom— you donno Toni— he's got more of the medical stuff for ya.'
The third man nodded. 'Ma'am.'
'Tom,' she nodded back— he was black, like the man she treated now.
'Left two men up by the road,' Critchfield went on—— 'Russians ever'where now—'
'You must have made a big splash,' she smiled, her voice low.
'Yeah, well— destroyed an ammo truck, killed about eighteen or nineteen of their people, took what we could pack in a van we stole and blew up the rest— I'd say they was a might flustered, least-ways.'
And Critchfield laughed, Sarah hearing the man on the ground beside her laugh too and say,
'You fight near as good as us black folks, Pete!'
Sarah looked at her patient, then ran her left hand across his head, telling him, 'You rest easy—
so you can laugh later.'
Mary Mulliner— Sarah guessed she liked none of it— said, 'I'll make you men some coffee.'
Somehow, Sarah thought, there was an odd sound in Bill Mulliner's voice. 'Okay, Mom.' His face looked worn and afraid, somehow older than Sarah had ever seen it...
'If they got David Balfry alive,' Pete Critchfield said, warming his hands on his coffee cup as he looked at her, 'then they'll like as not get David to talk— tell 'em ever'thing he knows 'bout the Resistance. And he knows a lot, he does.'
'God bless him,' Sarah whispered.
'Amen,' Mary Mulliner added.
'Mommie— hold me— I'm cold,' Annie pleaded, Sarah folding her left arm around the child, picking up her coffee cup in her right hand.
'Could we try to bust him out?' Bill asked suddenly, blurting it out, his blue eyes wide in the firelight, the pupils like pinpoints, his red hair across his forehead.
