'David— outa Chicago? That's where they'd take him— no. Can't. David's done— simple as that. And he'd be wantin' us to think that, too. Write him off 'stead of gettin' ourselves killed tryin' to bust him outa there. Probably use drugs to get him to talk. No— I figure we gotta go on— that's what David'd be wantin' us to do. I gotta contact U.S. II headquarters— talk with that Reed fella in Intelligence— see if n he knows what the Russians is about with all these supplies and things. There's a farm— not far from your old place, Mrs. Mulliner— the Cunningham place. Raised quarter horses before The War— beautiful things. But old Mr. Cunningham was a ham radio operator. Still got all his equipment. We never used the place, kept it on the back burner, so to speak, for a safe house, like they call it in the spy movies. Well— we're usin' it now— and that radio—'
'The Cunninghams are dead— a raid—' Bill Mulliner began.
'Brigands?' Michael asked.
'Brigands,' Critchfield nodded. 'But them Brigands burned the house and the barns— old Cunningham had him a machine shop underground of the house— kind of a survivalist like Mrs. Rourke's husband was—'
'Is,' Sarah corrected unconsciously.
'Yes, Sarah— is,' Critchfield nodded. 'Cunningham and his missus got killed fighting the Brigands— but the underground part never got touched. All we gotta do is rig up some sorta antenna like and use that ham radio of his. Food and some ammo stored there, too. Can make it there in about six hours hard walkin' time.'
'Then let's go,' Sarah said. 'Most of my wounded can walk all right— we can stretcher carry the one that can't— both legs shot up, but he's still strong.'
'Then it's agreed?' Critchfield nodded.
'Agreed,' Bill Mulliner added.
'Agreed,' Annie laughed, and everyone laughed with her— except Sarah. She thought of David Balfry— he had kissed her. And now he would be enduring something she didn't even want to imagine.
'Agreed,' Sarah finally said.
There were Russians everywhere, and if they made it to the Cunningham place unmolested, it would be a miracle. And there were Brigands, too— she felt almost evil thinking it, but perhaps the Russians and the Brigands would lock horns and just kill each other and make it all over, all done with. Perhaps.
She sipped at her coffee and it was cold and bitter to taste.
Chapter Forty-Two
General Ishmael Varakov heard the clicking of heels on the museum floor— he knew, without looking up from his file-folder-littered desk that it would be Rozhdestvenskiy, come with absurd punctuality for his appointment.
The clicking of heels neared as Varakov studied the urgent communique from the Kremlin leadership still in hiding in their bunker. 'Rozhdestvenskiy and the KGB are to be given full aid and support of the army, the GRU and any other forces or facilities at your command. The Womb is the ultimate priority project— this is to be given your full efforts.' It was signed by the Central Committee and The People of The Soviet.
Varakov smiled— was that like SPQR-Senatus Populusque Romanus? He remembered what had happened to them.
'Comrade General!'
There was a louder click of heels, and Varakov still studied the communique.
Without looking up, he murmured, 'Sit down, colonel— it appears I am ordered to assist you and this Womb Project. But as commanding general still I must first insist that I be informed as to the total implications of my orders—'
'Comrade General—'
Varakov looked up, Rozhdestvenskiy— blonde, athletic, firm-jawed, handsome by any standard, erect even when sitting— again the image of the SS officer came to Varakov's mind.
'Yes, colonel?'
'All work with factories for prosecuting The War effort with The People's Republic of China and remaining NATO troops is to be temporarily put aside. All agricultural production not vital to the Womb effort is to be put aside— all energies, as your orders indicate, are to be devoted to the speedy development of the Womb Project to its ultimate goal.'
'What is this ultimate goal, colonel—' Varakov would not call him comrade— those he had called comrade had meant too much to him to so debase, so abuse the word.
He watched Rozhdestvenskiy— not a hair out of place, the uniform neat, perfect, without a wrinkle— so unlike his own, which even he realized much of the time looked as though it was slept in. It was.
'In simple terms, Comrade General—'
'Yes— we must be simple—'
'There was no slight meant to you, Comrade General— I have always held the deepest admiration for your past distinguished military career—'
'Please— spare me—'
Rozhdestvenskiy raised his right eyebrow, his lips downturned at the corners, held tight together, his eyes seeming to emit a light of their own. 'Very well— the goal of the Womb is much the same as the goal of the American Eden Project— the survival of the best and finest ideology. But we shall triumph— the Americans will not—'
'You speak in hyperbole, colonel— be more concrete.'
'The Eden Project was conceived to ensure the survival of the Western Democracies at all costs in the event of a global nuclear confrontation. The Womb will counter this last desperate gesture of the degenerate Capitalist system, and at once ensure the eternal triumph and majesty of the People's Revolution. But one element is missing, one needed element. To accomplish this goal, to ensure the very survival of the Soviet system, of Communism itself, the military must be fully committed to release KGB-attached forces to pursue that needed element, without which the Womb is doomed and American Imperialism will triumph.'
'And what about the survival of the Soviet people, colonel?' Varakov asked, his voice sounding dull to him. 'What of their survival?'
Rozhdestvenskiy smiled. 'May I be blunt, Comrade General?'
'A change, yes.'
'The spirit of the Soviet people, of the struggling masses everywhere, is best embodied in the political leadership of the Soviet and in the KGB as its extension of will—'
'And the people be damned,' Varakov said flatly, staring at Rozhdestvenskiy.
'The sheer force of numbers implies at its most basic conceptualization arbitrary selection—'
'An ark-like Noah in the Judeo Christian Bible— but an ark by invitation only, based on dialectics?'
'You do know— all of it,' Rozhdestvenskiy almost whispered.
'I do know— all of it—'
'There will be room for you, Comrade General—'
Varakov laughed. 'I have lived long enough to sleep for five hundred years— to awaken to what?'
'Perhaps your niece if she can be found—'
'To be your concubine— or to be executed because you consider her to have had complicity in the death of Karamatsov— hardly, colonel.'
'You have been ordered by Moscow—'
'I have been ordered by what was Moscow— and is now a group of old men afraid to die with dignity because they did not live with dignity— old men who hide in a bunker and are so afraid, so distrusting, that not even their commanding generals know exactly where the bunker is located. Are they packed— and waiting?'
'Yes, Comrade General—'
'Do not call me comrade— I have been given orders. I have spent my entire life since I was fifteen obeying military orders. Now I am reduced to obeying the orders of cowardly murderers who save themselves over the finest of Soviet youth— I will follow the letter of my orders—
have your troops— have them all. But I am not your comrade— I have never been— you are dismissed, colonel.'
Varakov looked from the eyes to his desk, studying the communique. He heard the chair move slightly as Rozhdestvenskiy would have stood up, heard the click of heels as Rozhdestvenskiy would have saluted, then the
