Chapter Fifty-one
They had moved—silently but slowly because of Varakov—Rourke, had circumstances been differ-ent, would have liked to have examined the old man’s feet to see if perhaps some remedy for the man’s obvious pain would suggest itself. They were deep within the museum now, in what was apparently part of an Egyptian wing, glass cases dominating the high-ceilinged chamber, inside the cases ranks of mummies and sarcophagi, and about the hall various items of antiquity of Egypt-ian origin. The third Soviet SF-er had rejoined them, and now all three men stood guard at the entrance-ways, Varakov seated on a backless low wooden bench, Natalia huddled beside him— for all the world looking like an overly tall little girl. Rourke smiled.
Rourke stood, and beside him stood Captain Vladov.
General Varakov at last spoke. “There is little time—perhaps no time at all, but only God—if in-deed there is one—can determine that now.” A woman joined them—slightly built, what most men would call plain, but a prettiness about her. She walked over to stand beside and slightly be-hind Varakov, the bench separating them.
“Catherine,” Natalia murmured.
“Comrade Major Tiemerovna,” the woman smiled.
Varakov looked at the woman, her right hand going to rest for a second on his right shoulder, lovingly, Rourke thought, then moving it away, folding it inside her left hand, both hands held in front of her overly long uniform skirt.
Varakov continued to speak, “There is little time. So, very plain talk, Dr. Rourke. Natalia. Captain Vladov. First, Captain Vladov—after our discussion here, unless I am greatly mistaken, my niece and this man, Dr. Rourke —they will be go-ing to Colorado, to The Womb—all is ready for you and your Special Forces to accompany them?”
“Yes, comrade general,” Vladov answered.
“What are you talking about?” Rourke asked softly.
Varakov turned to Natalia. “Child—what does ionization of the atmosphere mean to you? You were very bright at the polytechnic—so tell this to me.”
“The air—it would become charged with electri-cal particles—and—”
“When the sun heated it,” Rourke interrupted, “the electrically charged particles would—”
Varakov continued to speak, interrupting Rourke. “You are correct—both of you. I had little education—it took me a great deal of time to grasp this idea. But soon, all will understand it.”
“You alluded to the end of the world,” Rourke whispered.
“In the Judeo-Christian Bible, I believe that God promises this man who built the big ship—”
“Noah,” Vladov said.
Varakov looked at him and smiled. “Noah—He promises Noah that the world would never again end by water flooding it over, but by fire instead.”
“I always thought that was a poor bargain on Noah’s part,” Rourke interjected. “I’d rather drown, I think, than burn to death.”
“But this will be swift, Dr. Rourke—so swift—so very swift.”
“Total ionization of the atmosphere,” Rourke murmured.
“Yes—the end of the world. It is coming. Per-haps,” and Varakov looked at a rectangular wrist-watch that seemed like something out of a 1940s movie or a museum, “in less than five hours, per-haps in another twenty-four hours after that, per-haps a few days. As best the data I have compiled can confirm, the total ionization should be com-plete within five days at the most—most likely, less than that. It will come at dawn, rolling through the sky, fire, consuming everything, the very air that we breathe, purging the Earth. Each sunrise for twenty-four hours will be the last sunrise, the fire storm sweeping the entire planet. Death for all living things, and should something by some quirk of fate survive, there will be no air to breathe for at least three hundred years afterward, nearer five hundred years before the oxygen content would be able to sustain higher life forms without special breathing apparatus. With this War we fought, this insanity—we have destroyed ourselves—fi-nally and irretrievably, and all mankind shall per-ish from the Earth forever.”
There was nothing John Thomas Rourke could think of to say.
Chapter Fifty-two
John Rourke sat cross-legged on the floor. Na-talia had moved from the bench to sit beside him, and she held his hand.
Catherine, Varakov’s secretary, Rourke under-stood, sat beside the general on his wooden bench—the general looked very old.
Varakov held both her hands in his massive left hand.
The old general had kicked off his shoes.
Rourke smoked a cigar, Natalia a cigarette.
Rourke stared at the mummies—his future brothers, he thought absently.
“The Eden Project,” Varakov said slowly. “With the ionization would come the complete destruc-tion of breathable atmosphere, at the lowest eleva-tions the air thinner afterward than on the highest mountains. The partial destruction of the ozone layer at the very least. All of this was a postwar scenario, one of many. For a time, it was like a guessing game—this War of Wars. World War III.”
“Einstein,” Rourke murmured.
“What?”
Rourke looked at the general. “He said some-thing about it once—something like—it was in an-swer to a question about what would the weapons of world War III be. He told the questioner that he didn’t know, but that World War IV would be fought with rocks and clubs.”
“World War IV—that is why I have called you here, Dr. Rourke.”
Rourke looked at Varakov. “I don’t understand, sir.”
“You, doctor—your sheer survival, your back-ground—you are like the men in the Russian fairy tales who rode the horses of power and fought evil. My niece—she is consummate in her skills at destruction, yet both of you are human beings, have experienced love—for each other and others. Captain Vladov here—he is, to my reckoning, the finest soldier in the Soviet Army—”
“Comrade general, I— “
Rourke looked at Vladov—the man was embar-rassed, but pride gleamed in his eyes again.
“I have found a small cadre of GRU and army personnel whom I can trust. I would advise, per-haps, that you contact U.S. II headquarters through the Resistance—and perhaps they can send forces to aid all of you. Otherwise, the only ones who will survive the last sunrise are two thou-sand men and women handpicked by Rozhdestvenskiy—ones your husband—” and he looked at Natalia, “had selected, the list only slightly altered after Rozhdestvenskiy took over his position here. One thousand of the KGB Elite Corps, one thou-sand women from all branches of service, a staff of doctors, scientists, researchers—three thou-sand in all, perhaps a few less. They will inherit the Earth if you do not act.”
“A final act of revenge—I can’t see you bringing us here for that,” Rourke smiled.
“My letter—to avenge myself on the KGB? Hardly, Dr. Rourke—you are right.”
“You mentioned the Eden Project, Uncle Ish-mael,” Natalia almost whispered. The old man nodded.
“Postholocaust scenarios—the guessing game, yes.” The old man sighed, then continued to speak. “That we would blow away our atmo-sphere, that we would pitch the planet itself out of orbit and send it hurtling toward the sun, that ra-diation would blanket the Earth and all living things would die of lingering horror. It is like this boat builder,” and Varakov smiled, looking at Captain Vladov, “this Noah. For this is exactly what was built—an Ark. That is the Eden Project, my children, an Ark, and should Rozhdestvenskiy and his KGB Elite Corps survive, they will use the particle beam weapons installed at this womb of theirs—Cheyenne Mountain, your NORAD head-quarters before The Night of The War,”
and he looked at Rourke. “They will use these weapons to destroy the six returning space shuttles five hun-
