Rourke watched Reed. Natalia squeezed Rourke’s hand tighter.
Chapter Twenty-three
Patches of snow dotted the rocks, drifts occasionally sev-eral feet high in the depressions as Rourke, at the head of the column of U.S. II and Soviet Forces, Natalia beside him, Vladov and Reed behind them, walked on. The two planes had dropped them what Rourke judged from map distance as ten miles from the main entrance of the Chey-enne Mountain underground complex. The light around them was grey as they walked, climbing slightly now, the Colorado Rockies air thinner, cold, and exertion telling on all of them, he realized, as he led them onward.
In another mile or so, he would send out an advance party to scout for Soviet patrols. But he waited, holding back. In a few moments they would reach the height of the lower elevation peak they traveled, and from there, be able to see the horizon.
If it were aflame, sending out an advance party would be pointless, for they would all be dead in minutes.
He felt Natalia’s gloved right hand brush against his gloved left. “If it happens,” he heard her whisper, “I shall love you after death as well.”
He found her hand, holding it, climbing upward with her.
Thunder rumbled in the sky, so loud that at times it drowned the beat of his heart that he could hear in his ears. It was not the exertion, but instead what he knew might happen.
Rourke suddenly realized that if this morning were the morning, that his wife and his children, that Paul—if they had been caught outside, or failed to completely secure the Retreat—that they were dead.
If they had been inside, and the Retreat sealed, the fresh oxygen the plants under the grow lights generated from ex-haled carbon dioxide would allow them to survive for per-haps several weeks until the air became too foul to breathe. The food would last for years. The electrical power from the underground stream—if the stream itself never reached the surface as he had always suspected was the case — would run on infinitely, or until the generators and the back-up generators malfunctioned and stopped.
But his family would be gone to him forever.
John Rourke loosed Natalia’s hand, folding his left arm around her shoulders as they ascended the last rise.
The sun—lightning crackled round it in the air on the ho-rizon, but there were no flames.
John Rourke put on his dark lensed sunglasses, staring eastward.
“There is another day, John.”
“Yes,” he told her, just holding her for a moment, watch-ing it, for the first time in his life appreciating it.
One of the Americans standing behind them began to say the Lord’s Prayer aloud.
Chapter Twenty-four
Colonel Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy stood beside the corpsman at the master radar control screen, watching. The blips—the corpsman had described them as an Aeroflot passenger jet and six Mikoyan/Gu-re-vich MiG-27 fighters — were at the ninety-mile radius. The Aeroflot was a special craft, similar to the Presidential E4 747 Doomsday Plane which the late and last president of the United States, suc-ceeded by Samuel Chambers and U.S.II —had not been able to use even to save his own life let alone direct a successful war effort.
The timing would be critical.
He turned to his aide, Major Revnik. “Major, order that the system be energized to ready status.”
“Comrade Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy—are—”
“You have your orders,” Rozhdestvenskiy nodded, not taking his eyes from the radar screen. Sixty-five miles now and closing. “Sergeant, order the airfield elevated for recep-tion of the premier, the Politburo and the Committee Lead-ership.”
He heard the sergeant who assisted the duty officer echo-ing the commands. “Duty Officer, begin tracking.”
The captain nodded, answering, “Yes, Comrade Colo-nel.”
Rozhedestvenskiy waited.
His aide announced, “Comrade Colonel. The system is energized to ready status.”
“Very good,” Rozhdestvenskiy nodded. He was letting them come in close. He wanted to see it when it happened, not just as radar blips disappearing from a screen. He turned his eyes to the high resolution television monitors overhead in the command center. They were faint, the im-ages he saw on the screen at the center. “Greater resolution, technician!”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” and then to another technician, “Bring up camera two—four, three, two, one—on camera two.”
The image suddenly changed on the screen—enhanced, he realized. But he could see them.
One large, passenger-sized aircraft. Six smaller aircraft— the fighters.
“Excellent, excellent. Stay on them.”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”
Rozhdestvenskiy addressed the duty officer, “You have them.”
“Tracking, Comrade Colonel.”
“I shall take charge of the firing sequence. Do not hesi-tate to correct me, Captain, in the event that I should make an error.”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”
Rozhdestvenskiy picked up the microphone. “Firing cen-ter, act on my commands. Zero deviant flux on my signal. Ten. Nine. Eight.” He watched the growing images of the six aircraft on the center screen. “Seven. Six. Five. Four.” It was the ultimate act. “Three. Two. One. Activate laser charge through the particle chamber now!” He eyed the du-plicate control panels in front of him. He had memorized the firing sequences, learned the very functioning of the sys-tem itself to be sure. He could trust it to no one else’s hands. He served as commander and technician.
“Switch on. Charging — one-quarter, one-half, three-quarter power—full power. Boost two and three.”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel, actuate firing,” the technician’s voice came back.
Rozhdestvenskiy focused on the computer readout di-odes. “Boost ionization fifteen points,” he called into the microphone.
“Boosting ionization fifteen points,” the technician’s voice came back.
“Capacitance function readout check,” Rozhdestvenskiy called.
The technician’s voice came back, “Ten to the fourteenth capacitance, to the fifteenth, to the sixteenth.” The techni-cian’s voice paused for a moment. “Ten to the seventeenth capacitance—”
“Hold on ten to the seventeenth,” Rozhdestvenskiy or-dered.
“Holding on ten to the seventeenth capacitance, zero flux.”
“Designating targets. Grid placement!”
Over the radar screen before him a grid of green lines ap-peared, masking the screen, Rozhdestvenskiy command-ing, “Television—put up grid Theta.”
“Putting up grid Theta on Camera Two—on my signal, Comrade Colonel. Five, four, three—ready animation— roll—two, one, punch up—grid Theta on Camera Two, Comrade Colonel.”
“Very good,” Rozhdestvenskiy murmured. The grid on the radar screen and the grid overlay on the television moni-tor were perfect matches. “Switching from radar to video on my mark,”
Rozhdestvenskiy announced. “Three, two— ready to switch—one—switch now!”
The weapons system was feeding from the video screen, the radar running now as a crosscheck—at the range visual more precise than radar. “Designating targets now! Grid fif-teen, target one, twenty-six, twenty second delay, target two, grid thirty-eight, target three, grid forty-three, target four, grid fifty, target five, grid nineteen, target six. Grid twelve, target seven.”
He licked his lips. “Automatic target acquisition and destruction on my mark—six, five, four, three, two, one —Mark!”
