General Varakov, had ac-cess to scientific data. High altitude test flights were still available options to the Soviets, as a means of confirming the level of ionization and the rate of buildup. As a scien-tist, it might be a pat answer for me to say that I blame my-self and other scientists for developing weapons systems and delivery systems which were capable of bringing about the destruction of our planet. Or I could shift the blame to the military for weapons build-ups. Or to the citizens of the various nuclear powers for letting their governments go on a headlong path to destruction.
“But the truth is,” Chambers continued, “that I don’t know who to blame. I blame myself as an individual matter of conscience. And maybe each of us should do that. And you can’t say that the anti-nuclear people were right and somebody else was wrong. Because they never gave us an alternative to nuclear defense as a deterrent to warfare. But of course we never gave them an alternative to warfare as a way of solving problems. But I don’t think we were put here—
however we were put here—to lie down and die. And I don’t think we were put here to compromise our beliefs and principles in order just to cling to life for a little while longer.
“So,” he nodded, “God gave us this extra day. It’s clear our Soviet adversaries don’t know of the coming holocaust. I think it’s up to us to use this day—in the defense of an ideal that somehow, even after all mankind is dead—some-where there is a spark that won’t die. I’m talking about lib-erty. That’s all I have to say besides God bless us all.”
It started with one man, then another and then still an-other—hands clapped to applause, but Samuel Chambers, first and last president of United States II, realized the ap-plause were not for the words he had uttered, but for the feelings the words echoed from the hearts of the Americans he stood before.
Unashamed, as he stood there beneath the rafters, Sam Chambers wept.
Chapter Thirty-eight
The convoy ahead of them was moving up, the traffic officer near the concrete barricades waving them ahead. Rourke duti-fully waited for Daszrozinski, disguised as the KGB major with the convoy, to gesture for him to move out. Rourke double clutched to get the old transmission into gear, easing up on the clutch, letting the truck barely more than idle forward, toward the barricades, the M-72 motorcycle combinations falling in at the front of the convoy, just ahead of Rourke—he could see a dark stain near the small of the back on the uniform Vladov wore— blood. He hoped no one else could see it. It wasn’t the sort of spot one cut oneself shaving.
Natalia whispered, “Like they say in your American mov-ies—dark of the moon.”
“Yeah,” Rourke nodded, letting out a long sigh, letting the vehicle roll ahead without feeding it much gas.
He knew where Natalia had her Bali-Song knife—inside the right front trouser pocket. Her hand rested over it. She had laughed when she had placed it there, saying that by moving the pocket lining to the side, with the knife there she might convince a casual observer she had something between her legs that really wasn’t there.
Rourke hadn’t found the remark amusing.
The M-72 combinations were flagged to a halt just past the sentry box, between the first and second fence.
Rourke braked the deuce and a half.
In the sideview mirror, he could see Daszrozinski walking up toward the head of the column, Ravitski, still disguised as a KGB lieutenant, walking beside him and slightly behind at his left side.
The guard sergeant from the sentry box snapped to and sa-luted Daszrozinski. Smartly, but not too smartly, Daszrozinski returned the salute. Through Natalia’s open passenger side win-dow, Rourke could hear as Daszrozinski and the guard sergeant spoke. “Comrade Major—your papers, please.”
Daszrozinski was playing it to the hilt, removing one glove very casually yet very definitely, gesturing with a nod of the head to Ravitski to produce the papers.
Inside himself, Rourke waited for Ravitski to make some sort of mistake, show some sort of deference to the guard sergeant who in real life outranked him, Ravitski only a corporal.
But Ravitski, a studied air of surliness about him, handed the papers to the sergeant.
The sergeant saluted and moved off with the papers.
Daszrozinski lit a cigarette, offering one to Ravitski. Ravitski lit up as well.
Rourke eyed Natalia, shifting his focus from the two men just beyond her, outside the cab—she was licking her lips. He didn’t know if in need of a cigarette herself or simply from ner-vousness.
Her hair was pulled back and up, stuffed under her garrison cap—the cheekbones would give her away, the set of the mouth.
Rourke shifted his gaze to Daszrozinski, the counterfeit ma-jor checking his watch anxiously.
He heard Daszrozinski telling Ravitski, “Give the men per-mission to smoke, Lieutenant.”
“Very good, Comrade Major,” Ravitski nodded, bowing slightly.
Ravitski approached the cab of the truck, leaning up toward Natalia, under his breath murmuring, “The lieutenant believes they are taking too long with the papers, I think—be alert, Comrade Major.”
Natalia nodded almost imperceptibly, Ravitski concluding as he stepped down from the running board, “But watch how you extinguish your cigarettes—these are explosives we carry—re-member,” and he walked on toward the next truck.
Natalia took out a cigarette—Rourke slapped his hand against her left thigh hard, eyeing the cigarette case —one of the type that looked like a smaller version of a woman’s handbag. Quickly, she took two cigarettes, putting the case under her tu-nic. She raised her eyebrows.
Rourke lit her cigarette, taking one and lighting it for him-self—a Pall Mall. He put away the Zippo, tempted to laugh as he watched Natalia posturing to smoke a cigarette like a man did rather than a woman, intentionally trying to make her hand look less than graceful when she held it, keeping her right wrist stiff, holding the cigarette between her thumb and first finger rather than between the first and second finger as she usually did, fingers extended.
She started to pluck a piece of tobacco from her lower lip— Rourke slapped her against the thigh again and she nodded, moving her hand away.
Rourke turned his attention to Ravitski who had rejoined Daszrozinski.
They still waited the papers and the return of the guard ser-geant.
Rourke glanced to his left. Guards were there, but not seem-ing to pay particular attention to him. Rourke had purposely selected a slightly over large uniform tunic—both Detonics Combat Master .45s were under it in the double Alessi shoulder rig. In the times before The Night of The War, in discussion of survival, often he had been asked why as his primary sidearms for survival use he had selected the Detonics rather than a larger pistol. His answer had always been that in a survival situation, the need for concealment shouldn’t be entirely discounted. And no other pistol, as he had told them then and still believed now, could be so counted on for trouble free reliability, maintenance free utility, and the combination of compact
He looked past Natalia again, inhaling the cigarette smoke deep into his lungs, wishing he had a cigar instead, but the im-age was too capitalistic for a supposed Soviet soldier.
Daszrozinski and Ravitski still waited, but from the sentry box now, Rourke saw the guard sergeant and an officer, a ma-jor, coming forward. Like the guard sergeant, the major was KGB.
Daszrozinski and the major from the sentry box exchanged curt salutes, Rourke overhearing as the new major informed Daszrozinski, “I am sorry for this regrettable delay, Comrade, but the experiments inside the Womb reach a critical stage now—in another week, security can be lessened I am sure and future shipments will be less delayed.”
Rourke felt a smile cross his lips—the impending ionization effect, hence the real purpose of the Womb, were being held secret from those not part of the project. Would that there were a way of capitalize on this, Rourke thought. But he could see none.
Daszrozinski asked, “Then we are free to move ahead, Ma-jor?”
“You certainly are, Comrade—but because of the security re-strictions, I’m afraid your shipment must only be taken beyond the primary doors to the receiving area. From there, Womb per-sonnel will take over the vehicles. We
