have arranged a rest area in a tent near the airfield while your cargo is being unloaded. For the enlisted personnel there is some of this American con-coction known as Cold-Aid—”
“Kool-Aid,” Rourke corrected under his breath, smiling.
“And for the officers, vodka or hot coffee, whichever one might wish. “You will find other convoy personnel there and the wait should not be that terribly long until your trucks are re-turned and you can move down the mountain again.”
“Excellent, Major, then we shall proceed?”
“Yes, Comrade, very good,” the KGB major nodded, again giving a curt salute, Daszrozinski returning it smartly. Daszro-zinski turned toward Rourke, waving him forward, calling something Rourke didn’t catch to Vladov and the other motorcycle driver. Their machines started. Rourke could hear the KGB major telling Daszrozinski, “Major, there is no need for your motorcycle escort to enter the facility—”
Daszrozinski—Rourke barely able to hear as he started the truck—turned abruptly to face the KGB major. “Major, my or-ders explicitly state I am to provide security for the cargo of explosives we carry, security until the cargo is transferred to the KGB personnel inside. I shall follow my orders, thank you, Comrade.”
The KGB major nodded his head to the side, shrugging, wav-ing the trucks and the two M-72
motorcycle combinations for-ward.
Rourke let up the clutch, Daszrozinski jumping to the run-ning board on Natalia’s side. Under his breath, the Soviet SF lieutenant rasped, “What is the American expression?”
“So far so good,” Rourke whispered, letting the truck roll for-ward past the sentry box.
The M-72 combinations passed under the lintel of the bomb-proof doors, Rourke involuntarily ducking his head a little as the cab of the two and one-half ton truck passed under it after them.
Inside, beyond the doors, he could see a vast horseshoe shaped turn-around, at the far end loading docks and beside these, the vault door leading into the Womb itself. The vault door was open as it should be.
Rourke whispered to Natalia and Daszrozinski. “Watch Vla-dov, he’ll have caught your conversation, Lieutenant, so I think he’ll make the first play.”
“Yes, Comrade Doctor—”
Rourke looked at him, Daszrozinski saying, “I am sor—”
“In what we’re doing, we are comrades in the real sense of the word—no offense taken, Lieutenant.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
There was not an AK type weapon to be seen—as if Kalashnikov had never lived—the KGB
personnel all carried M-16s and those few personnel who carried side arms wore .45s, the “U.S.”
symbols on the flaps of the holsters bizarre, Rourke thought. Natalia, as Rourke drove the vehicle into the horseshoe, mur-mured, “According to my uncle, they have standardized here on American weapons totally for the logistics of supplying the Womb and in the event that at some future date any buried weapons and munitions caches which would have survived the holocaust untouched might be found.”
“Interesting,” Rourke noted. “So the AKMs outside are just for show, just like the dodge about experiments— lying to their own people—”
“Yes—yes, they are,” she answered softly.
Ahead of him, a sergeant wearing white gloves and a white cap cover was directing traffic, Rourke following his lead, aim-ing the nose of the deuce and a half toward the loading dock area, breaking off from the main horseshoe of the driveway.
There were more military traffic cops, gesturing for Rourke to move the vehicle around into a slot from which he could back toward the dock itself for unloading. “Whatever Vladov’s play is going to be, it’s gonna have to be quick,” Rourke murmured, cutting the wheel into a hard left, intentionally missing the ma-neuvering bay, the traffic director shouting up to him in the cab, Rourke making a rude gesture—they were of equal rank, then backing the truck slightly, hearing the vehicle behind him screech its brakes, then Rourke cutting the wheel slightly right, edging forward into the maneuvering bay. He was stalling for time—time for Vladov. “Be ready,”
Rourke rasped through his tight-clenched teeth.
He brought the truck to a halt, then started into reverse, fum-bling the gear box, making the gears grind, stalling again for time. He started backing the vehicle toward the loading dock. Once the first of the boxes was moved, the Americans inside the truck would be spotted—and push would have come to shove.
He let the engine die, making a show of starting again, letting the engine die, half tempted to flood it, but worried that he might so overdo the incompetent driver routine as to raise suspi-cion. Instead, he let the engine catch, then eased the truck back toward the loading dock lip. The traffic director was cursing. Rourke grinned at him.
Vladov and the other motorcycle combination driver had parked at the farthest end of this section of loading dock, near to the vault door that led into the Womb.
Rourke said quickly, “Tell the convoy personnel to disembark the vehicles. When they holler at you for it, tell them the men are tired from the drive and you’re going to rest them—you out-rank everyone I’ve seen out here.”
“All right, very good, Doctor,” and as Rourke slammed the vehicle to an uneven halt, intentionally bumping into the load-ing dock—watching in the mirror as the loading dock personnel jumped back—Daszrozinski jumped down.
“Disembark the vehicles. Stay near your tracks,” Daszrozinski shouted.
Rourke could hear Ravitski, from the running board of the second truck, echo the command as the track pulled into its slot beside them.
The third track was still in motion.
Rourke cut the engine, leaving the vehicle’s transmission in reverse, leaving the emergency brake off. He started down from the driver’s side as the third vehicle pulled into its slot.
He made a show of stretching, but not so much a show as to profile the guns under his tunic.
From the loading dock, he could hear a voice shouting, “Comrade Major, the men are not allowed to leave their tracks.”
“Captain, these men are tired. They shall not damage your precious loading dock.”
“But, Comrade Major—”
“Yes—it is Major—do not forget that, Captain.”
The conversation ended, Rourke smiling. From the tone of Daszrozinski’s voice, Rourke surmised the lieutenant had al-ways wanted to talk to a senior officer that way and was making the most of the opportunity of pulling his spurious rank.
Rourke could see Natalia standing beside the front of the cab, at the right fender, trying to stand with her legs apart, her hands locked behind her—trying to look like a man. It wasn’t working to anyone who looked closely, Rourke thought.
He glanced toward Vladov, following Vladov’s gaze. A ramp led from the level of the horseshoe up toward the level of the door into the Womb. Vladov looked at him. Rourke nodded, he hoped imperceptibly.
The loading dock personnel were approaching the trucks now—it would be time.
Each of the personnel inside the trucks—mostly Ameri-cans—carried five pounds of the C-4, liberated from the pack-ing crates, the rest of the C-4 in the three trucks wired to detonate—Natalia had seen to that quickly after the takeover. The battery from the comman-deered patrol vehicle had been wired into the plastique in the center truck, the charges posi-tioned to blow outward toward the flanking trucks and deto-nate the plastique there. The last man out would leave the wristwatch commandeered from one of the dead KGB men be-side the battery—set for two minutes.
Rourke knitted his fingers together, bracing them against his abdomen, working open two of the uniform tunic buttons as he did—the Python was under his jacket as well, stuffed in his trouser band. It would be the first gun he could reach.
The loading dock personnel were starting to lift the tarp cover.
Rourke heard the roar of Vladov’s motorcycle combo, Vla-dov shouting in Russian, then in English, “We attack!” The RPK on the sidecar was already opening up, Vladov racing his machine toward the ramp and the vault door, Rourke reaching inside the deuce and a half s cab with his left hand, awkwardly, finding the ignition switch,
