returned the salute, holding it for a long moment, then dropping it, Vladov turning away and walking back toward the pickup truck.
Reed looked at them, at Rourke and Natalia beside him. Reed said, “I never figured either of you. Figured Rourke was crazy for not jumpin’ your bones, Major—no offense. I would have. So I guess that’s a compliment. And you, Rourke—so fuckin’ independent, always so damned right, so damned perfect. I guess about the best compliment I can give—and I mean it—you’re a good American and we could’ve used more like you.”
Natalia took two hesitant steps forward, leaned up and kissed Reed on the cheek. Reed looked at her and smiled. “Major, if you don’t mind a dying man getting his last re-quest?”
She didn’t answer him. Reed put his hands on her upper arms and drew her toward him, then kissed her full on the lips. Rourke watched as she kissed him back. “I was right all along,” Reed smiled, letting go of her. “Rourke—he was crazy all this time, lady,” and Colonel Reed turned away and started to walk—quickly, erect— toward the knot of his men ten yards away. He never looked back.
Chapter Forty-nine
Chambers ducked his head down, the lip of the trench blowing away, dirt and rocks showering him. He clenched his M-16 in his fists, ducking back under the sheltered por-tion of the redoubt,
“Halversen,” he shouted, calling to the radio man at the far end of the bunker. “Halversen!”
“Mr. President, nothing yet. I’ve tried every frequency that the KGB hasn’t jammed. If the Texans are coming, sir—well, they aren’t receiving us at all and I’m not picking Up any of their talk.”
Chambers turned away, rasping, “Keep trying, Halver-sen.”
Footsteps along the trench, Chambers looking up, a young man in Air Force fatigues running in.
“Where the hell’s the president?”
“Who wants him, Sergeant?”
“My lieutenant told me to run over here. The last of the surface to air missiles was fired.” There was the sound of an explosion from outside, then more gunfire. “They send any more of them damn MiG airplanes against our position, we’re goners.”
“They send too many more against this whole Army, we’re goners.”
“Where the hell’s the president—supposed to tell him per-sonally.”
“Be back in a minute,” Chambers said, glancing toward Halversen, but the radio man’s head was leaned toward his machine.
“Probably off stickin’ his head in some goddamned hole figurin’ he’s gonna get shot.”
“Or maybe he dressed up like a woman and tried to es-cape through the lines, like Santa Anna did after he lost to Houston at the Battle of San Jacinto.”
The Air Force sergeant laughed. “Naw, everything I hear, well—Chambers—he’s a good old boy, even for a scientist, or a president. But I gotta find him though. Lieutenant wants to know what to do.”
“You found him, son, I’m the president.”
“You—why—” and the young Air Force sergeant—he looked barely older than nineteen—but promotion had come fast during the weeks since the Night of The War—snapped to attention.
“I’m sorry, sir—I—”
“You tell your lieutenant that when the SAMs are gone to get every man in his battery to pick up an assault rifle off one of the men who’s already dead. When the Russian planes come, have him have all of you fire in volleys toward the weapons pods underneath the wings. If the weapons are armed and you get a lucky hit, you might activate a detona-tor and blow up the damned plane. Move out, Sergeant.” .
“Yes, sir,” and the man started to go, then turned back. “I’m sorry for what I said, Mr. President, about the damn hole and all—”
“It was a goddamned hole—and no offense taken—good luck, Sergeant,” and as the sergeant started out of the bun-ker, Chambers found his cigarettes and his matches, light-ing up. He read the warning on the side of the package and laughed out loud.
Chapter Fifty
There were a large number of “lake-worthy” craft still about, Maus had known that from his work in the Resist-ance and, as he stood up to survey his armada as it moved shoreward, what he saw only confirmed it. He had never stopped to count the number of craft. Marty had counted them but never told him the number.
He waved his right hand high, across the distance sepa-rating the small cabin cruiser in which he rode from the mo-torized sailboat in which Stanonik stood. Behind them, around them, there were more than a hundred craft—from large sailing boats to motorized launches, men and women of the Resistance, civilians who had helped but never before fought, the few survivors of Ft. Sheridan and Great Lakes.
As the ranking surviving military man, command had fallen to him. He watched as Marty—his Python in his right fist—waved back.
For the several hundred men and women, there were fewer than one hundred M-16s, some of these not originally military assault rifles at all but after-market altered from the commercial civilian model, these by the wide range of gun tinkerers Maus had collected around him into the Re-sistance after the Night of The War. For the most part, pis-tols, the dreaded “handgun” that so many had fought to eradicate from the American scene and which since the Night of The War had helped to hold the Russians back however slightly. That Americans could be armed—unlike the citizens of many nations of the world—had proven an ultimate blessing in combating the Soviet invaders. Some shotguns, some .22 rifles.
Not a machinegun among them. Not a LAWS rocket. Not even a subgun. These that they had over the course of their battles stolen from the Soviets who had stolen them from U.S. military armories, had been sent with the bulk of the Resistance toward Texas to help combat the fight against the Soviet forces massing against U.S. II. Maus and the other Resistance leaders had known that reaching Texas in time was impossible, but necessary. If sufficient forces started climbing up the backs of the Russians, they would have to divert troops from their main objective, buying time for U.S. II, however little.
The lake shore lay ahead.
Already, Soviet patrol boats were steaming toward them.
Maus raised the loud-hailer to his lips. “This is Maus. All right, they’re coming to meet us. Most of us won’t get through—but we knew that. Those of us that make it to shore—well, they know where we’re headed. Forget about Soviet headquarters. We attack the prisoner compounds at Soldier’s Field and nearby. Free as many Americans as we can. And kill as many of the Soviet troops as we have to. Good luck.”
And under his breath, as he set down the loud hailer, he whispered a prayer.
In less than a minute, as he judged it, the Soviet forces would open fire.
Chapter Fifty-one
They moved on foot, running, the corridor as wide as a four lane highway, overlit by long fluorescent tubes, the corridor itself more like a seemingly endless tunnel, leading slightly upward, Reed and his men holding their rifles at high port, hugging both sides of the corridor wall, Reed leading one element, Sergeant Dressier the second element.
There were numerous side passages, but Reed wanted to keep going up, toward the particle beam weapons at the top of the mountain. Paralleling the corridor on each side was a walkway perhaps five feet higher than the main corridor surface, the walkway itself little more than six feet wide, a metal railing at the lip.
The tunnel-like corridor curved, not only upward but in a gradual spiral as best Reed could tell
— it was taking him to the right place.
The absence of resistance of any kind bothered him, but also reassured him.
The KGB had second-guessed the reason for penetrating the Womb. It meant they were concentrating their efforts on the particle beam facilities and the cryogenic laboratory. It at least meant, Reed thought, that he would have a chance of nearing his goal. And once he was near to it, then he could get to it.
The men who would guard the cryogenic laboratory—if they knew the extent of the plans for the Womb—
