would be desperate men, fighting for their continued existence. But the men who guarded the particle beam facility were only guarding a massive weapon.
Desperation would be on Reed’s side.
To a man, his soldiers were resigned to death and com-mitted to victory. With men like these he could cut through any resistance, he told himself. If one man only could reach the facility there could be a way of turning such massive power against itself.
He thought of Rourke and laughed. Rourke who always planned ahead. Rourke had never said,
“If you don’t knock out the particle beam weapons I’ll never get any of the cryo-genic chambers or any of the serum out of here. They’ll blow my aircraft out of the sky.”
Rourke had never said that, but to Reed it was implicit in his understanding of the situation. That at least some of Rourke’s people survive. If somehow some of the Russians survived in the Womb, or even survived vicariously through five centuries of breeding underground in the Womb, some-one would need to be alive to warn the returning Eden Pro-ject, to tell the story of what happened.
To give the story of the valiant dead on both sides. That thought surprised him—to consider a Russian valiant. But Ravitski had been brave, had died. Vladov, Daszrozinski and the others would die.
It was only fitting that someone survive to remember them.
Reed walked on, the corridor taking a sharp bend, up-ward and angling left. They were nearing their goal— and nearing death.
Reed slipped his hand under his fatigue blouse. There was a ziploc plastic bag there, folded inside it an American flag. He had a planned use for it.
Chapter Fifty-two
Rourke slowed the fire engine red Kawasaki Ninja, mak-ing a wide circle as he stopped, swinging the M-16 forward on its sling, keeping the Ninja’s engine running under him.
Natalia, at the wheel of the Ford pickup, slowed, stopped. Vladov, riding beside her, jumped out, shouting something to Daszrozinski in the truck bed, Daszrozinski and the nine other men of the SF unit and Major Gorki and Sergeant Druszik of GRU evacuating the truck bed as well.
Rourke stared down the corridor. It was as wide as a four lane highway, a walkway on each side just about the width of a car, a railing running the length of the corridor. Over-head, banks of fluorescent tubes glowed brightly, giving an almost green tinge to everything the light touched.
“There it is,” Rourke almost whispered, squinting against the light and gesturing along the length of the corridor. The corridor ended some two hundred yards ahead, and beyond it would be the cryogenics lab.
“They are waiting for us,” Vladov observed.
“Yeah, I figured that, too,” Rourke nodded. He took the .45 from his belt, snapped back the slide and let it run for-ward. He upped the safety and stuffed the pistol back in his belt. The grip safety had never been pinned or otherwise de-activated—if the thumb safety should wipe off, the gun was still at least marginally safe to carry that way.
“There is no way to go around them,” Natalia called, climbed down from the cab of the pickup.
“At least if we want to reach the lab.”
“They’ll let us get close enough, then open up, most likely.”
“Doctor,” Vladov began. “I view our mission—meaning by that the mission of myself and my men — I view it that we have the primary goal of getting yourself and Major Tiemerovna inside the cryogenics laboratory, to destroy the supplies of the cryogenic serum and perhaps to steal some for use at your Retreat, along with the appropriate cryogen-ics chambers and monitoring equipment. That being the case, we shall go ahead, forming a corridor for yourself and the major through which you can penetrate the laboratory. After that, I’m afraid the rest shall be left in the capable hands of yourself and the major. We shall be otherwise en-gaged.”
“Let’s get this straight for once and for all. I want to save my family, but my primary mission is to prevent Rozhdestvenskiy’s people from sleeping through the holocaust and awakening to destroy the Eden Project — when and if it re-turns.”
“And if it doesn’t, Doctor, you should consider that. If we succeed in destroying the utility of the Womb, but do not succeed in saving your family, then it will all have been meaningless if the Eden Project should fail to return. I know little about space travel, aside from the exploits of our Soviet cosmonauts, aside from the few American films I have seen when for a time I served as military attache to our embassy in Japan. But I understand that quite a few things could go wrong. A malfunction in the onboard elec-trical systems could cause the cryogenic chambers inside the shuttles to cease to function. The occupants would die. A meteor shower could attack the ships and destroy them. If the mathematical calculations were incorrect, rather than an elliptical orbit taking them to the edge of the solar system and back again, they might instead drift out of the solar sys-tem and voyage endlessly. When they awaken, they would be doomed to wander forever, if they chose to return to their sleep, or they would die in a matter of hours when shipboard oxygen was depleted. In other words, the survival of your family, though I have never met them, is vital. Without their survival, if we succeed, we will have achieved nothing. There will be no human race. All mankind would be lost.”
“Some people may survive, living underground, if they’re smart enough and technologically set
—”
“Another maybe. Whereas, the mountain Retreat Gen-eral Varakov has spoken of should be impervious, the elec-trical supply you yourself saying should likely be infinite. There is an Americanism, I believe—the best wager —”
“Best bet,” Rourke corrected automatically.
“Very well, your family is the best bet for the survival of the human race. That is the priority which my general has given me, and which I shall obey. Perhaps, if you do sur-vive, and in the era five centuries from now you should help to rebuild cities and towns,” and Vladov smiled, almost sheepishly, “I would find it amusing. In the Soviet Army, my particular unit has earned the name Drahka—it simply means in English —”
“Fight,” Rourke interrupted.
“Yes. It sums up our lives, our destinies, our spirit, our honor, that we never give up. Perhaps—well—a street, or a village square where children play—it might somehow be something we would somehow know.”
Rourke swallowed hard, then nodded.
“After all, a Russian name, a Russian word in an Ameri-can town—it might be very amusing.”
“I shouldn’t think it would be amusing—but it would be fitting,” Rourke nodded.
“Comrade Doctor, I understand Daszrozinski has called you this once and you did not find it an offense. For in truth we are the best comrades, all of us in this fight.”
“Comrade Captain, Zehlahyou Udahchee,” Rourke mur-mured.
“Comrade Doctor, good luck,” Vladov echoed. He ex-tended his right hand—Rourke took it. Vladov stepped back. He turned to Natalia. He called his men to attention, the GRU major and sergeant snapping to as well. He raised his hand in salute to her, “Comrade Major. Your uncle was and always shall be our nation’s finest officer. On behalf of your uncle and yourself, please accept our salute.” He called to the other Russians, “Present arms!”
Natalia stood for a moment—Rourke thought she was about to weep. But she raised her right hand—it was the last salute she would ever give, he knew, however it worked out. She held it. Finally, Vladov commanded, “Order arms,” and the rifle salutes went down. Vladov nodded to her, “Com-rade Major,” and lowered his salute. She lowered hers.
And as Rourke watched her, now she did weep.
Chapter Fifty-three
Of the armada, only some two dozen of the ships re-mained, Maus hauling himself up from the waves, his left arm bloody and useless to him, a .45 in his right fist as he ordered his legs to move him forward. KBG troops, ahead of him, to his right, less than a half dozen of the Resistance coming out of the water with him. He fired the .45, taking down one of the KGB men. For a moment he thought of his wife. He swallowed hard, fir-ing again, slugs tearing into the rocks near him, one of the Resistance fighters going down, screaming.
Maus stood his ground, stabbing the .45 ahead of him, firing.
