President Samuel Chambers stood on the rise of ground looking out. He could see much by the fires that still burned. Beside him stood Lieutenant Feltcher. At the base of the rise stood the TVM Commander.
The Soviet Armies had been defeated, routed.
Feltcher said, “We won, Mr. President.”
“My radio man has been getting these weird signals all night. Ham operators—like that.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
He looked at Feltcher.
He didn’t have the heart to tell him. Instead, he said, “Maybe what transpired will bring about peace someday. Maybe somebody somewhere will look back and know what happened—maybe.”
“You mean, Mr. President, maybe we whipped them so bad we’ll really beat them, drive ‘em back to the Soviet Union—have America back?”
“By tomorrow morning, I’m confident of it, Lieutenant, all our troubles will be over.”
“Is it some new weapon, sir?”
He looked at Feltcher in the firelight, then just shook his head as he lit a cigarette—he had several packs to still smoke that night—there was no sense wasting the last of his cigarettes.
“No—not a new weapon, Lieutenant. I think we’ll shortly see the old weapons did quite enough—quite enough.” He inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs and said nothing else for a moment.
Then he looked at Feltcher. “While you were away, well, it’s too long a story. But I’ll tell you anyway. We did something to the air and the sky is catching on fire and when the sun rises tomorrow morning we’ll all be dead. And there’s no way to stop it. I’ve got a lot of smoking to do—if you want to join me, I’ll tell you about it. Or maybe you want to find someplace to go and pray. Up to you, Lieutenant.”
Feltcher didn’t say anything. After a moment there was a solitary pistol shot. Someone in the darkness, Chambers knew, had just taken his own life rather than face the sun-rise. Others had already—others would.
Chambers began to walk toward the tent that was his newest headquarters, his last headquarters. He turned around to look at Feltcher. The young lieutenant was mak-ing the sign of the cross.
Chapter Seventy-five
Natalia’s knowledge of engineering and electronics, Paul’s practical knowledge of how things worked gained from his experience with editing technical writing, Sarah’s experience with the practical aspects of nursing and with de-sign, Rourke’s own experience with building the Retreat from nothing, with the functioning of the human body.
An engineer turned spy, a trade magazine editor, a would-be nurse turned artist and writer, a doctor turned weapons expert and survivalist. The children served as ‘gophers’—go for this and go for that.
Paul with Michael’s help had prepared the bikes and the trucks for the long term storage. Sarah, with Annie’s help, had prepared the foodstuffs, supervised the plants which renewed the oxygen supply inside the Retreat. They would not last the five hundred years, but with the timer-con-nected growlights and water sprays, they would thrive long enough that when they awakened in five hundred years if they awakened, the oxygen would be clean to breathe if not very fresh.
They had seen to all of the weapons, seen to the generator systems, the backup generators, all these keyed to the hy-droelectric power system based on the underground stream and the waterfall. If this failed, the cryogenic chambers would be their coffins and they would never awaken.
The last of the cables were being strung, linking the cryo-genic chambers’ monitoring systems to the power supply, Annie feeding cable while Natalia connected it.
Rourke stepped to the electronic monitoring console. There had never been a need for the system before. But he had activated it once they had sealed the main entrance of the Retreat. The two escape chambers had also been checked, Rourke doing this himself. The one tunnel leading through to the other side of the mountain was hermetically sealed, as was the main entrance.
He had not yet hermetically sealed the second tunnel which led above.
Rourke studied the console controls, then looked up to the television monitoring screen—closed circuit, via cable, it would function until the end, until the atmosphere caught fire and the camera and cable just simply burned.
It was nearly dawn. He adjusted the instruments. In the distance near the base of the mountain, he could make out large numbers of troops moving with mechanized equip-ment.
In the air were helicopters of every description.
These were Rozhdestvenskiy’s forces, searching for the Retreat to destroy it.
But the sun was almost rising and throughout the hours they had worked until they could take no more of it, Rourke and the others had listened to shortwave broadcasts—the horror, the devastation. It followed the sun. There had been a ham operator in Greenland who had constantly been broadcasting—about the fires which consumed Europe, England—but now his voice too was stilled.
There had been other broadcasts—U.S. II announcing the victory over the Soviet Forces—Natalia had shown no emotion at this.
Victory, Rourke thought. What a strange word.
“John, all set!” Rubenstein sang out.
Rourke looked behind him, losing his train of thought. “Good, Paul, help Natalia with the injections.”
“I’m through here, too,” Sarah called out. “I can help; I’ve used hypodermics before.”
“Go ahead then.” Rourke stared at the monitor. The sky above the Retreat was almost black, lightning bolts streaking across it, ball lightning—pure electricity—shooting in low arcs under the clouds. Rourke played with the controls. He scanned the valley on zoom and more clearly now could see men and equipment moving toward the mountain road.
He exhaled hard, studying the television picture. There were dozens of helicopters in the air moving along above the men—Soviet. Rourke studied the monitor—the electri-cal storm was heightening.
“John, the injections are ready, all six.”
Rourke looked back at Natalia, then at Rubenstein and at Sarah—the children still moved, talked, but it was as if the three other adults and himself had suddenly frozen— still.
“Good,” Rourke finally said. “Isn’t much time left. From the way that sky looks, the ionization is already starting.”
Rourke started across the room, toward the cryogenic chambers, their blue light bathing the room in a haze.
Rourke glanced back toward the television monitor, the blackening sky, the lightning. “I’ll check the last escape hatch and seal it before I put myself under—give everybody the injections first,” Rourke said softly.
Rourke walked the few paces to the coffee table, earlier moved out of the way of the chambers and monitoring equipment. Beside his glass fronted gun case now. He looked down at the six hypodermic needles on a white towel there. There was a taped name on each. He picked up the needle for Michael.
“Natalia—you checked my figures—you agree on the amount of the injections.”
“There were only tables for body weights down to ninety pounds, John, I worked back through the formula in the manuals accompanying the chambers, Michael weighs sixty-two pounds. The injection should be right.”
Rourke looked at the injection, then at his son. “Michael, kiss your mother and sister, then come over to me.”
Natalia was beside Rourke in an instant, reaching up, taking the hypodermic from Rourke’s fingers. “I’ll give your son the injection—if something—it shouldn’t be your guilt, John.”
Rourke started to say something, but didn’t, just nod-ding. He watched Michael and his mother hug each other, then watched Annie throw her arms around her brother, kissing him.
Michael walked toward him.
Rourke looked down at the boy. “Michael, it should seem like only a little time. I know five hundred years sounds like a long time, but when you’re just sleeping—”
“Will I dream a lot, Daddy?”
Rourke dropped to his knees in front of the boy, squeez-ing Michael tight against him, and as he spoke his
