The Nightmare begins Read online

  seems to have been saturated. According to that Arizona kid I got on the radio

  before we crashed, the San Andreas fault line slipped and everything north of

  San Diego washed into the sea and the tidal waves flooded as far in as Arizona,

  and there were quakes there. Albuquerque was abandoned after the

  fire­storm—except for the injured and dying and the wild dogs—you remember them.

  We shot it out with that gang of renegade bikers who butchered the people we'd

  left back at the plane while we went to try and get help. Now how would you

  evaluate all that?"

  "No civil authority, no government—every man himself. No law at all."

  "You're wrong there," Rourke said quietly. "There is law. There's always moral

  law—but we're not violating that by taking things here that we need in order to

  survive out there. And the obligation we have is to stay alive—you want to see

  if your parents made it, I want to find Sarah and the children. So we owe it to

  ourselves and to them to stay alive. Now go and see if you can find something to

  use as a sack to carry all this stuff. I'm going to take some of this baby

  food—it's full of protein and sugar and vitamins."

  "I have a little—I mean had—a little nephew back in New York—that," and

  Rubenstein's voice began noticeably tightening, "that stuff tastes terrible."

  "But it can keep us alive," Rourke said, with a note of finality.

  Rubenstein started to turn and go out of the trailer, then looked back to

  Rourke, saying, "John—New York is gone, isn't it? My nephew—his parents. I had a

  girl. We weren't serious but we might have gotten serious. But it's gone, isn't

  it?"

  Rourke leaned against the wall of the trailer, his hands flat against the wood

  there, closing his eyes a moment. "I don't know. You want an educated guess, I'd

  say, yeah, New York is gone. I'm sorry, Paul. But it was probably quick—they

  couldn't have even tried to evacuate."

  "I know—I've been thinking about that. I used to buy a paper from a little guy

  down on the corner—he was a Russian immigrant. Came here to escape the mess

  after the Russian revolution—he was just a little boy then. He was always so

  concerned with his manliness. I remember in the wintertime he never pulled his

  hat down over his ears and they were red and peeling. His cheeks were that way.

  I used to say to him, 'Max—why don't you protect your face and ears—you're gonna

  get frostbite.' But he'd just smile and not say anything. But he spoke English.

  I guess he's dead too, huh?"

  Rourke sighed hard, then bent forward to look into an open box in front of him.

  He already knew what was inside the box, but he looked there anyway. "I guess he

  is, Paul."

  "Yeah," Rubenstein said, his voice odd-sounding to Rourke. "I guess—" Rourke

  looked up and Rubenstein was already climbing out of the trailer. Rourke

  searched the remaining boxes quickly. He found some flashlight batteries,

  bar-type shaving soap prepacked in small mugs and safety razors and blades. He

  rubbed the stubble on his face, took a safety razor, as many packs of blades as

  he could cram in the breast pocket of his sweat-stained blue shirt and one of

  the mugs and several bars of soap. He found another consignment of

  ammunition—158 grain semijacketed soft point .357s and took eight boxes of

  fifty. With it were some .223 solids, and he took several hundred rounds of

  these as well. He carried what he wanted in two boxes back to the rear of the

  trailer and helped Rubenstein climb inside with the sack to carry it all. They

  crammed the sack full and Rourke jumped down to the road, boosting the sack onto

  his left shoulder and carrying it toward the bikes. Rourke, as Rubenstein

  climbed down from the truck, said, "We're going to have to split up this load."

  As Rourke turned toward his bike, he heard Rubenstein's voice and over it the

  clicking of bolts— from assault rifles. Without moving he looked up, heard

  Rubenstein repeat, "John!"

  Slowly, Rourke raised to his full height, squinting against the glare through

  his sunglasses. A dozen men—in some sort of uniform—were on the far side of the

  road. Slowly, Rourke turned around, and behind him, on Rubenstein's side of the

  road beside the abandoned truck trailer, were at least a half-dozen more. All

  the men carried assault rifles of mixed heritages—and all the guns were trained

  on Rourke and Rubenstein.

  "Caught you boys with your fingers in the pie, didn't we?" a voice from

  Rubenstein's side of the road shouted.

  "That's a damned stupid remark," Rourke said, his voice very low.

  "You men are under arrest," the voice said, and this time Rourke matched it with

  a face in the center of the men by the trailer. Fatter than the others, the

  man's uniform was more complete and military appearing. There was a patch on the

  man's left shoulder, and as Rourke tried to decipher what it stood for he

  noticed the duplicate of the patch on most of the uniforms of the other men.

  "Who's arresting us?" Rourke asked softly.

  "I am Captain Nelson Pincham of the Texas Independent Paramilitary Response

  Group," the fat man said.

  "Ohh," Rourke started, pausing. "I see. The Texas Independent Paramilitary

  Response Group—the T-I-P-R-G—Tiprg. That sounds stupid."

  The self-proclaimed captain took a step forward, saying, "We'll see how stupid

  it sounds when you boys get shot in just about a minute and a half. Official

  policy is to shoot looters on sight."

  "Is that a fact?" Rourke commented. "Whose official policy is it—yours?"

  "It's the official policy of the Paramilitary Provi­sional Government of Texas."

  "Try saying that sometime with a couple of beers under your belt," Rourke said,

  staring at Pincham.

  "Drop that sidearm," Pincham said. "That big hogleg on the belt around your

  waist. Move, boy!" Pincham commanded.

  Out of the corner of his eye Rourke could already see hands reaching out and

  taking Rubenstein's High Power from the holster slung to his pants belt. The

  Schmeisser, as Rubenstein still called it, and Rourke's CAR-15 and

  Steyr-Mannlicher SSG were still on the bikes. Rourke slowly reached to the

  buckle of the Ranger Leather belt at his waist and loosened it, holding the

  tongue of the belt in his right hand away from his body. One of the troopers

  stepped forward and grabbed it, then stepped back.

  "Now the guns from the shoulder holsters— quick," Pincham said, his voice

  sounding more confident.

  Slowly, Rourke started to reach up to the harness, then Pincham shouted, "Hold

  it!" The captain turned to the trooper nearest him and barked, "Go get those

  pistols—move out!"

  The trooper walked toward Rourke. "You sure you don't want to talk about

  this—you're just going to shoot us?" Rourke asked softly.

  "I'm sure," Pincham said, his face breaking into a grin.

  Rourke just nodded his head, keeping his hands away from the twin stainless

  Detonics .45s in their double shoulder rig. The trooper was in front of him now,

  between Rourke and Pincham and the rest of the men on the trailer side of the

  road. The trooper rasped, "Now—take out both those shiny pistols, mister. Just
r />   reach under your armpits there nice and slow—the right hand gets the one under

  the right arm, the left hand the left one. Nice and easy, then stick 'em out in

  front of you with the pistol butts toward me."

  "Right," Rourke said quietly. As he reached up for the guns, he said, "To get

  them out of the holsters, I've got to jerk them a little bit."

  "You just watch how you do it, mister. No funny stuff or I cut you in half where

  you stand." Rourke eyed the H-K assault rifle in the man's hands.

  Rourke reached for his guns, his hands moving slowly. He curled the last three

  fingers of each hand on the Pachmayr gripped butts of the Detonics pistols and

  jerked them free of the leather. Rourke eyed the trooper, who was visibly tense

  as the guns cleared, and slowly brought them forward in his hands, the butts of

  the guns facing toward the "soldier."

  "That's a good boy," the trooper said, smiling. The trooper took his left hand

  from the front stock of his rifle and reached forward for the gun in Rourke's

  right hand.

  The corners of Rourke's mouth raised in a smile. Rourke's hands dropped to waist

  level, the twin stainless .45s spinning on his index fingers in the trigger

  guards, the pistol butts arcing into his fists, his thumbs snapping back the

  hammers and both pistols firing simultaneously, one slug pumping into the

  trooper's throat, the second grazing his shoulder as it hammered past and into

  the chest of the soldier closest to Paul Rubenstein. Rourke pumped two shots

  into the men on the far side of the road and dove toward the trailer, rolling

  under it, firing both pistols into the men flanking Captain Pincham. Out of the

  corner of his eye, Rourke could see Ruben­stein—almost as if in slow motion. The

  smaller man had done just what Rourke had hoped—he'd grabbed up an assault rifle

  from the man nearest him whom Rourke had shot down and now had the muzzle of the

  weapon flush against Pincham's right cheekbone. Rourke stopped firing as he

  heard Rubenstein shouting, "Hold your fire or Pincham gets his!"

  Rourke crawled the rest of the way along under the truck and got his feet on the

  other side, two rounds each still in the twin .45s. He leveled them both across

  the road, ignoring the men near him. "Your show, Paul," Rourke almost whispered,

  catching Rubenstein's eye.

  He watched the younger man nod, then heard him shout, "Now everybody get out

  from cover and throw your rifles to the ground—move it or Pincham gets this.

  Move it!"

  Rourke watched as Rubenstein shoved the muzzle of the assault rifle against

  Pincham's cheek, heard Pincham shout, "Do as they say—hurry!"

  Slowly, the men on the far side of the road climbed out of the ditch they'd

  dropped into as Rourke had opened up on them. Rourke watched as, one by one,

  they dropped their rifles, hearing the rifles from the man near Rubenstein and

  Pincham clattering to the ground beside him. "Gunbelts too," Rubenstein shouted.

  Rourke watched as the men started dropping their pistol belts to the ground. His

  eyes scanned the ground and he saw his own gunbelt there, then he stepped toward

  it and bent down, breaking the thumb snap on the flap over the Python. He shook

  the holster free and let it fall to the ground, the Detonics from his right hand

  already in his trouser belt, the long-tubed, vent-ribbed Python now in his

  right. Thumbing the hammer back, he walked slowly across the road, his long

  strides putting him beside the man in the center of the ten men still standing

  there. Glancing down to the ground, he spotted the two he'd killed. Sticking the

  muzzle of the Python against the temple of the closest man, Rourke almost

  whispered, "All right—you guys want to be military—get into the front leaning

  rest position. That's like a pushup, but you don't go down. Now!"

  Rourke stepped back, guiding the man closest to him down to the ground. The ten

  got to their knees, arms outstretched, then balanced on their toes as they

  stretched their legs, supporting themselves on their hands. "First man moves

  dies," Rourke said quietly, starting back across the road.

  He could hear Rubenstein shouting similar commands to the men with Pincham on

  the trailer side of the road. Rourke looked at Rubenstein, hearing the younger

  man say, "What do we do now?"

  "You want to kill them?"

  "What?"

  "Neither do I, especially. Why don't you get the bikes straight in a minute here

  and we can take these fellas for a walk a few miles down the road, then let 'em

  go. Let me reload first—keep them covered." Rourke jammed the Python in his

  belt, changed magazines on both of the .45s and reholstered them. He caught up

  his pistol belt from the dirt and slung it over his shoulder, the Python back in

  his right fist. Already, Rubenstein had begun dividing the loads for the bikes.

  "You guys got any vehicles around here?" Rourke asked Pincham. The captain said

  nothing. Rourke put the muzzle of the Python under his nose.

  "Yes—on both sides of the road."

  "Any gas cans?"

  "Yes—yes," Pincham snapped.

  "Much obliged," Rourke said, then, shouting, "Paul—go over there and get some

  gas for the bikes. Take that thing you call a Schmeisser in case they left

  someone on guard. Did you leave anyone on guard?" Rourke asked, lowering his

  voice and eyeing Pincham.

  "No—no-nobody on guard!"

  "Good—if anything happens to my friend, you get an extra nostril."

  "Nobody on guard!" Pincham said again, his voice sounding higher each time he

  spoke.

  After a few moments, Rubenstein returned with the gas cans, filled the bikes and

  mounted up. Rourke walked Pincham toward his own bike. Already, some of the

  troopers were starting to fall, unable to support themselves on their hands.

  "Barbarian," Pincham growled.

  "No," Rourke said quietly. "I just want them good and tired so they can't get

  back here fast enough to follow us. It's either that or we disable your

  vehicles. And I don't think you'd like being stranded out here in the desert on

  foot. Right?"

  Pincham, biting his lower lip, only nodded.

  "All right—captain," Rourke said. "Order your men onto their feet and get 'em

  walking ahead of us—you bring up the rear. Anyone tries anything, it's your

  problem." Rourke started his bike as Pincham got his men up, formed them in a

  ragged column of twos and started them down the road toward El Paso.

  As Rourke and Rubenstein followed along behind them, Rourke glancing at the

  Harley's odometer coming up on the second mile, Pincham—walking laboriously,

  close in front of him—said, "Mister— you killed three of my men."

  "Four," Rourke corrected.

  "If I ever catch sight of you, you're a dead man."

  "There's some great baby food back there in the truck in case you fellas get

  hungry," Rourke responded, then to Rubenstein, "Let's go Paul!" Rourke gunned

  the Harley between his legs and shot past Pincham and his column, Rubenstein on

  the other side close behind him. Past the paramilitary troops now, Rourke

  glanced over his shoulder—some of Pincham's men were already sitting along the

  side of the road. Pincham was standing there, shaking h
is fist down the road

  after Rourke.

  Rubenstein, beside Rourke, was shouting over the rush of air. "I saw that trick

  in a western movie once—with the pistols, I mean."

  Rourke just nodded.

  "What do they call it, John, where you roll the guns like that when someone

  tries taking them?"

  Rourke glanced across at Rubenstein, then bent over his bike a little to get a

  more comfortable position. "The road-agent spin," Rourke said.

  "Road-agent spin," Rubenstein echoed. "Wow!"

  Chapter Four

  Varakov was pleased that he had ordered the intelligence briefing to be in his

  office at the side of the long central hall. The desk was closed in the front,

  and with the chairs arranged in a semicircle no one could see his feet. He

  wiggled his toes in his white boot socks and leaned back in his chair. "There

  are several other priorities aside from the elimination of political

  undesirables," he said flatly.

  "Moscow wants—" the KGB man, Major Vladmir Karamatsov, began.

  "Moscow wants me to run this country, keep armed rebellion from getting out of

  hand—some resistance cannot be avoided in a nation where everyone owns a gun—and

  try to get the heavy in­dustry restarted. That is what Moscow wants. How I

  choose to accomplish that is my concern. If Moscow eventually decides I am not

  doing my job properly, then I will be replaced. This will not," and Varakov

  crashed his hamlike fist down on the desk—"be a fiefdom of the KGB. Intelligence

  is to serve the interests of the Soviet people and the government— the

  government and the people are not holding their breath to serve the interest of

  intelligence. The Soviet is facing famine, a shortage of raw materials and most

  of our heavy industry has been destroyed by American missiles. If we cannot get

  this new land we have acquired to be productive, we shall all starve, have no

  more ammunition for our guns, have no spare parts. Most of American heavy

  industry is intact. Most of ours is gone. Our primary responsi­bility is to man

  the factories with work battalions and develop productivity. Otherwise, all is

  lost."

  Varakov looked around the room, his eyes stopping a moment on Captain Natalia

  Tiemerovna, also KGB and Karamatsov's most trusted and respected agent. "What do