The Arsenal Page 3

  "And then with the Chinese eventually, I suppose?"

  "I should assume so, Herr Doctor. Permit me." And he lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke in two thin streams from his nostrils. "If the Russians realize, Herr Doctor, that they cannot hope to win a full scale confronta­tion-"

  "That philosophy didn't work five centuries ago. Al­though God knows rational men on both sides tried to make it work. This time there won't- be any second

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  chance."

  "I was told, Herr Doctor, that Deiter Bern would most welcome personally discussing this with you at your convenience."

  ''That's very good of him, Hammerschmidt. Look — ahh — I know you and Michael are close friends. I didn't mean to put you in the middle of this. All of us consider you a friend. I had to know, though."

  "It is for the good of all mankind, Herr Doctor. If whoever has taken over the leadership of Karamatsov's armies should find the remainder of the Chinese nuclear arsenal, or effect some sort of treaty with the Soviet forces based in the Pacific and thereby obtain nuclear weapons —it is unthinkable."

  Rourke smiled at the word. "Unthinkable" had be­come reality five centuries before, which he supposed proved that just because something was unthinkable it wasn't undoable. "What if," Hammerschmidt contin­ued, "this new Soviet force should decide to launch its missiles against us even as we speak?"

  "The numbers of missile tubes aboard their subma­rines are optimistic at the moment. Only ten percent of those on the captured Island Class submarine were loaded with anything besides ballast." The captured sub­marine had been investigated from stem to stern, every­thing that could be disassembled, analyzed, reassembled, tested, stressed. As an ancillary benefit, since by coincidence it had been the same Island Class monster submarine by which he and Natalia had origi­nally been taken against their will to the Soviet under­water complex, the Mid-Wake teams had also found his musette bag, his leather jacket, Natalia's holsters and the, rest of their miscellaneous gear. "That's probably typical. And certainly that's a threat, and a serious one. And maybe that's the point. Just one or two nuclear explosions might do it this time. Burn the atmosphere

  29

  away so totally that the planet will die and no matter where you are or how well you've planned ahead, noth­ing will matter. There will never be a surface to return to. It almost happened before. This time it will happen. Your own scientists can tell you that."

  "And what are we to do, Herr Doctor? Let the Soviets have all the thermonuclear missiles and then, when they make their demands, merely submit? We are free men now. You —better than anyone because you gave us our freedom — should appreciate that, Herr Doctor. What are we to do, then?"

  John Rourke noticed that his cigar had gone out in his fingertips. He didn't answer Otto Hammerschmidt be­cause there was no answer to give.

  30

  CHAPTER THREE

  Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna sat up in bed. She remembered it all in a rush and it sickened her. Or perhaps, she told herself, it was only the aftereffect of the gas.

  There was a noise and she reached for the suppressor fitted Walther PPK/S beside her bed. The door into her bedroom opened as her hand closed over the black plastic grips. But already, gas was filtering across the room toward her, the cloud enveloping her as the men — how many had there been? she couldn't remember — had closed with her. She held her breath, but somehow — She remembered awakening here in the hos­pital and being told by someone that everyone was all right and she should rest. Without wanting to, she had closed her eyes. She closed them again as the tears came. Each day, they had come more and more . . .

  John Rourke stood beside the Chinese doctor, a pretty woman dressed in nursing whites interpreting. "What is the nature of the injury to Mr. Rolvaag's head? May I see the X-rays?"

  She spoke in rapid Chinese and the doctor nodded, took up a small gray paper envelope and withdrew a black plastic object about the size of a computer printer ribbon from the twentieth century, then walked toward the wall unit which looked like a flat, large screen video

  31

  monitor. He inserted the black plastic object into a slot at the base of the screen and the screen came alive. First, there was a visual representation in the usual two di­mensional X-ray format, unusual to a twentieth century trained doctor only in that the representation was in color. But he was used to that. Next, although he had seen it before, was something he doubted he would ever cease to marvel at. Like a computer diagram with the pixels being added in sequence to develop image, the cranial cavity of Bjorn Rolvaag began appearing as a rotating three dimensional laser hologram.

  There was a hematoma visible near the inferior genu of the Fissure of Rolando. The nurse began translating again. "Doctor Su has preparations already begun for the lasering of this hematoma. It is a procedure similar to operations he has performed in the past and he anticipates good success and, barring complications, full recovery."

  John Rourke looked away from the machine and at the red-haired giant unconscious on the bed. Rolvaag had saved his daughter's life. A silent man, close only to his dog, Rourke barely knew him. And if he were to die in this place so far from his native Lydvel did Island, it would be another in the mounting heap of random injustices since the Night of The War.

  And that this bothered him, John Rourke realized, reaffirmed his own humanity.

  Rourke walked to the bed, placed his hand on the Icelandic policeman's shoulder and whispered in the English which Rolvaag understood so little of, "It will be all right, Rolvaag. Your dog is well. All of us are well. You will be well, too. So rest for now."

  Rourke stood beside the bed for a while, watching the man breathe.

  32

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The shadows of the rotor blades, black against the alternating splotches of white and gray, became more pronounced, more solid, the machine subtly changing pitch to compensate for some errant crosswind (a regu­lar condition here), then touching down with a barely noticeable sideways lurch. What little noise had been audible within the confines of the fuselage became for an instant totally imperceptible as the rotation rate radi­cally dropped. But in the next second, the winding down whine could be heard as the fuselage door was slid open. And there was the sound of the wind which had assailed the machine. He unbuckled his harness and rose, then walked to midway along the helicopter's length, turned and stared out into the morning.

  An Arctic Cat, a half-track truck, the tarp covering the bed turned back, a dozen men with assault rifles held at port —this was the reception honor guard. He smiled at the thought. His eyes drifted back to the truck bed. A heavy machinegun was implaced there sur­rounded by sandbags.

  Trust was a wonderful thing, the total lack of trust self-evident here.

  Colonel Nicolai Antonovitch, once Kremlin liaison officer for the KGB Elite Corps in the days prior to the Night of The War, before that subordinate to Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna (faces passed fleetingly through his memory like phantoms since he had left China and

  33

  begun the flight to the Urals, a flight at once into his past and his future), stepped down from the helicopter. He was now, in the absence of any challengers of sufficient influence, master of the armies once commanded by the Hero Marshal, Vladmir Karamatsov. Possessed of Karamatsov's armies, but by neither his jealousies nor his egotism.

  It seemed there was always snow here, splotching the gravel and the shale which was like flaked gray skin from the mountain itself.

  Antonovitch started walking, hunching his shoulders beneath the turned up collar of his dress uniform black greatcoat. When the wind gusted, it chilled him to the depths of his being. It had not been that long ago when the Hero Marshal, after four years of self-imposed exile, had returned here in triumph and anticipation. And in the whole scheme of things, precious little time for men born five centuries ago had passed between that day and Karamatsov's abortive bid for ultimate power over the Soviet people. There were, quite likely, wild creatures who would devour the womb which nurtured them.

  So it had been with the Hero Marshal.

  The wind shifted and Antonovitch's eyes involuntar­ily began to tear as he focused on the head of his welcoming committee. Yuri Vanyovitch waited a re­spectable distance beyond the outer redoubts of the Underground City. Much had changed with the de­fenses here, Antonovitch, drawing nearer, noticed with a militarily critical eye. Assistant to the party secretary, about Vanyovitch there was an air of importance —both genuine and assumed —well beyond his apparent youth.

  "Assistant Secretary Vanyovitch. As always, Com­rade, an honor," Antonovitch began, rendering a salute, not waiting for any return since Vanyovitch was a bu­reaucrat.

  Vanyovitch smiled thinly. "Comrade Colonel An-

  34

  tonovitch. We were most startled at your communica­tion."

  No pleasantries, Antonovitch thought. He mentally shrugged. "You may be more startled by other news I have to tell." He gestured to the mountains beyond the level ground on which they stood. "And I imagine you know that German troops move about out there and monitor the Underground City."

  "Did you come all this way to tell me that, Comrade Colonel?"

  "Hardly. But I will tell my story to the First Secretary, Comrade. You may listen if it is his desire." Certain persons needed to be put in their place immediately, He had learned that— been put. in his own place at times. Karamatsov had been his teacher. "Shall we?"

  Vanyovitch said nothing, but turned and started to walk toward the Cat .

  Michael Rourke waited at the monorail station, be­side him only Maria Leuden, the monorail which had left a moment earlier carrying Annie and Paul to a different petal of the flower-shaped Chinese First City. "When I was a kid I
rode a subway —at least once." . "A subway?"

  "A train like this," he told her, "but it rode on two rails and if I remember correctly it received its electrical power from a third rail. I remember my father telling me that you never touch the third rail."

  "Where was this?"

  "Atlanta, I think. I couldn't have been more than a couple of years old. Five, maybe —tops."

  "And Atlanta was the capitol of the province —"

  "State. The state of Georgia. It was nuked, as they used to say, on the Night of The War. That was why we had to leave the farm. Even up there in northeast Geor-

  35

  gia, we were uncomfortably close to Atlanta, the possi­bility of fallout, and the people who fled the city. All of that."

  The train came — the monorail, he mentally corrected himself.

  Her voice quiet, low-key as it usually was, Maria Leuden asked, "Do you think Natalia will be all right?"

  "Shell be fine. Must have been a bad reaction to the gas, that's all. Artificially elevated her blood pressure. Shell be fine," and Michael Rourke stepped partially through the doorway to block it open for Maria as she passed through, then stepped after her and seated him­self beside her, shifting his shoulders as if the double shoulder rig for the two Berettas were in place. But it wasn't. Being unarmed, even here, made him uncom­fortable. Guns and knives had been an integral part of his-daily existence since he was a little boy and the Night of The War came.

  He looked at Maria's pretty green eyes and folded his arms around her shoulders. "Natalia' ill be fine. Don't worry." Maria Leuden leaned her head against his left shoulder, but first touched her lips gently to his cheek.

  Tension, his father had said. Tension was what was bothering Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna . . .

  Natalia looked up at him. She squatted cross-legged in the middle of the bed and the hint of circles under her eyes was dramatized by the contrast between the blue-ness of the eyes themselves and the whiteness of her skin.

  "You need a rest," John Rourke told her.

  "Maybe you can call a travel agent and arrange for me to have a few weeks in the Bahamas —or the Black Sea. Pretty much the same and the prices are cheaper at the Black Sea."

  36

  "I've been having some talks with the chief archivist here. Some of the clues to the whereabouts of the Third City that baffle present day Chinese seem to make sense to me with a Twentieth Century perspective. At least I think they do," Rourke smiled. "How about we take a few weeks and check it out."

  "What about Sarah? The baby?"

  "She'll be all right."

  "You can't have one wife to make pregnant and one wife to go adventuring with, John." He didn't say any­thing. Natalia did again. "Did you tell Sarah I appear high strung? That a few weeks in the wild with me would get me calmed down and back to normal?"

  "No."

  "Did you tell her we'll wind up sleeping beside each other but never together?"

  "No. I didn't tell her that."

  "Vladmir's dead. These new Soviet commandos. Probably Antonovitch. He's the logical man. Served with Vladmir before the Night of The War, took the Sleep with him, served him faithfully afterward. He inherited by right."

  "You told me he's rational."

  "He's still KGB. He's not a sadist. He's not an egoma­niac. At least he wasn't. But in his way, he's just as evil. But for practical ends. Not because it gets his rocks off. I'm tired" she concluded.

  "I can come back."

  "No. You don't have to go. I can't rest."

  "What is it? Us?" Rourke asked her. Her hands shook as she tried lighting a cigarette and Rourke found the battered Zippo in the pocket of his Levis and rolled the striking wheel under his thumb, the blue-yellow flame flickering as Natalia drew it into the cigarette.

  "There is no 'us', John. There can't be. There never could have been. Both of us have always known that. But

  37

  I'm Russian and Russians are so adept at tragedy. And I guess gods are too," and she looked him hard in the eyes.

  "This is-"

  "Self-defeating? If anyone recognizes what's self-de­feating, it should be me. I mean, after all, I'm so experi­enced. Aren't I?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I used to think I'd be willing to die if once you made love to me. And do you — "

  "Don't-"

  "No —and the silly thing! I still feel that way. I'm crazy. That's what I am."

  "You're not —this —"

  "Crazy?"

  Natalia had been (was she right?) this way since — and Rourke closed his eyes for an instant . . . Karamatsov crawled to his feet, staggered back, by the edge of the precipice over the sea,

  Karamatsov's right hand shot forward and in his fist was the little snub-nosed Smith & Wesson revolver he had carried five centuries ago. "You are dead, John Rourke!"

  John Rourke stood there, hands clutched to his abdo­men, about to throw himself against Karamatsov and hurtle them both over the edge and into the sea on the rocks below.

  And then he heard Natalia's voice. "No, Vladmir!" And she rose up beside Karamatsov and Karamatsov turned to look at her and in both her tiny fists she held the short-sword-sized Life Support System X and the steel moved in her hands over her head and around in an arc to her right and then —

  The Grain knife stopped moving.

  Karamatsov's body swayed.

  The little revolver fell from his limp right hand.

  His head separated from his neck and sailed outward into the void,

  38

  Blood sprayed geyser-like into the air around Kara­matsov like a corona of light.

  The headless torso of her husband rocked backward and was gone over the edge.

  Natalia screamed . . . John Rourke opened his eyes. Natalia wasn't screaming at all, just staring at him. "The one thing I'm sure of and I wanted you to be sure of. I love you — and I know that's destroying you and if I could stop loving you and it would do any good, I would. Rest." John Rourke leaned over her, his hands holding her head gently, his lips touching her almost black hair. He could hear her starting to cry again . . .

  The conference hall was the same as he remembered it. But that time, Vladmir Karamatsov had been seated at the head of the table. This time, he — Antonovitch — stood before it. Yuri Vanyovitch took the seat immedi­ately on the left. To Antonovitch's right already sat Boris Korenikov, Principal Secretary.

  Korenikov's voice might have made the uninitiated listener think Korenikov suffered from laryngitis. But the voice was always that way, strained and tight and dry, as annoying to hear as the sound of fingernails drawn across a chalkboard. The corners of Korenikov's mouth dowriturned as he began to speak, slowly, labori­ously, the mouth only serving to further draw out his already elongated face into an image reminiscent of a very sad, tired looking dog. "Comrade Colonel —or have you already taken to yourself the title 'Marshal'?"

  An answer was called for, but he didn't know which answer to give.

  There was silence punctuated only by one of the six ministers at the table clearing his throat. Antonovitch spoke. "If I viewed the world, Comrade First Secretary, as did the Hero Marshal, then I would be laying siege to

  39

  the Underground City, not entering it to seek counsel and offer support."

  "That is a very good answer, Colonel Antonovitch. How truthful — I have no wish to offend — we shall, how­ever, see. And what counsel is it you seek?"

  "Beneath the surface of the Pacific Ocean, there is a Soviet community of great strength and possessed of nuclear weapons. The Chinese are powerful and techno­logically sophisticated. There will soon be, if there is not already, an alliance formed between the existing alli­ance—the Germans, the Eden survivors, the Icelan-dics —and this new enemy, the Chinese. The Chinese may well have access to nuclear weapons beyond those which were lost to the Hero Marshal during a less than well-planned military adventure along the coast. The Germans have the ability to construct nuclear weap­ons—technologically. The Eden Project survivors may well have nuclear weapons stockpiled for their use which can be reactivated after five centuries and turned against us. The Soviet people here on the land have no nuclear weapons —yet. But they must be obtained or fabricated. The Soviet people have available to them the means to reactivate Particle Beam weaponry in a much shorter period of time than it would take for the Ger­mans or the Chinese to develop such technology. The Soviet people, if our differences can be set aside, have available to them the largest and most fully equipped standing army on the face of the planet. I come to you seeking counsel concerning how our differences can be put aside for the good of the Soviet people whom we all serve."