The Nightmare begins Read online

  you think, captain?" Varakov asked, his voice softening.

  He watched the woman as she moved uneasily in her chair, her uniform skirt

  sliding up over her knees a moment, a wave of her dark hair falling across her

  forehead as she looked up to speak. Varakov watched as she brushed the hair away

  from her deep blue eyes. "Comrade general, I realize the importance of the tasks

  you have enumerated. But in order to success­fully reactivate industry here, we

  must be secure against sabotage and organized subversion. Comrade Major

  Karamatsov, I am sure, only wishes to begin working to eliminate potential

  subversives from the master list in order to speed on your goals, comrade

  general."

  "You should have been a diplomat—Natalia. It is Natalia, is it not?"

  "Yes, comrade general," the girl answered, her voice a rich alto. Varakov liked

  her voice best of all.

  "There is one small matter," Varakov began, "before we get to your master list

  of persons for liquidation. It is not an intelligence matter, but I wish your

  collective input. The bodies. In the neutron-bombed areas such as Chicago, there

  are rotting corpses everywhere. Wild dogs and cats have come in from the areas

  that were not bombed. Rats are becoming a problem—a serious problem. Public

  health, comrades. Any suggestions? I cannot have you arrest and liquidate rats,

  bacteria and wolflike hounds."

  "There are many natives in the unaffected parts of the city that were suburban

  to the city itself,' Karamatsov said. "And—"

  Varakov cut him off. "I knew somehow, comrade major, that you would have a

  plan."

  Karamatsov nodded slightly and continued. "We can send troops into these areas

  to form these people into work battalions, designating central areas for burning

  of corpses and equipping some of these work battalions with chemical agents to

  destroy the rats and bacteria."

  "But, Vladmir," Captain Tiemerovna began. Then starting again, "But comrade

  major, such chemicals, to be effective, must be in sufficient strength that

  those persons in the work battalions could be adversely affected by them."

  "Precautions will of course be taken, but there will be adequate replacements

  for those who become care­less, Natalia," Karamatsov said, dismissing the

  remark. Turning to Varakov, then standing and walking toward the edge of the

  semicircle, then turning abruptly around—Varakov supposed for dramatic

  effect—Karamatsov said, "But once these work battalions have completed their

  task, they can be organized into factory labor. If they are utilized in

  twelve-hour shifts, working through the night—the electrification system is

  still largely intact—the city can be reclaimed within days. A week at the most.

  I can have the exact figures for you within the hour, comrade general," and he

  snapped his heels together. Varakov did not like that—Karamatsov reminded him

  too much of Nazis from the Second War.

  "I do not think your figures will be necessary—but unfortunately your plan seems

  to be the most viable," Varakov said.

  "Thank you, comrade general, but providing the figures will be of no difficulty.

  I had anticipated that this problem might be of concern to you and have already

  had them prepared, pending of course the actual number of survivors available

  for the work battalions and the quantities of chemical equipment that can be

  secured for the program—but I can easily obtain these additional figures, should

  you so desire."

  Varakov nodded his head, hunching low over his desk, staring at Karamatsov. "I

  am not ready to retire yet, my ambitious young friend."

  "I assure you, comrade general," Karamatsov began, walking toward Varakov's

  desk.

  "Nothing is assured, Karamatsov—but now tell me about your list."

  Karamatsov sat down, then stood again and walked to the opposite end of the

  semicircle of chairs occupied by KGB and military officials. Turning

  abruptly—once again for dramatic flair, Varakov supposed—Karamatsov blurted out,

  "We must pro­tect the safety of the State at all costs, comrades. And of course

  it is for this reason that many years ago— before the close of World War Two—my

  predecessors began the compilation of a list—constantly updated— of persons who

  in the event of war with the capitalist superpowers would be potential

  troublemakers, rallying points for resistance, etc. The master list, as it came

  to be called, has, as I indicated, been con­stantly updated. It was impossible

  to predict with any acceptable degree of accuracy who might survive such a war

  and who might not, and to determine which targets would be most readily able to

  be eliminated in any event. For this reason, since its inception, the master

  list was broken into broad categories of persons—all of equal value for

  elimina­tion purposes."

  "These are names we might recognize?" Varakov interrupted.

  "Oh, yes—comrade general, many of these names are important public officials.

  Yet many of the other names are not so easily recognized—except to us!"

  "Give to me some examples of this, major," Varakov interrupted again.

  "Well—they are from all areas of life. In the Alpha section for example, one of

  the most important names is Samuel Chambers," Karamatsov said. "This Chambers

  person, as best as we can ascertain, is the only surviving member of something

  called the presidential Cabinet. He was the minister—secretary, that is—of

  communications. According to our inter­pretation of the American Constitution,

  he is, in fact, whether he knows it or not, the president of the United States

  at this moment. He must be eliminated. Chambers is an excellent example. He was

  in the Beta section until his elevation to the Alpha section corresponding with

  his elevation to the presidential advisory Cabinet. He has always been ardently

  opposed to our country—an anticommunist he called himself. He has always had a

  great popular support because of this position. He owned several radio and

  television broadcasting stations, had a radio program broadcast on independently

  owned radio stations around the country for several years— his name was a

  household word, as the Americanism goes."

  "This homeheld word—he is president now? Then do we not wish to negotiate formal

  surrender with him?" Varakov asked, forcing his voice to sound patient,

  interested.

  "Under normal circumstances, yes, comrade gen­eral—we would. But, this Chambers

  would never agree. And, if we forced his signing of a conciliatory statement,

  the people here would never accept its validity. His only value is as a dead

  man. In his very utility as a symbol of American anticommunist feel­ing, his

  death would be but another blow to American resistance, showing them how useless

  such activity is—how counterproductive."

  "Give me still another example," Varakov said, killing time for himself until

  the situation demanded he give Karamatsov formal orders to begin working on the

  list—he did not like ordering people to die. He had trained as a soldier too

  long to value life as cheaply as did the KGB.

  "I—yes," Karamatsov said, pacing across the room between the semicircle of

/>   chairs and Varakov's desk. "Yes—a good example. I have no inclination that the

  man is still alive. He was a writer, living in the American southeast. Adventure

  novels about Ameri­can terrorists fighting communist agents from the Soviet

  Union and other countries. He wrote often as well in magazines devoted to

  sporting firearms. Several times he openly condemned our system of government in

  print in national periodicals here. He attempted to exalt individualism and

  subvert the purposes of social order through his articles and his books—his name

  I do not recall at this point in time. He would be on a low-priority list, but

  nonetheless his liquidation would be necessary.

  "Still another example would be retired Central Intelligence Agency personnel

  who remained provisionally active. Reserve officers in the armed forces would be

  still another list. There are many thousands of names, Comrade General Varakov,

  and work must be begun immediately to locate and liquidate these persons as

  potential subversives."

  Varakov slowly, emphatically and quite softly, said, "Purge?"

  "Yes—but a purge for the ultimate furthering of the collective purposes of the

  heroic Soviet people, comrade general!"

  Varakov looked at Karamatsov, then glanced to Natalia Tiemerovna. She was moving

  uncomfortably in the folding chair. He looked back to Karamatsov, watched as

  Karamatsov watched him. "I will sign this order," Varakov almost whispered. "But

  since individual execution orders would not be necessary, I will have it amended

  to read that only such persons as currently are named on the master list can be

  liqui­dated without express written order, signed by myself." Coughing, Varakov

  added, "Ido not wish to initiate a bloodbath." Then looking at Karamatsov,

  staring at the younger man's coal-black eyes and the intensity there, Varakov

  extended the first finger of his right hand, pointing it at Karamatsov, and

  said, "Make no mistake that I will be so foolish as to sign a blanket order that

  could someday be turned into my own death warrant, comrade."

  Chapter Five

  The red-orange orb of sun was low on the horizon at the far end of the long

  straight ribbon of flat highway reaching toward El Paso, still some ten or more

  miles away, as Rourke figured it. He turned his bike onto the shoulder and

  braked, arcing the front wheel to the side and resting on it, looking down the

  road. He didn't bother to turn as Rubenstein pulled up beside him, overshooting

  Rourke by a few feet, then walking the bike back. "Why are we stopping, John?"

  "We're about eight or ten minutes out of El Paso. It doesn't look like it was

  hit. But it wasn't what you might call the gentlest town in the world before the

  war, I remember. Juarez is right across the bridge from it over the Rio Grande."

  "We going into Mexico?"

  "No—not unless I can't avoid it. Those paramili­tary troops we locked horns with

  were bad enough to worry about and they're on our tail by now again. Probably

  had a radio, right?"

  "Yeah," Rubenstein said, looking thoughtful a moment. "Yeah, I think they did."

  "Well, we might have a reception waiting for us up ahead. But in Mexico we could

  have federal troops on our tails—they do their number a hell of a lot better.

  With the guns and the bikes and whatever other equipment somebody might imagine

  we had, we'd have everybody and his brother trying to knock us off to get it. I

  don't know if Mexico got caught up in the war or not, but things might be awful

  rough down there."

  "Well," Rubenstein said, "maybe we should skip El Paso entirely."

  "Yeah, I've thought of that," Rourke said slowly, still staring down the

  highway. He lit one of his cigars and tongued it to the left corner of his

  mouth. "I thought about that a lot on the road the last few miles. But I haven't

  seen any game since we got started, have you?"

  Rubenstein looked at him, then quickly said, "No—me neither."

  Rourke just nodded, then said, "And that baby food I snatched isn't going to

  make more than a day's rations for both of us. And you're right, it does taste

  kind of pukey. We need food, we're almost out of water and we could use some

  more gasoline. I wouldn't mind scrounging some medical instru­ments if I could

  find them. I've got all that stuff at the retreat, but it's a long way getting

  there still."

  "You never told me," Rubenstein asked, staring down the highway trying to see

  what Rourke was staring at so intently. "Why do you have the retreat? I mean,

  did you know this war was going to happen, or what?"

  "No—I didn't know it," Rourke said slowly. "See, I went through medical school,

  interned and every­thing. I'd always been interested in history, current events,

  things like that." Rourke exhaled a long stream of gray cigar smoke that caught

  on the light breeze and eddied in front of him a moment before vanishing into

  the air. "I guess I figured that instead of training to cure people's problems,

  maybe I could prevent them. Didn't work out though. I joined the CIA, spent some

  years there—mostly in Latin America. I was always good with guns, liked the

  out-of-doors. Some experiences I had with the company sort of sharpened my

  skills that way. I married Sarah just before I got out. I was already writing

  about survival and weapons training—things like that. I settled down to writing

  and started the retreat. The more friction that developed between us, the more

  time and energy I poured into the retreat. I've got a couple of years' worth of

  food and other supplies there, the facilities to grow more food, make my own

  ammo. The water supply is abundant—I even get my electricity from it. All the

  comforts—" Rourke stopped in midsentence.

  "All the comforts of home," Rubenstein volun­teered brightly, completing the

  sentence.

  "Once I find Sarah and Michael and Ann."

  "How old is Michael again?"

  "Michael's six," Rourke said, "and little Annie just turned four. Sarah's

  thirty-two. That picture I showed you of Sarah and the kids is kind of off—but

  it was a kind of happy time when I took it so I held on to it."

  "She's an artist?"

  "Illustrated children books, then started writing them too a couple of years

  ago. She's very good at it."

  "I always wanted to try my hand at being an artist," Rubenstein said.

  Rourke turned and glanced at Rubenstein, saying nothing.

  "What do you think we'll run into in El Paso?" Rubenstein asked, changing the

  subject.

  "Something unpleasant, I'm sure," Rourke said, exhaling hard and chomping down

  on his cigar. He unlimbered the CAR-15 with the collapsible stock and

  three-power scope and slung it under his right arm, then cradled the gun across

  hs lap. He worked the bolt to chamber a round and set the safety, then started

  the Harley.

  "Better get yours," he said to Rubenstein, nodding toward the German MP-40

  submachinegun strapped to the back of Rubenstein's bike.

  "I guess I'd better," the smaller man said, pushing his glasses up off the

  bridge of his nose. "Hey, John?"

  "Paul?"

  "I did okay back there, didn't I—I mean with those paramilitary guys?"

 
; "You did just fine."

  "I mean, I'm not just hangin' on with you, am I?"

  Rourke smiled, saying, "If you were, Paul, I'd tell you." Rourke cranked into

  gear and started slowly along the shoulder. Rubenstein—Rourke glanced

  back—already had the "Schmeisser" slung under his right arm and was jumping his

  bike.

  Chapter Six

  Sarah Rourke reined back on Tildie, her chestnut mare, pulling up short behind

  Carla Jenkins' bay. Sarah watched Carla closely, and the little girl Millie

  astride behind her. To Sarah Rourke's thinking, Carla handled a horse like she

  handled a shopping cart—she was dangerous with either one. Leaning over in the

  saddle, Sarah glanced past Carla to Carla's husband, Ron, the retired army

  sergeant to whom she had temporarily entrusted her fate and the fate of the

  children. The children . . . she looked back over her shoulder at Michael and

  Annie sitting astride her husband John's horse. The big off-white mare with the

  black stockings and black mane and tail was named "Sam," and she reached back

  and stroked Sam's muzzle now, saying to the children, "How are you guys doing?

  Isn't it fun riding Daddy's horse?"

  "His saddle's too big, Momma," Michael said.

  Annie added, "I want to ride with you, Mommie. I don't like riding on Sam—she's

  not soft." Annie looked like she was going to cry—for the hundredth time, Sarah

  reminded herself.

  "Later—you can ride with me later, Annie. Now just be good. I want to find out

  why Mr. Jenkins stopped." Sarah turned in her saddle, standing up in the

  stirrups to peer past Carla again. She couldn't see Jenkins' face, just the back

  of his head, the thick set of his shoulders and neck, and the dark rump of the

  appaloosa gelding he rode.

  "What's the problem, Ron?" Sarah asked, trying not to shout in case there were

  some danger ahead.

  "No problem, Sarah, at least not yet," Jenkins said, not turning to face her.

  Hearing Ron Jenkins call her by her first name still sounded odd to her, but she

  reminded herself she had never called him Ron until a few days ago when he and

  his wife and daughter had come to the farm and asked if she wanted to accompany

  them. They moved slowly, the Jenkins family, and Ron Jenkins had meticulously

  avoided every possible small town between them and "the mountains" he kept