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  Natalia's help was the tactfu! way of handling the fact that Rourke had no

  idea how well or how poorly the younger man could tie knots. And Rourke

  very well understood the sort of training Natalia had undergone to become

  a KGB field agent in the first place—rappelling would have been part of it

  and she'd make the knot secure if Rubenstein didn't.

  "Jt's set, John," Natalia's voice called down.

  "Haul up on the rope—hurry up," Rourke called up. On the near end of the

  rope, Rourke had Natalia's and Paul's winter jackets secured. The rope

  started snaking upward. . . .

  As Rourke huddled by the fire a few yards from the air­craft fuselage, the

  water nearly boiling, he considered Rubenstein; the younger man had made

  it down the embankment quite well. Not as professionally as Natalia had

  let herself down, but well nonetheless.

  The water in the pot was boiling and Rourke picked it up hy the handle,

  his left hand still gloved and insulating his fingers; then he stood up.

  He hated to, but he had to—he kicked out the fire. The darkness around him

  was more real now as he started toward the glowing lightpf the Coleman

  lamp in the fuselage.

  The Space Blanket was wrapped around Natalia now, her coat being rather

  light for the extreme cold of the night. Rourke was chilled still, despite

  the fact that he had added the leather bomber-style jacket over his

  sweater. Rubenstein looked positively frozen to the bone, Rourke thought.

  "Paul—why don't you fish through the gear and find a bottle of whiskey? I

  think we could all use a drink." Rourke smiled, watching Rubenstein's face

  almost instantly brighten. The younger man was up and moving as Rourke

  crouched down beside Natalia near the Cole­man lamp.

  "Here—I'll do that," she said, her gloved hands reaching for the pot of

  no-longer-boiling water. "You hold the food packets."

  "All right," Rourke murmured. There wasn't much of

  the Mountain House food left in his gear and he'd have to

  &#;*+

  resupply once he got back to the Retreat, he reminded himself.

  "Hope you like beef stroganoff," Rourke said, holding the first of the

  opened packets up for her to add the water.

  "Do you remember the camp we had that night before you scouted for the

  Brigands and the Paramils—in Texas?"

  "Yes," Rourke told her.

  "Should I get drunk again?" She smiled. "But it wouldn't do me any good,

  would it?"

  Rourke, balancing one of the Mountain House packs, then opening another,

  said nothing. He turned to call to Rubenstein, still searching for the

  bottle. "Food's on, Taul."

  "John," Natalia's alto insisted. "You remember that? I called you Mr.

  Goodie-Goodie, didn't I."

  "It doesn't matter," Rourke told her, his voice a whisper.

  "I think I loved you then, too," she said matter-of-factly.

  Rourke looked into her eyes a moment. "I think I loved you then, too."

  "I won't see you after we get out of here, after this storm—will I?"

  Rourke didn't answer.

  Rubenstein came up, an unopened quart bottle of Sea­gram's Seven in his

  hands. "This bottle's cold—least we won't need any ice, huh?" The younger

  man laughed.

  "Here, Paul." Natalia handed Rubenstein the first of the three packs, the

  one with the hottest water added. Rourke exchanged a glance with her and

  she smiled.

  Rubenstein took the pack of beef stroganoff and settled himself beside the

  Coleman lamp. "Like old

  times—out there on the desert in Texas," Rubenstein remarked, giving the

  food a final stir.

  "John and I were just saying that," Natalia told him.

  "This is good." Rubenstein's garbled voice came back through a mouthful of

  food.

  Rourke broke the seal on the whiskey bottle, twisting open the cap and

  handing the bottle to Natalia. "I'll get a cup for you," he started.

  "No—like we did that other time." She smiled, putting the bottle to her

  lips and tilting her head back to let the liquid flow through the bottle's

  neck and into her mouth. Rourke watched her, intently.

  She handed him the bottle and, not wiping it, he touched the mouth of the

  bottle to his lips, taking a long swallow; then, as he passed the bottle

  to Rubenstein, he said to her—Natalia—"Like we did the other time."

  He glanced at Rubenstein for a moment, but the younger man, having already

  set the bottle down, was smiling and saying, "Not like I did the other

  time. I can still remember the headache." And he continued with his food.

  . . ,

  Natalia lay in Rourke's arms, the Coleman lamp extinguished. Rubenstein

  was taking a turn at watch just inside the open cargo hatch of the

  fuselage. "You'll pick up the search for Sarah and the children? I'd help

  if I could."

  "I don't suppose it matters; an intelligence operative of Reed's in

  Savannah, retired Army guy, reactivated for this—"

  "The Resistance? I wonder if it has a prayer," she mused.

  "I don't think that's the point of it anyway," Rourke whispered to her in

  the darkness. "It's the doing that

  matters, the results are secondary. But he got word to Reed at U.S. II

  headquarters that he'd made a positive identification of Sarah and Michael

  and Annie—they were heading toward U.S. II headquarters."

  "But—"

  Rourke cut her off. "U.S. II headquarters was moving out so your people

  wouldn't make a raid and catch Chambers. And Sarah and the children

  couldn't make it across the Mississippi valley anyway—the radiation. So

  I've gotta stop them—before they get into the fallout zone."

  "If somehow we learn anything in Chicago, I will or my uncle will—we'll

  get word to you, somehow."

  "I know that," Rourke answered.

  "I hope you find them, John—and that they are well, and whole, and that

  you can make a life for them. Some­where."

  "The Retreat," Rourke said emotionlessly. "The Retreat—only place safe.

  It's safe against anything ex­cept a direct hit, enough supplies to live

  for years, grow­ing lights for the plants to replenish the oxygen—and that

  stream gives me electrical power. I can seal the place to make it

  airtight. But Sarah was right in a way; it is a cave. I don't know if I

  can see raising two children in a cave—even a cave with all the

  conveniences."

  "You don't have any choice—you didn't start the war," she said, her voice

  suddenly guilt-tinged he thought.

  "Neither did you, Natalia—neither did you," he murmured. She leaned

  tighter against him and he held her tighter.

  "If I close my eyes, I can imagine it."

  "What?" he asked, feeling dumb for saying it.

  'That things were different and we could he—" She didn't finish the

  thought.

  Rourke touched his lips to her forehead as he leaned back, her head on his

  shoulder. As he closed his eyes, he murmured the word that she hadn't

  said—"lovers." He listened to the evenness of her breathing long past the

  time he should have fallen asleep. ...

  Using the rope—all of it—Rourke and Natalia had engineered a pulley system

  fo
r getting the bikes up onto the highway. And he was committed now, he

  knew: The storm showed no signs of abating, but the longer he delayed

  taking up the search, the closer Sarah and the children might get to the

  irradiated zone, the rnore chance there was that they would slip through

  his fingers. He wanted to catch up with them in the Caro-linas—it was the

  only chance now.

  It was the only chance now, because without the plane, it would be

  impossible to drop Natalia safely near Russian-dominated

  territory—northern Indiana. Rourke's original plan had been to leave

  Natalia where she would be safe, then to drop Paul in Tennessee. He would

  have flown then as close to Savannah as possible—he and Paul catching

  Sarah and the children between them.

  The very act of starting one motorcycle toward the road was a commitment

  to abandon the shelter of the aircraft fuselage, for one man by himself

  could not control the bike and get the bike elevated—even with Natalia

  helping him. And now, as Rourke coiled the last of the ropes, hisownHarley

  and Paul's bike as well on the road surface, he glanced back down to the

  shelter of the fuselage. He was already chilled, despite the fact that he

  wore fwo pairs oi jeans, three shirts, his crew-necked

  sweater, and jacket. Using spare bootlaces, he had secured Natalia's

  sleeping bag over her coat, to give her added warmth. She would ride

  behind Paul on his bike.

  The plan was simple—the only one possible under the circumstances. The

  heart of the storm seemed to be to the south and west. With luck, Paul and

  Natalia would be driving out of the storm while he, Rourke, drove into it.

  With its intensity, Rourke assumed it couldn't last much longer at any

  event.

  Rourke would start from Tennessee and cut down into Georgia, perhaps as

  far down as the massive craters that had once been metropolitan Atlanta;

  he still had a Geiger counter, as did Paut. Then he would zigzag back and

  forth with his farthest range being the lower Carolinas. Paul, after

  leaving Natalia in safe territory, would travel back, retracing the route

  down from northern Indiana to Tennessee, then strike straight for Savannah

  from there. With luck one of them would intercept Sarah and Michael and

  Annie. In two weeks, he and Paul would rendezvous at the Retreat—hopefully

  one of them with Rourke s family in tow.

  The Metalifed and Mag-Na-Ported six-inch Colt Python in the flap holster

  at his waist, Rourke began making a last minute check of his gear. The

  Python and his other guns had been freshly lubricated with Break-Free CLP

  which would resist the sub-freezing temperatures. The Lowe Alpine Systems

  Loco pack was secure behind the seat of the Low Rider, the CAR- wrapped

  in plastic and secured to the pack, a blanket under the plastic to protect

  the gun in the event of a skid. He glanced along the icy road surface; a

  skid was highly likely.

  He started his bike, letting the engine warm up as he walked back toward

  Natalia and Paul. Rubenstein's bike

  was already loaded and started.

  Rubenstein started to say something, but Rourke cut him off. He wasn't

  certain why, but an urgency seemed now to obsess him. "You memorized those

  strategic fuel supply locations so you can get gasoline?"

  "Yes—yeah, I did," the younger man said, looking strange without his

  glasses; but with the snow falling, it would have been impossible to see

  through them.

  "And (ake it real slow—really slow until you start getting out of this.

  Just be careful all the way, even after you've gotten through the

  weather—a sudden tempera­ture—"

  "John—I'll do all right. Take it easy." Rubenstein extended his gloved

  right hand, then pulled the glove away.

  Rourke hesitated a moment, then pulled off his own glove. "I know you will

  Paui—I know. I just—ahh . . ." Rourke simply shook his head, clamping his

  jaw tight and wishing he had a cigar there to chew on.

  "I'll walk you back to your motorcycle," Natalia said quietly, taking

  Rourke's bare right hand as soon as he released Paul's grip.

  "All right," Rourke answered her softly. "I'll see you Paul."

  "Yeah, John. I'll be right behind you real soon."

  Rourke simply nodded, then started back toward his machine, feeling the

  pressure of Natalia's hand inside his. Her hand was warm. He looked at her

  once, then looked away. One of his big bandanna handkerchiefs was tied

  over her head to cover her ears; his own ears were freezing. It was blue,

  making the blueness of her eyes even bluer. The sleeping bag bound around

  her made her figure virtually vanish under it and finally, as they

  stopped beside his Harley, without looking at her he mur­mured, "If you

  ever need to disguise yourself as a plump Russian peasant girl that's the

  perfect outfit."

  He felt her hand let go of his, then her hand on his face as he turned to

  her.

  "I love you, John Rourke—I'll always love you. For­ever." She kissed his

  mouth hard, and he thought he saw a faint trace of a smile—a strained

  smile—on her face. She turned and ran away, almost slipping once on the

  ice as he watched her. She clambered aboard the snow-splotched bright blue

  Harley Low Rider and didn't look back as Rubenstein gunned the machine,

  shot a wave over his shoulder, and started off.

  John Rourke stood there for a moment—cold. He was alone. It was a lifelong

  habit.

  Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna hugged her arms tightly around Paul

  Rubenstein; she thought of him as a brother, as Rourke thought of him.

  Rourke had said it to her more than once. She held Paul in order to stay

  aboard the slowly moving motorcycle, and for the warmth his body

  radiated—and to give him the warmth of her body.

  It had been three hours by the face of her ladies' Rolex and the ice and

  snow had allowed them, she estimated, not more than a hundred miles,

  perhaps less. "Do you think the storm will intensify as John heads south?"

  she asked.

  There was no answer from Rubenstein. She repeated the question—louder. "Do

  you think the storm will intensify—as John goes south, Paul?"

  "I think so. May be slacking up a little soon for us— looks like it up—"

  "Paul!" It was the first time he'd turned his face toward her in more than

  an hour. His eyebrows were crusted over with ice, his face red and raw to

  the point of bleeding on his cheeks. She suddenly realized that while his

  body had shielded hers from the wind, his face had had nothing to protect

  it. "Stop the bike—now. You have

  to," she shouted to him.

  "What—" But then he shook his head slowly and she could hear the sounds of

  engine compressionas he geared down, making the stop slowly to avoid a

  skid. They had almost had one perhaps ten miles back but Rubenstein had

  kept the bike aright somehow, although Natalia didn't know how he had done

  it.

  The bike slowed then, stopping, slipping a little as Paul shifted his

  weight, Natalia's feet going out to balance it as well. "You let me

  drive," she said, dismounting.

  Paul looked at
her, his eyes tearing from the wind, but smiling despite

  it. "If I let anything happen to your face—well, aside from the fact

  John'd never forgive me—I wouldn't forgive myself," he told her.

  She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him a moment, then stepped

  back.

  She had long ago resigned herself to Rourke's chauvinism—and liked it in

  her heart. And Rubenstein treated her the same way. She pulled the

  blue-and-white bandanna from her hair, her ears instantly feeling the

  cold. She started toward Rubenstein again, saying, "Then you tie this over

  your face and stop for five minutes every half-hour—either that or I don't

  go another mile, Paul."

  "But—"

  "No!" She decided then that if Paul insisted on treating her like a woman,

  then she could treat him like a little boy—and impose her will. She bound

  the handker­chief at the back of his neck, pulling up the sides until the

  handkerchief covered all his face just below his eyes. "You look very,

  very much like a bandit—a handsome bandit." She smiled.

  Rubenstein shook his head, shrugging his shoulders,

  his voice sounding slightly muffled as he said, "We go again?"

  "Yes—if you think you can. But only for a half-hour—then a rest."

  "Agreed," Rubenstein told her, straddling the Harley once more. She

  climbed on behind him. As the machine started along the road, she huddled

  her head down into the sleeping bag which formed a collar for her—at least

  as much as she could, for her ears tingled already with the cold despite

  her hair covering them.

  She had bathed his face and now massaged it as they huddled from the

  slightly diminished storm under the shelter of a bridge, ground clothes

  anchored to the bike and to the bridge itself to form a windbreak for

  them. It was dark—night had come early because of the darkness that had

  filled the skies throughout the day. "You don't have to—"

  She cut him off. "I massage your face because I love you and want you to

  be well."

  He turned and looked at her. "You don't have to—"

  "I do. I love both of you. You know that."