The long gun case slid down almost like a toboggan, Rourke thought. “Should have ridden it down,” he laughed to himself. He stepped over the rail. Losing his footing halfway down the gentle slope, he intentionally let himself fall backward, skidding to the bottom of the slope on his rear end. He stood and dusted the snow from his clothes. Then he looked back up to the level of the highway. He could see Masterson and the RCMP inspector standing at the guard rail.
Rourke made a long, exaggerated wave and, without waiting for them to return it, picked up his rifle case and his flight bag, and started out in a slow jog across the snow.
The snow was drifted heavily near the center of the open expanse as Rourke jogged on. The height of the drifts forced him to slow to a broad stride, a deliberate commando walk. At times, when the drifts were above his knees, he fought the snow, raising his feet high, placing them down slowly to test the footing. His trouser legs were soaked and plastered cold against his skin, but, mercifully no snow had entered his cowboy boots. As he passed the center of the field, the drifts got smaller. As he neared the edge of the snow, he spotted a high fence, snow piled on the other side, apparently from plowing. This separated the parking lot from the open field. It was easy going for him again, and he broke into a jog as he neared the fence.
The snowbank on the opposite side of the fence cushioned the impact for his baggage when he heaved the three cases over. He took a step back and jumped against the fence after he had tossed a snowball against it to be sure it wasn’t electrified. Catching the toe of his boot in the chainlinks and holding on with his gloved fingers, Rourke pulled himself up to the top of the barrier and jumped over, coming down in the snow bank. Brushing himself off again, he gathered up his things and started across the parking lot. Climbing the fence had tired him, and now he heard the noise of a vehicle behind him. Turning, Rourke spotted a pickup truck with airport maintenance markings on the door. He stopped as the truck skidded to a halt beside him.
Rourke could see the driver leaning across the front seat and pushing open the passenger side door. “Need a lift? American, ain’t you?”
“Yeah, I’m American,” Rourke said, nodding. “But, no thanks-good night for a walk-terminal’s not too far. Probably faster on foot. Thanks anyway.
“Suit yourself, mate,” the driver said, nodding and muttering something Rourke didn’t quite catch.
Rourke reached into his pocket, snatched a cigar, and lit it with his Zippo. Looking over the glowing tip and across the lot, he could see the entrance to the hotel-like building he’d spotted from the roadside. “Half a mile,” he muttered to himself, picking up his flight bag and walking on.
Chapter Sixteen
“So, we talk again, Mr. President. I, too, prefer the voice link rather than the standard hot line. Now, what troubles you?”
The president of the United States, his coat hung on the back of his chair, his vest unbuttoned, his tie at half-mast, leaned back and put the heels of his shoes on the edge of his desk. He stared at the ceiling of the Oval Office a moment, then began. “Mr. Premier, you are right. We have talked a great deal in these last few hours. I am happy we are of like minds regarding the voice link. When this crisis has passed-as I know that it will,” the president said emphatically. Too emphatically, he wondered? “When this has passed,” he began again, his tone milder, “I look forward to the voice link as a means of broadening the dialogue between your desk and mine.”
“Mr. President?”
“Yes, Mr. Premier?”
“I think you are about to remind me that less than six hours remain before you introduce troops into the Pakistan affair. And you wish to inquire if I personally know about the unfortunate situation between your Benjamin Franklin undersea boat and the Volga. I do-and I know your deadline, too.”
“Sir,” the president began. “Ambassador Stromberg and I had a long talk when he was here not long ago. I asked him his personal assessment of you-as a person. You might be surprised to learn how highly he speaks of you.”
“You have a good man in Ambassador Stromberg. I would like to hire him from you. But we do not agree politically.”
“I don’t agree politically with all my ambassadors all the time, either, Mr. Premier. But the point I’m trying to make is that he says you are a man of good will. Well, so am I, sir. I want us to settle this thing here and now if we can. I think we can both agree that we’re pushing things a little far this time. Those men aboard your submarine and ours-regardless of how it happened-let’s let their deaths become a bond between our peoples. Let’s learn from that tragedy to avoid an even greater tragedy. Do you agree, sir, that we should do that?”
The connection was silent a moment. The president could hear the premier-quite a bit older than he-breathing heavily on the line. Then: “In principle, of course, I agree. But coming from principle into fact must be our goal. I would be a madman if I wished to have our two nations linger on the brink of war. But there are other variables-ones which you either wish to ignore or about which you are sincerely less than informed.”
“These are, sir?” the president said, swinging his feet from the desk and craning forward in his chair.
“Our particle beam weapon. We have ringed Moscow with these. We have-and this is perhaps something I should maintain as secret information but I choose to reveal it-just completed a test to eradicate the one minor shortcoming of the system. We have tested it against varying altitude high-speed targets in multiple sequence. Four targets, Mr. President. All of them vaporized.”
“No disrespect intended, Mr. Premier, but the system would be useless against multiple reentry vehicles. You must know that. We have our sources.
“We have our sources too, Mr. President. We know what is necessary about your MRVs-we can defeat them. I have, though, no desire to see which of us is correct. You must see that.”
The president ripped open his “conscience” pack of cools from his center desk drawer, lighting the first cigarette he had smoked in three months. He sucked the mentholated smoke deep in his lungs, then spoke again. “I see, sir, that you must realize we are not bluffing. I have already taken steps-which your own intelligence can verify-to interject our tactical response forces at the time the deadline comes about. I have also placed all American forces on alert, prepared for massive intervention in the Pakistan area should Soviet troops not withdraw.”
“Then,” the Soviet premier said, his voice very tired, “we are like two young fellows trying to prove themselves over a young woman. We will push at each other, brandish our fists, give the angry glances-and see who backs down or fights. The Soviet Union will not back away. I had entertained the hope that your ambassador could convince you of the sincere motivations for our move into Pakistan. Apparently, you chose to ignore this. My hands are tied. I will not be the first to start a war, if that gives you any comfort, nor will I immediately react with Soviet nuclear forces if your American troops do indeed move into Pakistan. But if Soviet lives are threatened, then I must take whatever action conscience dictates as necessary. Please call me again if there is some new development-I shall do the same. The interview is almost over, I think?”
“Yes,” the president sighed. “Yes, I’ll keep in contact with you, sir.”
“But one thing more, Mr. President.”
“Yes, Mr. Premier?”
“I wish to make a demonstration. We are using, if I understand correctly, the primary satellite for our talk. The others are still operative?”
“Yes-but I fail to see what you’re driving at, sir.”
“The voice you will hear on the line is a technician-he cannot hear our conversation though we can hear him. Do not be alarmed. This is a mere test.”
The president sat bolt upright as he heard a heavily accented voice-young sounding, either a woman or a boy, droning, “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four-”
“Mr. Premier! What is going on? I demand-”
“Zero. Mark”‘
The president sat back in his chair, the communication link dead, a loud buzzing sound having started before the connection automatically cut out. He hung up the phone. In a moment, his intercom buzzed. “Sir?” It was one of the secretaries.
“Yes, what is it?”
“I have the premier on the line again.” Clicking the intercom off, the president snatched up the red phone. “Yes?”