Rourke only nodded. Fifty yards still until the edge of the airfield, fifty yards of exposure still. As if reading his thoughts, Natalia said, “When I made the overflight—before I awakened you—there was nothing.”
“Can’t always tell from the air,” he cautioned. They had left the plane without a booby trap, no time really to construct one. One additional jet fighter for the Russians would not sway the odds in even the most minute way, he had reasoned, and perhaps leaving it here some Resistance unit would find it and make use of it.
They were passing an outbuilding, made of corrugated metal, Rourke’s eyes flickering toward it. “Run for it,” Rourke shouted, shoving at Natalia, sweeping the M-16’s muzzle toward the building. Something—he didn’t know what—
“Halt!”
The voice was from his right, and he wheeled toward it, squinting in the sunlight despite the dark-lensed glasses he wore. A single man, holding what looked from the distance to be a Ruger Mini-14.
Natalia was swung toward him, her M-16’s muzzle leveled at his midsection.
Rourke stepped beside her. In his left hand he carried the eight-hundred-round ammo box of 5.56mm ball, in his right hand he clenched the M-16. “What do you want?” Rourke challenged.
“Who the hell are you people—with that plane?”
“I work for the F.A.A.—checking out rural airports—”
“Knock it off,” the solitary man with the Ruger rifle called back. At the corners of his peripheral vision, Rourke could see more armed figures—men and women—stepping out from inside the building, coming from the far edge of the field.
“I don’t like this, John,” Natalia whispered hoarsely.
Rourke said nothing, watching only.
The man with the Mini-14 spoke again. “Who are you?”
“I’m John—this is Natalie—who the hell are you?”
“Morris Dumbrowski—Combined Counties Resistance Fighters.”
Rourke breathed a long sigh. “Then relax—we’re on the same side.”
Then a woman’s voice, from his right, near the corrugated metal building’s door.
“I’ve seen her—she’s the one who was always with the general—the one in the fur coat—maybe his slut or something!”
Natalia wheeled toward her, Rourke stepping between Natalia and the woman. “No,” he snarled to Natalia.
“I’m not his woman—I’m his niece,” Natalia shrieked.
Rourke rasped under his breath, “Shit—”
“Russians—fuckin’ Commies!” It was Morris Dumbrowski’s voice, Rourke turning to face the man.
“I seen her,” another woman’s voice shouted. “She was with that bastard who used to run the KGB—maybe she’s his woman.”
Natalia wheeled toward the new voice, shouting, almost screaming, “I was his wife—and he’s dead—he was a butcher!”
Rourke stepped beside Natalia. “My name’s John Rourke—if you’re Resistance like you say you are, you must know Colonel Reed—get in touch with him at U.S. II headquarters—he can vouch for us both.”
“Why?”
Rourke turned to face the voice—it was the woman from the corrugated building—she was walking toward them, holding a pistol, some kind of double-action revolver with a barrel that looked too long to be comfortably carried. She kept talking. “So you can get your Commie friends to get a fix on our radio, or maybe get a fix on U.S. II? Fuckin’ rot in hell, mister—”
“It’s not mister,” Natalia said, Rourke shocked by the calm suddenly in her voice. “It’s Doctor—he’s a doctor of medicine, and I’m a major in the KGB—but if the KGB were to find me, they’d likely kill me. General Varakov—he is my uncle, and we go to see him—he is helping to fight the KGB.”
“You’re crazy, lady—and if he’s a doctor, then he’s your psychiatrist,” the woman with the long-barrel revolver from the corrugated building laughed, the laugh almost a cackle.
“Then I will kill you,” Natalia said. “It is not Natalie, my name—it is Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna, major, Committee for State Security of the Soviet. I have told the truth.” Natalia raised her M-16, the rifle in both hands, her legs spread wide apart, the muzzle of the rifle aimed at the woman with the long-barreled revolver.
Rourke rasped, “Contact Colonel Reed—and take a look at this—I’ll move slow.” Rourke reached to Natalia’s right holster, opening the flap there, the M-16 swinging free on its sling, the CAR-15 across his back. He set down the ammo box, taking the second revolver from the holster on Natalia’s left hip.
He heard someone cock a weapon in the crowd of Resistance fighters.
Rourke rolled both revolvers in his hands, butts forward, walking toward the woman with the long-barreled revolver, walking slowly.
The woman looked down at his hands.
Rourke could feel Natalia’s eyes boring into him.
Rourke stopped less than two feet from the woman with the long-barreled revolver—she was evidently one of the leaders, but not the first in command, he guessed.
Rourke held the perfectly matched .357s butts forward, showing the woman the twin revolvers. “The American Eagle on the barrel flat here of the revolver in my left hand. They were made for Sam Chambers by a guy named Ron Mahovsky, a company called Metalife Industries. Mahovsky—before The Night of The War—he was one of the top revolver smiths in the country. Sam Chambers gave these revolvers to her—to Natalia, Major Tiemerovna, because he didn’t have a medal to give her. When the quakes hit Florida—you heard about that?”
The woman nodded.
“If it hadn’t been for Major Tiemerovna, thousands more of American lives would have been lost—and President Chambers knew that. Take a look at these yourself,” Rourke said, holding the revolvers out toward the woman, butts presented toward her. “And be careful, ma’am—they’re loaded.”
His eyes watched the woman’s eyes. She looked at the guns Rourke offered her, at her own revolver—Rourke knew what it was now, a Smith & Wesson Model 10 M&P with six-inch barrel, just a .38 Special. The woman dropped the gun into a too small holster on her right thigh, the bottom of the holster cut out, two inches of barrel protruding through it.
She reached for both revolvers at once.
He’d seen his cowboy heroes do it in countless movies when he had been a boy.
He did it now—the road agent spin, edging his trigger fingers into the guards, letting the revolvers roll inward, away from his palms, snapping his hands up as the guns moved, the revolvers twirling on their trigger guards, both gun butts dropping into his fists, his thumbs working back the hammers instinctively—he had practiced the trick with single-action semi-autos, used it a time or two—and both pistols moving, Rourke himself moving.
He was beside the woman, slightly behind her, the pistol in his left hand, its muzzle finding the underside of her chin, ramming up against the flesh, the gun in his right hand at the side of her body, pointed at the man with the Mini-14, Morris Dumbrowski—Natalia had wheeled, her M-16 pointed toward the Resistance fighters who had come from the far side of the field.
It had taken perhaps a second, and Rourke, his voice loud, shouted, “She gets it first, and then you Dumbrowski—I’m telling the truth, so’s the major—take us to Resistance headquarters and a radio and Reed will back us up, or Chambers himself.”
“You telling us—” Dumbrowski began. “You tellin’ us, that you’ve got some kinda mission—that U.S. II—”
“U.S. II didn’t send us—my uncle sent for us,” Natalia called out. “But he’s a decent man. There is something gone wrong—something wrong for all of us—and he thinks that Doctor Rourke and I can do something to stop it—that is why we come here.”
“And we could use your help—the Resistance’s help—getting into the city—to get to him.”
The woman Rourke held in his arms, the woman he held a gun to, coughed, saying, “You want us to help you reach General Varakov?”
“It’s the only way—maybe. What’s it going to be—we all shoot each other here and now for nothing, or you check out our story?”
“Throw your guns down then,” Dumbrowski shouted.
“We keep our guns—no other way,” Rourke shouted back.
It was the woman—Rourke had been wrong—who was the leader. She raised her voice, shouting across the field, “Put your guns away—but keep an eye on both of them—we’re going to the base,” and her hands came up, touched at the barrel of the revolver under her chin and gently, slowly, moved it aside.
Rourke let go of her, the woman turning to face him. “I’m Emily Bronkiewicz—our leader was killed three weeks ago—I was his wife. I’m the leader now. Stay with us, close, or we’ll open fire.”
And her eyes drifted to the revolver in Rourke’s left hand, the gun held diagonally away from him. “You were right about the American Eagle—but now let’s see if the guns were really a gift—and if you’re telling the truth, we’ll help if we can. If you’re not, then go ahead and shoot me when you want to—but there’re enough of us to get both of you.”
Rourke lowered the hammers on both revolvers—slowly.
He walked past the woman, to give Natalia her guns back. He whispered to the Resistance leader, “Don’t bet on that last part.”