“You want to kill them?”
“What?”
“Neither do I, especially. Why don’t you get the bikes straight in a minute here and we can take these fellas for a walk a few miles down the road, then let ’em go. Let me reload first—keep them covered.” Rourke jammed the Python in his belt, changed magazines on both of the .45s and reholstered them. He caught up his pistol belt from the dirt and slung it over his shoulder, the Python back in his right fist. Already, Rubenstein had begun dividing the loads for the bikes.
“You guys got any vehicles around here?” Rourke asked Pincham. The captain said nothing. Rourke put the muzzle of the Python under his nose.
“Yes—on both sides of the road.”
“Any gas cans?”
“Yes—yes,” Pincham snapped.
“Much obliged,” Rourke said, then, shouting, “Paul—go over there and get some gas for the bikes. Take that thing you call a Schmeisser in case they left someone on guard. Did you leave anyone on guard?” Rourke asked, lowering his voice and eyeing Pincham.
“No—no-nobody on guard!”
“Good—if anything happens to my friend, you get an extra nostril.”
“Nobody on guard!” Pincham said again, his voice sounding higher each time he spoke.
After a few moments, Rubenstein returned with the gas cans, filled the bikes and mounted up. Rourke walked Pincham toward his own bike. Already, some of the troopers were starting to fall, unable to support themselves on their hands.
“Barbarian,” Pincham growled.
“No,” Rourke said quietly. “I just want them good and tired so they can’t get back here fast enough to follow us. It’s either that or we disable your vehicles. And I don’t think you’d like being stranded out here in the desert on foot. Right?”
Pincham, biting his lower lip, only nodded.
“All right—captain,” Rourke said. “Order your men onto their feet and get ’em walking ahead of us—you bring up the rear. Anyone tries anything, it’s your problem.” Rourke started his bike as Pincham got his men up, formed them in a ragged column of twos and started them down the road toward El Paso.
As Rourke and Rubenstein followed along behind them, Rourke glancing at the Harley’s odometer coming up on the second mile, Pincham—walking laboriously, close in front of him—said, “Mister— you killed three of my men.”
“Four,” Rourke corrected.
“If I ever catch sight of you, you’re a dead man.”
“There’s some great baby food back there in the truck in case you fellas get hungry,” Rourke responded, then to Rubenstein, “Let’s go Paul!” Rourke gunned the Harley between his legs and shot past Pincham and his column, Rubenstein on the other side close behind him. Past the paramilitary troops now, Rourke glanced over his shoulder—some of Pincham’s men were already sitting along the side of the road. Pincham was standing there, shaking his fist down the road after Rourke.
Rubenstein, beside Rourke, was shouting over the rush of air. “I saw that trick in a western movie once—with the pistols, I mean.”
Rourke just nodded.
“What do they call it, John, where you roll the guns like that when someone tries taking them?”
Rourke glanced across at Rubenstein, then bent over his bike a little to get a more comfortable position. “The road-agent spin,” Rourke said.
“Road-agent spin,” Rubenstein echoed. “Wow!”
Chapter Four
Varakov was pleased that he had ordered the intelligence briefing to be in his office at the side of the long central hall. The desk was closed in the front, and with the chairs arranged in a semicircle no one could see his feet. He wiggled his toes in his white boot socks and leaned back in his chair. “There are several other priorities aside from the elimination of political undesirables,” he said flatly.
“Moscow wants—” the KGB man, Major Vladmir Karamatsov, began.
“Moscow wants me to run this country, keep armed rebellion from getting out of hand—some resistance cannot be avoided in a nation where everyone owns a gun—and try to get the heavy industry restarted. That is what Moscow wants. How I choose to accomplish that is my concern. If Moscow eventually decides I am not doing my job properly, then I will be replaced. This will not,” and Varakov crashed his hamlike fist down on the desk—”be a fiefdom of the KGB. Intelligence is to serve the interests of the Soviet people and the government— the government and the people are not holding their breath to serve the interest of intelligence. The Soviet is facing famine, a shortage of raw materials and most of our heavy industry has been destroyed by American missiles. If we cannot get this new land we have acquired to be productive, we shall all starve, have no more ammunition for our guns, have no spare parts. Most of American heavy industry is intact. Most of ours is gone. Our primary responsibility is to man the factories with work battalions and develop productivity. Otherwise, all is lost.”
Varakov looked around the room, his eyes stopping a moment on Captain Natalia Tiemerovna, also KGB and Karamatsov’s most trusted and respected agent. “What do 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.”