Jerry Ahern - Survivalist 01 - Total War

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TOTAL WAR

THE SURVIVALIST #1

By Jerry Ahern

Contents

Chapter One

"Now!" Rourke shouted, pushing himself up from a low crouch and waving his left arm. He burst into

a long-strided, loping run down the steep gravel embankment, past the scattered granite

outcroppings, and toward the packed dirt highway below. The dozen men close behind him wore the

khaki fatigues of the Pakistani Counter-Terrorist Strike Force. Fierce threats of death and

violence issued from them. Small H-K MP5SD3 integral silencer, collapsible stock 9-mm submachine

guns in their white-knuckled fists, they stormed the two dozen turban-clad opium smugglers on the

highway, clinging to the four stake trucks.

As Rourke's strike force reached the midway point to the highway, the smugglers began returning

fire. Oil-smeared tarps were whisked from their heavy machine guns mounted on tripods in the back

of each of the opium-packed truck beds. Small-arms fire bristled from the opened windows and

doors.

Rourke fired the Heckler & Koch P2A1 flare pistol clenched in his right hand. Its 26.5-mm

projectile soared high into the gray winter sky, then exploded.

From his vantage point along the embankment, Rourke could see the heavily armored Pakistani

military half-track moving into position and blocking the road about half a mile further down the

mountain. Stuffing the emptied flare pistol into the outside pocket of the borrowed leather

sheepskin coat he wore, Rourke swung his own H-K SMG into a firing position, then ran down the

last hundred yards of the embankment, leading his men and firing.

Already, he could see the lead vehicle of the four-truck caravan swerving into a U-turn under the

withering machine gun fire from the half-track. Two of its wheels spun precariously near the ditch

on the near side of the road, then the truck lumbered back onto the road, coming toward him.

Emptying the H-K's thirty-round magazine Rourke crossed the road in a dead run, then hit the

gravel on the drop-off side of the road, and threw down the H-K. His right hand, then his left,

reached for one, then another of the brace of stainless steel Detonics .45 autos from under his

coat.

Thumbing back the hammer on the scaled-down .45 in his right hand, he closed his fist tightly over

the rubber Pachmayr grips. He triggered one round toward the cab of the truck. The pistol in his

left hand spit fire at the same instant. Both shots connected. The driver's body bounced away from

the wheel.

Rourke rolled back from the lip of the highway, sliding down along the edge of the steep slope.

The truck was out of control and careening toward him. As it rocketed over the edge of the road,

Rourke fired his pistols into the fuel tank, and the truck exploded. The blistering flames of the

fireball scorched his face.

Glancing up toward the highway, clambering along the slope, Rourke spotted one of the three

remaining trucks going into a skid, half climbing the embankment and flipping onto its side. The

fortune in opium that was its cargo spilled out along the highway. The guard from the truck's

passenger seat tried to climb out the window, but stopped halfway and brought up a stubby muzzled

submachine gun to spray the roadside.

Rourke saw two of his newest strike force men go down. Dropping and skidding on both knees toward

the truck, Rourke fired both Detonics 45's. The sub-gunner turned toward him, and Rourke fired

twice again. The sub-gunner's upper torso snapped back, the automatic weapon in his hands flew

skyward, his body bent at a tortuous angle.

Rourke got to his feet and ran down the road toward the two stopped trucks. More than a dozen

smugglers were exchanging automatic-weapons fire with the half-track. "Grenades!" Rourke shouted

over his shoulder to the men running close behind him. There was a belching roar from one of the H-

K 69's. Its 40-mm high-explosive projective whistled overhead. Rourke dropped to the road, tucking

his head down as the grenade exploded just yards in front of him. He glanced up as the truck

exploded. Bodies and severed arms and legs soared into the air. The sky rained opium and bloody

flesh. One of the H-K 69's whooshed again. The second truck exploded.

Pushing himself up onto his elbows, then getting to his feet, Rourke shouted to his men, "Finish

'em!" His team closed in on the surviving drug runners. He fired both Detonics pistols until they

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went empty, then stuffed them into the waistband of his trousers and reached to his hip for the

Metalifed six-inch Colt Python .357 holstered there, firing it point blank into the chest of the

closest of the drug smugglers, then emptied it into two more of the men coming at him.

Using his empty Colt like a truncheon, he smashed down hard on the head of the nearest of the

smugglers, then wheeled around. A turban-clad man with a long-bladed knife charged toward him.

Rourke sidestepped. He dropped the Python back into its holster-no time to reload. As the

Pakistani smuggler charged toward him again, Rourke edged back and grabbed his AG Russell Sting 1A

boot knife.

The smuggler slowed, then dove forward. Rourke sidestepped the knife and whipped down with his

small, double-edged blade against the right side of the man's neck, slicing open an artery.

Wheeling again, Rourke drew his right arm up, deflecting a blow from another nearby smuggler. He

lost his blade and now, tucked into a crouch, his left fist smashed up, into the Pakistani's

stomach, while his right hand knifed forward, palm upward, fingers extended. The blow connected

with his attacker's throat and crushed the windpipe. Then, wheeling around, in the classic T-

stance, Rourke stopped.

To his left, one of his men was knocking the last drug dealer down to the road with the butt of

his sub gun.

Drawing up his shoulders, Rourke breathed deeply. Turning and snatching one of the spare six-round

magazines from a double pouch at his trouser belt, Rourke dropped the empty magazine from one of

the Detonics .45s into his hand, rammed the fresh magazine home and worked the slide stop,

stripping the top round and loading the chamber. Carefully, he lowered the little stainless gun's

bobbed hammer and then slipped it into the speed break holster under his left arm.

As Rourke started reloading the second pistol, he glanced up at the sound of the familiar voice.

"Your men-and you, yourself, John Thomas, were superb!"

A smile lighting the brown eyes in his lean, clean shaven face, Rourke said, "From you, Captain,

that's the finest of compliments. But we lost two. They bunched together-I warned them not to."

The other man nodded.

Rourke added, "But maybe the others'll learn by it. You and I both know that the stuff that's

hardest to remember is the stuff than'll usually keep you alive or get you killed."

"You're right, John Thomas. But I think these men you trained will do well in this opium war we

fight." The Pakistani captain, shorter than Rourke and with a bushy black moustache, lit a

cigarette for himself, then offered one to Rourke.

"No, thanks, Muhammed," Rourke muttered, then reached into his shirt pocket and plucked a tiny

cigar and put it between his teeth. "I'll take a light though," he said, leaning toward the

Pakistani's cupped hands, sucking in the flame of the match, then leaning back and exhaling the

gray smoke slowly. He watched it catch on the wind and blow down along the road to vanish where

two of the trucks still smoldered.

Rourke ran the fingers of his left hand through his dark brown hair, pushing it back from his high

forehead. "You still planning a mop-up operation here?"

Hunching his shoulders against the raw wind, the Pakistani nodded. "I think then that it is good-

bye for you to your men."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Rourke said, glancing over his shoulder as he finished loading six

fresh rounds into the cylinder of the Python, then putting it back into its holster on his right

hip. "Hang on a minute," Rourke told the Pakistani, then turned and walked back up the road toward

the ten men remaining from his force.

The young military policemen came to attention as Rourke approached, but he gestured for them to

remain at ease. "You guys did good," he said. "That's why you're still alive. Muli and Achmed-they

didn't remember what I taught you guys, and that's why they're dead. They were good men, no worse,

no better than any of you here. I want you to understand that. Surviving-whether it's a fight like

this or just gettin' home at night in traffic means keeping your head, remembering what you're

supposed to do, learning to react the way you know you should-then just doing it. I won't be

seeing you guys again. I told you, I've gotta get back to the States. Maybe someday we'll all get

together again. And if you guys remember that the first rule-in this or anything in life-is to

keep your head, you'll all be alive so that we can get together."

Rourke shook hands with each of the men, a longer handshake for the corporal, Ahmed. At first,

Rourke had confused the man with Achmed because of the similarities of their names. "Good luck,

pal," Rourke whispered, clasping his shoulder and returning the warm smile in his eyes. "Here," he

added impulsively, handing the man the Heckler & Koch flare pistol from his pocket. "You're the

team leader now. You'll be needing this."

Rourke turned and walked back toward Muhammed. The helicopter coming for them was already looming

large on the horizon, the distant whirring of its rotor blades like the drone of an insect.

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They waited together, Rourke and Muhammed, without speaking. The helicopter hovered over the

mountain road a moment, then angled down and landed-uncomfortably close, Rourke thought, to the

embankment.

He ran around to the starboard side of the machine and slid in beside the pilot. Muhammed got into

the back. Rourke turned and shot a final wave to the men he'd trained.

They didn't see it. Already, they were clambering back up the embankment, toward the mountains, to

attempt to intercept the men who had been destined to receive and transfer the shipment of raw

opium.

The pilot swung the helicopter out over the gorge and flew parallel to the mountain road for

several kilometers, then started climbing. Rourke turned to look behind him, feeling at the same

moment, Muhammed's hand on his shoulder. "We are flying toward the Khyber Pass-it is not far. One

of our border outposts was making its regular transmission, then suddenly the radio went silent.

We want to be sure it is only some sort of equipment failure."

"Fine," Rourke said, nodding, but disinterested. He stared out the bubble dome and down to the

valley floor thousands of feet below. After another moment, Muhammed said, "Tell me-I have read

your file-but how does a man become a weapons expert, a survival expert, making a living out of

teaching counterterrorist techniques?"

"You read the file," Rourke said, chewing the stump of cigar between his teeth. "Like it says, I

did counterterrorist work for the CIA." His eyes crinkled into a smile-he'd actually been a field

case officer in the Covert Operations Section. "Weapons," he went on, "were just a natural part of

than-I've always been good with guns, ever since I was a kid. Hunted a lot, liked the woods,

backcountry camping. Sort of led me into survivalism. And I read the newspapers-scared hell out of

me, too. So I learned everything I could about survival. I was on a job like this once, in Latin

America," he said, finding himself shouting over the whir of the chopper blades. "Anyway," he went

on, holding the cigar butt in his fingers and staring at it as he spoke, "those were my wilder

days-back with the Company. With a bunch of anti-Communist partisans, I got ambushed. My right leg

got shot up. Everybody else was killed. I was left for dead. I had a .45, an M-16 and a bayonet-no

food, nothing in the way of medical supplies except some antibiotics. I couldn't get out of the

jungle for six weeks. Then, when I did, the Communists had already taken over the country and I

had to steal a boat-spent ten days in open water before I hit the Florida keys. I was dehydrated,

infected, sunburned and had about everything wrong with me except athlete's foot."

"Athlete's foot?" Muhammed asked, "This is a-"

"You know-between your toes."

Rourke laughed.

"Ah, yes, we call it by another name."

"Yeah, well," Rourke continued, "but in spite of it all, I survived. Pretty proud of myself, I

was. I'd learned a whole hell of a lot-particularly how much I didn't know. Went back to reading

everything I could, going to every lecture I could, sorting through all the gimmickry and gadgets.

There's more stuff to learn every day."

"But what is the purpose to it all?" Muhammed said. "Learning for itself is a noble purpose, to be

sure, but-"

"Naw-it's a lot more practical than that," Rourke said, lighting the cigar again and getting an

angry glare from the tomb-silent pilot sitting beside him. "There are enough loonies loose in the

world today to screw up the planet so bad that survivalism training is going to be the only thing

than'll keep people alive-maybe. What do you need-a runaway laboratory virus, a global economic

collapse, a world crop failure?"

Below them now, Rourke saw the familiar craggy geography of the Khyber Pass, the historic gateway

from Afghanistan to Pakistan. These days, he thought bitterly, Afghanistan was a Soviet satellite

or the next best thing to one. Muhammed leaned forward, speaking to the pilot, "Take the machine

down-I want to see our border outpost from the air before we land."

Rourke reached into his borrowed jacket and took the tinted aviator sunglasses from their case and

put them on, peering down toward the summit of the mountain.

"Ahh, Muhammed?"

"What is it, John Thomas?" Muhammed said.

Making a sharp, downward stab with his right thumb toward the Pakistani side of the pass, directly

below them now, Rourke almost whispered, "Well, remember, I was talking about some of the reasons

to study survivalism. I left out one-probably the most likely one as it looks from here."

The Pakistani officer edged forward in his seat, his face inches from Rourke's right shoulder. The

smile which he usually wore degenerated into a blank stare, then froze into a grimace of fear.

"Climb. Get us out of here"' Muhammed shouted.

Bending forward to light his cigar again, staring down as he did at the endless column of Soviet

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trucks, tanks, and armored personnel carriers rolling across the Khyber Pass below him, Rourke

said, half to himself, "Yeah, Muhammed-one of the surefire best reasons for survivalism might be

World War Three."

Chapter Two

Corporal Ahmed Mahmude Shindi, his voice low, his speech clipped, rasped, "We cannot risk the

radio. They may have all our communications channels monitored. You two," he whispered, gesturing

to another corporal and a private, "must go back, back to the road. Follow it until you reach an

outpost, and report what we have seen. Stop for nothing. Do whatever you must. But it is

imperative that you get through."

The clouds which, throughout the day had been dark gray at the lower elevation, were now a black

shroud through which the setting sun winked orange. Heavy snow, each flake the size of a large

coin, began to fall.

Ahmed brushed the snow from his field glasses and hunched lower toward the barren wet ground as he

edged up toward the rim of the gorge. A quick glance back over his left shoulder confirmed that

his men were already setting out to alert military headquarters. Looking down into the dry rock

bed several hundred yards beneath him, he saw Soviet troops half covered by the canvas shrouds of

their stake trucks. And Soviet tanks, armored personnel carriers-all moving along the road below

in a rapid single column. He refocused his binoculars back along the way from which the Soviets

had come. He could see no end to the convoy.

The wind was gusting. The snow whirled around him like dust devils. Crawling back toward the small

cave in the shelter of overhanging rocks under which his seven remaining men huddled, Ahmed's mind

raced. Rourke who had taught him more than he had ever learned from anyone else about fighting and

survival, had always repeated one admonition-to keep his head; regardless of the task, to do what

you knew was the right thing in the right way.

"What," Ahmed asked himself, "is the right way of this?" Against the thousands of troops pouring

along the road, down from Afghanistan, what could eight men hope to accomplish? He found himself

shaking his head as, shivering with the cold and dampness now, he crawled under the lip of the low

rock outcropping and into the small cave beside his men. "What do we do, Corporal?"

It hardly mattered to Ahmed which of his men had asked the question-they all had the question in

their minds. He said nothing for a moment-Rourke had been like that. The American had never talked

just to talk. He had said little, in fact. But what the American had said when he did speak was

always worth remembering.

Slowly, Ahmed formulated the possible actions he could take. "There are thousands of Soviet troops

coming down from the Khyber Pass-you have all seen this. We are eight men only. We cannot stop

them. But if we withdraw and simply let them proceed, we will be failing our responsibilities as

Pakistanis-as men. If we can do something that delays their invasion of our country by even so

much as a single moment, we will have done something to help our people. We will have struck a

blow. If we stay here, my friends, we will be safe, at least for the moment. If we fight-and we

may achieve nothing-we will most surely die. I cannot make the decision for you. But I...I will

fight."

Ahmed leaned back against the cold rock of the cave wall and took a cigarette from his tunic. His

wife had been telling him that smoking so was bad for him, and he had promised her to try to stop.

Now, he had passed a sentence of death on himself. The smoking could no longer hurt him. It almost

made him laugh. As he sucked the smoke deep into his lungs, he took a photograph, plastic covered,

from his wallet. It almost made him cry.

He stared at the face of his wife, the smile in the eyes of the baby girl she had given him less

than a year before. He stared at the photo as if somehow by looking at the picture he was

communicating his thoughts to them. "I love you," he shouted but in silence. Not caring what his

men saw, he touched his lips to the photo, then replaced it in his wallet.

The cigarette, burnt down to a tiny, glowing butt, became the focus of his attention. Staring at

it, he said to his men, his voice cold like his feet, his hands, his back, "Who goes with me to

fight?"

Ahmed stared into their faces. One by one, each nodded or gestured with a hand. Already, some of

them were looking to their weapons.

"Come then," he said.

"Wait!" It was the young private who had spoken when Ahmed had first returned to the cave. "We

should pray before we die."

Ahmed nodded, and the young private began. Ahmed's eyes flickered from one face to the other as

each made his own peace. And then the prayer was over. Saying nothing, Ahmed started from the

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cave. The others followed him back into the swirling snow, the darkness, the wind and the cold.

They moved along the rim of the gorge. In less than an hour of numbing temperature and chill wind,

exhaustion and total silence, they cut the road and reached a low rock ledge. Following it down,

toward the roadside, Ahmed guessed that they were ten minutes ahead of the lead Soviet truck and

the motorcycles just in front of it.

As they reached the road surface, Ahmed smiled-there were no tracks in the snow. The snow-he

looked above him toward the clouded sky, watching the swirling mass of white coming down-was a

blessing from Allah. The Russians could not use their helicopters or fighter planes this night.

He stopped by the side of the road and called his men to a halt. "We must go down the road along

the side here. In that way, they will not see our tracks. Come." In single file, at some times

climbing back up into the rocks, they walked along the roadside, going for perhaps a mile, before

they halted once more.

"You four," he said, gesturing with his numbing left hand, "will stay here. The rest of us will

move further down, then cross the road and retrace our steps along the opposite side. When the

Russians come, open fire on the motorcycles with your submachine guns. Each grenadier will open

fire on the nearest truck. The grenadier with me will use his last rounds on the outcroppings of

rock above us here. If we can block the road with a rock slide, we will delay the Russians even

more. You are good men," Ahmed said finally, then turned and started along the edge of the road.

With his three-man unit, he moved on several hundred yards, then hurriedly crossed the road.

Doubling back took longer than he had planned; there was little ground between the road and the

yawning chasms below. At times he and his men were forced to crawl on their hands and knees

through the snow to avoid slipping and failing to their deaths.

They finally stopped, parallel to the other four men, and just opposite them on the protected side

of the road. Ahmed checked his watch. As if to confirm that the watch was keeping accurate time,

he heard the rumbling of the trucks. Ahmed directed his men to conceal themselves on the edge of

the road, behind the slight protection of a small spit of rock jutting out over the void.

Except for the rumbling of the trucks, all else was silence. The snowfall heightened the noise of

the trucks. Perhaps the convoy was not so near, he thought. Ahmed glanced over the rock behind

which he hid. He could see the headlamps of the slow-moving motorcycles, snow swirling in the

probing fingers of light as they wove through the darkness. Ahmed had ridden a motorcycle many

times, and for an instant was touched with compassion for the Russians aboard them. The road was

icy now, and uneven to begin with. Maneuvering the cycles on such a night, mere inches at times

from a thousand-foot drop, would be constant terror.

Ahmed could see the first of the motorcycles clearly now. One man riding, one man in the sidecar,

their clothes covered with snow. He watched as the lead cyclist momentarily freed his heavily

gloved fingers from the handlebars of the machine and brushed at the goggles covering his eyes.

Ahmed, bracing the H-K submachine gun against his shoulder, screamed, "Open fire!"

With his first burst, he shot the man riding in the sidecar rather than the cyclist.

The H-K 69's were already belching their 40mm high-explosive charges. The first truck was less

than a hundred yards away. As the grenade hit, the truck gushed into flame. Soviet troops, their

uniforms afire, poured from the back of the vehicle. They fired at the flame-covered troops from

each side of the road, gunning them down.

Another truck exploded a moment later, flames from the fireball licking out in the high wind,

catching the tarp covering of the center truck. It, too, burst into flames.

Ahmed threw down his submachine gun, the weapon empty, his last magazine shot out. He snatched at

the 9-mm pistol on his belt, shot out the first magazine, then re-loaded and picked off more of

the Russians as they scattered from their burning vehicles.

The ground below him shook, and Ahmed fell back, the pistol, only half empty, flying from his

hands. Looking up-his right eye was blurred-he saw the Soviet tank pushing the burning trucks out

of its way as it thundered down the road. He started shouting to the grenadier-but the man had

already fired. The grenade bounced against the tank's armor and exploded. The Soviet giant was

unaffected. "Russian armor," he muttered to himself. "The rocks"' he shouted to his grenadier.

As the grenadier started firing at the rock outcropping on the opposite side of the road, Ahmed

reached into his left pocket, his frostbitten fingers touching the butt of the flare pistol which

Rourke, had given him. Stiffly, he crammed a cartridge into the chamber and set it to fire.

The rocks across the road were already crumbling under the impact of the grenades. Huge boulders

crashed down and blocked the road bed.

The ground shook again, and Ahmed's ears rang. He bounced skyward and came down hard against the

road surface. He twisted his head to see with his good eye-the pain almost made him pass out. The

grenadier was gone-nowhere to be seen. Ahmed started to cough; thoughts of his wife and daughter

merged with the terror of death that was sweeping over him. He looked up. A Soviet soldier was

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standing above him, a submachine gun in his raw, bare hands.

Ahmed raised Rourke's flare pistol and pulled the trigger just as the first of the Soviet

trooper's bullets cut through him.

Ahmed wanted to die with his eyes closed, but he stared sightlessly up at the failing snow.

Chapter Three

"Mr. Ambassador, wake up sir, please!"

Stromberg rolled over. The weak-bulbed bedside lamp was on. He closed his eyes against the dim

light. "What the hell are you doing here at-" Stromberg glanced at the watch on his nightstand-"at

three in the morning? My God, man! Where's Mrs. Stromberg?"

"I knocked and she let me in, sir. When I sort of told her what was going on, she said to wake you

myself-she was going to make some coffee for you. I said I could get someone from the staff, but-"

"Never mind that, Hensley! What the hell are you waking me up for, to begin with? You know I've

got that trade conference tomorrow morning at nine-this morning!" Stromberg yawned, found his

glasses and put them on, at the same time running his spatulate fingers through his thinning gray

hair.

"Sir, it's an eyes-only message. You're going to have to decode it. It's direct from the

president, not the secretary. But it's signed by him too, sir."

"Oh, hell," Stromberg groaned. "Probably forgot to send somebody an anniversary card or

something."

"But, sir," the young cipher clerk insisted, "the code is Maximum Priority. You've got to read it

now."

"Hensley," Stromberg said, trying to roll over between his blankets, then pushing himself into a

sitting position. "You've got to learn one thing, young man. Nothing in the State Department ever

happens that won't wait until morning. Well, I shouldn't say that," he added as he started to come

awake. "There's only one reason they'd send a message like that, and that's imposs-" He reached

over to the bedside table and grabbed a cigarette from a small jade box. Hensley lurched forward

and lit it. "There's only one thing, as I said that-" He stared at the message. "Good God!

Hensley, get my robe!"

Stromberg was halfway to the door before Hensley could intercept him, helping him on with his robe

as the ambassador fumbled with the doorknob, then threw open the door to his private office.

Inside, Stromberg took the Andrew Wyeth painting from the wall behind his desk, then felt along

the joint of the wall paneling. A piece of the paneling slid away, revealing a small wall safe.

"Sir," Hensley said. Then, clearing his throat, repeated himself, "Sir!"

"What is it, man?"

"I shouldn't be here when you go into that safe, sir-that's against security-"

"The hell with security, Hensley," Stromberg said.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in!" Stromberg half-shouted.

"Coffee, darling-hot." Mrs. Stromberg was young-Stromberg couldn't help but be reminded of that as

she entered the room. Hensley stared at her. Her robe was more revealing than Stromberg would have

liked.

She started to leave the room, and Stromberg said, "No. Wait here."

He had the safe open, then sat down at his desk. Looking at Hensley, he said, "Let's see that

message again."

"Here, sir," Hensley said. "Should I go now?"

"No-wait. Let's see what this sucker-sorry dear," he said absently to his wife, then, "Let's see

what this is all about."

Stromberg's wife stood beside him, lighting another cigarette, then putting it between his lips as

he worked at the tiny, gray canvas-bound code book. Stromberg could taste her lipstick on the

cigarette filter.

He stopped halfway through the message. "Hensley, get the embassy security chief up here, pronto.

You come back, too. On the way, go down to the code room and get Washington to retransmit this, to

be sure. Verify that they haven't changed Sigma 9, RB 18 since the last time my book was updated."

"Should I say that, sir, I mean en clair?"

"Yes, Hensley. They can always change the code later." And as Hensley left the room, Stromberg

muttered, "If there is a later-"

After several minutes he looked up from his desk, stared across the room and saw his wife sitting

in the chair opposite his desk, smoking one of his cigarettes. She only smoked his cigarettes,

never bought any of her own because she smoked so seldom. He had often wished he could control

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smoking the way she did-half a pack or a pack one day, nothing for several weeks, then a single

cigarette. She had will power.

Stromberg looked across the message in his hands, saying, "I'll read this to you, Jane. If it's an

error, it doesn't make any difference. We'll know that in a minute. If it's true-" he shrugged-

"doesn't make much difference, either."

"Security will be miffed with you, George," she warned, smiling.

"Piss on security," he grunted. "Here-listen. 'Instruct you to advise Soviet Premier, formally, in

person, following. Ongoing Soviet invasion of Pakistan begun zero eight forty-five Washington time

must be halted immediately. Troops must be withdrawn to Afghani border. United States views Soviet

aggression in Pakistan as gross violation of Geneva Accords and threat to United States security.

STOP. Severe international repercussions will result. The possibility of United States and other

NATO power armed intervention not ruled out. Word it tactfully but strongly, George. End it.'"

"My God," the woman whispered.

"It's signed by the president, Jane."

"Do you want me to pretend to be a secretary and call the premier for you?"

"What?" Stromberg said. "Oh, yeah-please. Good idea."

He stood and walked to the window, staring out onto the embassy grounds below. "This could mean a

world war, Jane," he whispered. His breath clouded the window pane.

"I know, George." He heard her answer over the clicking of the telephone dial.

"No-wait," he said suddenly. "Hensley hasn't verified the Sigma 9, RB 18 code yet." But he knew

the wait was a waste of time. The message was correct.

Chapter Four

The tiny alcove in the antechambers of the premier's office was oppressive Its cold, almost

sterile stone seemed to close in on George Stromberg as he waited, pacing and smoking, looking for

an ashtray.

He turned, hearing the premier's young male secretary re-enter the room.

"The premier will see you now, Ambassador Stromberg."

"Thank you." Stromberg followed the secretary down the hallway, past the premier's formal office,

then into another carpeted hall. They stopped before a small dark wooden door. The secretary

knocked, then, without waiting for a reply opened the door and stepped aside for Stromberg to

enter.

Stromberg waited until the secretary had gone to say anything-the premier rarely advertised the

fact that he spoke excellent English.

"Mr. Stromberg, what an unexpected pleasure." Behind the desk, its green blotter bleached in

yellow-tinged light, sat the premier.

"Good evening, sir," Stromberg said perfunctorily, then approached the desk. He could see only the

bottom half of the premier's face, the stubble showing that the man had not bothered shaving for

Stromberg's unexpected visit.

But was it unexpected, Stromberg wondered? If he had learned anything in three years of

representing U.S. interests in Moscow, it was that every Russian politician was a consummate

actor, and the premier was perhaps the best of all. "Sit down, please, Mr. Stromberg. You must be

tired."

"I am, sir," Stromberg said, sitting in the worn leather chair opposite the desk.

The yellow circle of light from the old gooseneck lamp on the premier's desk left the man's eyes

in shadow. Stromberg was unable to read his face

"And why have you come, Mr. Stromberg? An urgent message from your government?"

"I see no reason why we should mince words, sir," Stromberg said.

The premier, Stromberg decided, knew him well.

The long, bony fingers of his left hand pushed a small glass ashtray into the pool of light and

toward Stromberg. "Feel free to smoke, if you choose. "

"Thank you, sir," Stromberg said, then fumbled out his cigarettes and the Dunhill lighter which

Jane had given him on his last birthday. Suddenly, Stromberg felt afraid. Had it been his last

birthday, hers, everyone's?

"Mr. Stromberg, since we are speaking plainly, I assume your president wishes to convey some

message about our recent decision to protect the internal security of the people of Pakistan. And

how is your president, by the way? I was, in all honesty, expecting a call from him directly.

But...I see this is not the case. Would that we could talk person-to-person as people think we

do." He chuckled. Stromberg watched the premier's mouth in the light. The lips set into a tight

half-smile.

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"A formal note signed by the president will arrive by courier later in the morning. However, the

president wishes me to convey his best personal wishes, and that he is troubled by what he can

only interpret as an act of aggression-not only against the autonomous government of the people of

Pakistan, but against our mutual interest of world peace. "

"It depends, Mr. Stromberg," the premier said. A match flashed in the darkness near his heavy

brow, then a cloud of cigar smoke filtered into the light of the gooseneck lamp. "It depends upon

how one interprets things. We are preserving peace."

"Mr. Premier," Stromberg said, clearing his throat, "you said we were speaking frankly. May I?"

"Certainly, Stromberg. We are old friendly adversaries. I sent your daughter a fur ski jacket for

her eleventh birthday, remember?"

"Yes, sir-she still wears it often. In fact, she wanted me to thank you personally for the

porcelain doll you sent."

"I mean no harm to you," the premier whispered, "nor to your wife and daughter, Stromberg. So tell

me-the truth."

"Sir," Stromberg said, leaning forward in his chair, desperately trying to glimpse the premier's

eyes. "My president's message was that if Soviet forces are not withdrawn from Pakistan to beyond

the border with Afghanistan, there could be severe international repercussions, possible military

intervention in Pakistan by U.S. and NATO forces."

"And you feel, Stromberg," the premier said, his voice tired-sounding, "that your president is

talking about what you would call World War Three, no?"

"Sir, the president's message said nothing of global war."

"But total war was between the lines, was it not?"

Stromberg said nothing, and the premier went on. "I will speak frankly with you. It is hard, your

not being Russian to understand us. We think in two different languages. In two different ways.

You cannot think in the manner that we do, and we cannot think as you do. I appreciate your trying

to learn our language. We see our movement into Pakistan as the only way to make our posture in

Afghanistan tenable."

"As you, sir, must believe me," Stromberg said, lighting another cigarette, "when I tell you that

a military response is our only tenable reply to your move."

"I know this, and for this reason I am sitting here with you at an unholy hour! I do not want a

war with the United States. I have never wished this. But you must believe what I am about to tell

you. In some ways it is highly secret, but you must know it if you are to prevent a war."

"The American press," the premier went on, "has called Afghanistan a Soviet Viet Nam. It is. But

we cannot afford to withdraw from Afghanistan. The United States does not border Viet Nam-it is

oceans and thousands of kilometers away. We do border Afghanistan. Some of our most important

research facilities are near it. Today, the Moslem populations of our own territories grow

restless. Were something the likes of which your government allowed to transpire in Iran to have

taken place in Afghanistan, it could have spread into our borders. Guns and propaganda and

fighting men are entering Afghanistan through Pakistan. This must stop. No one else in the world

has decided to stop it, so we must."

"But, sir, the entry into Afghanistan is still the subject-"

"Of much debate, yes I know. I am tired of debate. Russian soldiers are dying in Afghanistan.

Debate does not bring them back to life! If we were to pull out of Afghanistan, the Moslem peoples

in the Soviet Union would view this as a sign of weakness and we might well have open revolt. For

a variety of reasons, this could not be tolerated. You know this. It is common knowledge that our

primary particle beam weapon research facilities are in an area close to Afghanistan and peopled

largely by Moslems. We are advanced-vastly. No-the word is superior. We are superior to you in

this field. We are-and you must believe this-at the stage where our particle beam weapons can be

deployed terrestrially. I am not talking about laser-equipped hunter-killer satellites at thirty

thousand meters overhead or some such. I am talking about cannon-like particle beam weapons which

can destroy any American missiles or bombs before they can deliver their weapons and warheads. We

are militarily superior."

"We are aware of Soviet strides in particle beam weaponry," Stromberg said. "The United States has

made similar strides, in some instances along parallel lines."

"We know what you have and what you don't have," the premier said, almost bored. "Ask anyone who

has the better of intelligence services. We do. The world knows this. And you must now believe me.

This is why we have for so long been sincerely interested in strategic arms limitation talks-to

limit nuclear weapons. We can survive with what we have, and still be victorious if need be. But I

am not saying this as a threat."

"Then why are you telling me this, sir?"

"It is simple," the premier answered slowly. "We do not wish the destruction of the world. There.

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That is something your president can understand, something on which we are both agreed. We will

not withdraw our troops from Pakistan until significant border regions of that nation are totally

under Soviet control. We will then leave a residual peacekeeping force and conclude prosecution of

the matter in Afghanistan. Within perhaps a few months, at most a few years, Soviet troops will be

withdrawn from Pakistan. This, I pledge. But not before." He drummed his right fist down hard on

the desk.

Stromberg watched the hand. His own father had been a roofer before forming his own construction

business and rising in society. Stromberg remembered his father's hands-the huge knuckles. The

premier had been a roofer as a young man-had Stromberg not already known that, the massive, raw-

boned knuckles would have told him. "The United States certainly does not wish a war with the

Soviet Union or any other power, yet we must again insist on the sovereignty of Pakistan."

"Mr. Stromberg," the premier said, "you are an ambassador-you are not paid to say what you think.

I am a premier-I am paid to say what I think." He paused. Then: "I do not think the United States

will risk a world war over Pakistan. You are bluffing-that is the expression, yes?"

Stromberg nodded.

"Bluffing, then. You have in the past-a great deal. You will again. We will sometimes acquiesce to

your bluffing simply to avoid protracted difficulties. But this time, the Soviet Union will not

back down. If the president chooses to make his ultimatum public, he will only lose face in the

world community. NATO will not back you-of this, I am sure. The Warsaw Pact Nations can easily

defeat even the most innovative NATO strategy in Europe. You are hopelessly outnumbered, my

friend. If your president is foolish enough to begin a war with us, he will not win. He will be

remembered as the destroyer of the United States, not its avenging savior. Perhaps he will be

remembered as the destroyer of the world-if there is anyone left to remember him."

"You would risk that, Mr. Premier?" Stromberg said, incredulous.

"I speak of the welfare of my nation. A man must be willing to risk all for a cause he feels is

just. Do you think this is only the prerogative of the West, my friend Stromberg? If you do, then

you understand us less than I had thought."

"What can-" Stromberg stammered.

"Go and tell these things to your president, convince him of my sincerity and my earnest wish for

peace. Do not trouble yourself to return here with the formal note. Your assistants can handle

that. My formal reply shall be ready for return to your president by then. Now go." Stromberg

started to stand up, but then the premier said, "A bit of advice to you. I like to think that as

well as possible we have become something of friends over these three years since your posting

here. Stay in the Soviet Union-you will be safe. At least, if you cannot, keep your wife and

daughter safe here. I will guard them as if they were my family. Moscow is impervious to attack.

It will be-in that eventuality-the safest place on earth for them."

Stromberg looked into the darkness as he stood before the premier's desk. "I used to have

nightmares about something like this."

The premier whispered, so softly that the American ambassador could barely make out the words: "I

still do."

Chapter Five

Sarah Rourke rolled over and opened her eyes, leaned toward the bedside lamp, and squinted as she

pulled the chain for the light. Looking away from the glare as much as she could, she studied the

digital alarm clock beside the bed-Michael would be late for kindergarten. She felt behind the

clock. The alarm had been pushed off.

She sat bolt upright in bed, pushing her shoulder-length brown hair back from her face. She had

watched the network news the previous evening, then had a hard time getting to sleep afterward. As

she pulled away the covers and edged her feet out of the bed, she wondered if John had made it out

of Pakistan before the Russians had entered the country. Gingerly, she tested the rug with her

toes until she found her slippers, then slipped her feet into them and stood up.

Her pale blue nightgown brushed at her ankles as she reached for the robe on the chair beside the

bed and slipped it on.

"Michael"' she called from her door, "get up for school. Mommy overslept. Come on. You too, Ann,"

she called to their four-year-old daughter.

"I'll get Ann, Mom," Michael shouted back.

"All right. I'll make breakfast. You can eat at school today. No time for me to make your lunch."

She glanced into Michael's room first. His was across the hall from her own. And then into Ann's

room before she started toward the head of the stairs.

She stopped. She'd thought she smelled cigar smoke, but supposed it was only her imagination-

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despite herself she'd been thinking of John all night. But as she stood there at the head of the

stairs, she could smell it now quite distinctly. She rubbed her eyes and peered over the banister

into the living room below. Someone was in the easy chair by the fireplace-and there was a fire

going.

Over the mantel, the brass brackets for the shotgun which John had insisted she keep there were

empty. "My God," she started to say, her hazel eyes staring straight at the back of the head that

was half visible above the chair's headrest.

"You can relax, Sarah."

He stood and looked up at her, the shotgun and an old rag in his hands. It was John, and for an

instant she wasn't sure she was glad. If it had been a prowler, she would have known how to react.

But with her husband, she no longer did.

"Daddy!" It was Michael screaming and running past her, taking the steps down two at a time; then

Ann was racing past her too, "Daddy! Daddy!"

Sarah Rourke turned and walked back down the hallway. He'd been cleaning the shotgun. His

obsession, she realized, with guns and death and violence hadn't gone away. Her stomach was

churning. She stumbled into the bathroom. Obsession. She looked into the mirror, studied her face

a moment, touched her right hand to her hair, realizing that she was like him-obsessed.

John Rourke pulled his wife's '78 Ford wagon to a halt on the gravel driveway in front of the

house. He could see Sarah waiting for him in the doorway-blue jeans with a few smears of paint on

them, a T-shirt with one of his own plaid flannel shirts over it. Her hair was loose at her

shoulders, a cup of coffee steamed in her hands, and her hazel eyes stared over it at him.

"Well," he began, across the driveway from her, "I got the kids to school-they weren't too late."

"Have to kill anybody along the way, John?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked

back inside the house.

As Rourke pulled his leather jacket shut against the cold, he felt the stainless Detonics .45 in

his hip pocket. He'd left its mate and double shoulder rig in the house, and realized that she'd

seen it.

"Shit," he muttered to himself, then walked across the gravel and up the three steps and onto the

long riverboat front porch, then into the high-ceilinged old house. "Where are you?" he half-

shouted.

"In the kitchen-making your breakfast," Sarah called back. He tossed his jacket on the coat tree

and walked the length of the hallway to the end, then turned into the kitchen.

"You finished stripping the wainscoting? It looks good that way," Rourke said, sitting down in

front of the steaming mug of coffee that waited for him on the trestle table.

"It was a lot of work," she said, still facing away from him, standing by the electric stove. "The

woodwork, I mean," she added, her voice low.

"How are the kids?" he said.

"Didn't you ask them?" She turned toward him and put a plate before him-a small steak, two eggs,

hash brown potatoes and toast.

"I didn't expect this," he said.

"Didn't you ask them-the children?" she repeated.

"Yeah," he said, a forkful of egg and potato poised in front of his mouth. "I asked them-all they

said was they missed me. Said you missed me too," he added.

"Well-they do. I do, but that doesn't change anything." Sipping at her coffee, she said, "I was

worried you hadn't gotten out of Pakistan in time. The Russians and everything. I thought you were

supposed to be in Canada for that seminar on-what is it?"

"Hyperthermia," Rourke said. "Field recognition and treatment of hyperthermia-a lot of interest in

that these days."

"Why didn't you become a doctor after medical school? You're crazy."

"Dammit, Sarah," Rourke said.

"Well, why didn't you? You went to college, took Pre-Med, went to medical school, then you quit

and went into the CIA. You're an idiot."

Rourke threw his fork down on the plate, then stood and walked to the window looking out onto the

enclosed back porch. "What? You want the same argument we had last time?"

"No," she said quietly. "I just want different answers."

"I like what I'm doing."

"Killing people?"

Rourke turned and glared at her, realizing he still had the gun in his pocket. Weighing it in his

hand a moment, he set it on top of the refrigerator and sat down again.

"Answer me. Do you really enjoy violence?"

Biting down hard on a piece of toast, he said quietly, "I'll tell you one more time. I enjoy

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