The End is Coming

Chapter Forty-one

The hospital that occupied the sales floor of Waukegan Outdoor Sportsman, and had almost since The Night of The War, was known to the So-viet authorities—General Varakov periodically sent teams of Soviet doctors into the hospital to help however they could, and what medical sup-plies—meager—could be spared were sent as well. The plans were simple—when Soviet patrols were in the area, or an inspection was due, or the medi-cal team was to be sent, the beds were spread out into the range area and the weapons and reloading equipment hidden in an underground area left from an old storm drain.

It was risky business, Rourke knew, the timing critical, a gap in information potentially fatal. If the underground storage area were discovered, or the equipment not gotten away in time, or the beds not spread out in time—a firing squad.

Even General Varakov would have no other choice, Rourke realized. And Maus was risking his entire operation now—he had provided Rourke with medical credentials, and Natalia as well, medical credentials that would serve as travel permits. And he had loaned them an automobile, the kind of loan Rourke knew Maus had realized would never be returned. Rourke’s false identity listed him as “Peter Mas-ters,” a dead Resistance fighter in reality, but on paper a hospital volunteer with little medical back-ground. To have listed Rourke as an M.D. would have been suicidal—all medical doctors were reg-istered with Soviet headquarters, Maus had said, and Natalia confirmed it. Natalia was listed as “Mary Ann Klein,” another volunteer. The travel request—Maus had signed it as ad-ministrator of the de facto hospital—indicated they were en route to the Soviet Mobile Surgical Unit stationed at Soldier’s Field Stadium to re-quest a fresh supply of hypodermic syringes. Maus had used the system before, for the actual pro-curement of medical supplies, and to cover covert operations of his Resistance command. Somewhat the statistician, Maus had predicted odds of three to one that the travel documents would get them through, at least as far as the sta-dium.

And medical emergency was the only even re-motely justified purpose for nighttime travel. They had passed the Belvedere Road checkpoint leaving Waukegan—no difficulties there, Rourke driving. They had passed two checkpoints along what had been the Illinois Tollway, no difficulties either. The checkpoint on the Edens Expressway had been something both Rourke and Natalia had sweated, Rourke watching her eyes as the Soviet officer in charge of the checkpoint had been sum-moned to examine their travel documents. But they had been allowed to move on their way. Their risk was doubly great—concealed in a hid-den compartment of what had been the gas tank, accessible by going through the firewall from the inside or outside of the trunk of the vintage Ford LTD, were their weapons and gear. Should these be discovered, it would mean instant death. To compensate for the Ford’s reduced gasoline tank, an auxiliary tank had been rigged partially under the rear seat—Rourke wouldn’t have wanted to have been in the car in case of high-speed impact, he had decided.

The checkpoint leaving the Edens and entering the Kennedy Expressway had been almost too simple. They had proceeded.

There was a long line of military vehicles ahead of them as they came within the boundaries of what had been the Chicago Loop, the downtown shopping and business district. As they drove, Na-talia had described to him what it had been like there after The Night of The War—wild dog packs which had come in from outside the neutron bomb area, roving gangs of thugs who lived like rats be-neath the once great department stores and in the abandoned subway tunnels. Soviet troops would chase after them, but for the most part—this ur-ban equivalent of Brigands would vanish before the soldiers could close with them. The urban Brigands were armed with everything from stolen

Soviet assault rifles to clubs, some of the bands re-sorting to the behavior of beasts, Natalia had told him.

She had not amplified.

They sat now, the engine running, the LTD ad-vancing a car length at a time toward the check-point. Natalia spoke. “This checkpoint is staffed by KGB—and the army too, but the main staffing is a KGB

unit.”

“You think they’ll recognize you.” It was a state-ment, not a question.

“I could only do so much—putting my hair up under this,” and Rourke looked at her as she ges-tured to the scarf covering her hair, “and these glasses—” Maus had given her the glasses of a dead woman who had expired at the hospital—the woman had been farsighted and Natalia had had trouble walking when she wore them to the car. It was the reason Rourke drove and had not shared the long run with her.

“And your face—it is known to many of the KGB.”

Rourke wore a hat borrowed from the supply of old clothing kept at the Resistance headquarters, an old fedora, gray, stained. It matched the over-coat he wore.

“What are you getting at?” Rourke finally asked her, beginning to worry the car might overheat—the engine was already stalling a little as he ad-vanced another car length toward the checkpoint. He had spent a good amount of time in Chicago before The Night of The War, learned the streets. The checkpoint was at the near side of the tunnel near Hubbard Street.

“I don’t know—but maybe we should make a break for it.”

Rourke looked around them, not answering Na-talia’s question. A troop truck flanked them on the left, an M-72 motorcycle/sidecar combination on the right. “Where do you suggest we go—up?”

“I wish that we could,” she answered, lighting a cigarette—she was nervous, he realized. Perhaps it was, in part, just the very fact of be-ing in Chicago, Soviet headquarters so near. KGB

everywhere. He said to her, “If they spot us at all, it won’t be until we reach the checkpoint gate—and if it happens there, we can make a break for it then. If we do, ditch those glasses so you can see and rip out the back seat so you can get to that panel inside the truck and get at the weapons.” And then Rourke smiled, looking at her with the scarf covering her hair and the tattered raincoat that all but obscured her figure. “And if we do make a break for it, get rid of that scarf and that coat—if we wind up dying, I wanna at least have something pretty to look at while I can still look.”

She smiled, then very quickly, as if someone might see, leaned across the front seat, across the space separating them, kissing him on the cheek.