The Nightmare begins

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Soviet forces had landed two of their helicopters on the plateau, the others still hovering overhead, their floodlights illuminating the rain-soaked ground in a white glare that Rourke was almost getting used to as he knelt in the mud, using the pressure of his right hand to stem the bleeding from the gunshot wounds in Rubenstein's abdomen.

The girl had ignored the Soviet commander's directive to stay beside the vehicles and approached the nearest helicopter, shouting something in Russian which Rourke had been unable to catch with all the noise and confusion. He could hear gunfire from the ground level below the plateau and assumed the paramils were making a run for it, trying to use the darkness to hide their retreat.

Rourke also assumed they were getting cut to pieces from the air.

The shirt Rourke was holding against Rubenstein's open wound was saturated with blood now and Rourke pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and placed it over the shirt to absorb more of the blood.

He looked down to Rubenstein's face—the younger man was pale, the circles under his eyes bluish in the harsh light. The pulse was weak and the breathing labored.

Rourke looked up as he heard boots sloshing across the mud toward him. It was Natalie, holding a Kalashnikov pattern assault rifle in her right hand, a Soviet officer and two enlisted men with her. She stopped, standing in front of Rourke where he knelt in the mud, holding Rubenstein. "John—I've identified myself to the commander—Captain Machenkov. I had to tell him both of you were my prisoners. But don't worry. I'll straighten everything out with Karamatsov. Paul will get the best medical care we can give him and you and Paul and I will be flown out of here in a few minutes to Galveston where we have a small base already operational. I know there's a field hospital there and between what you can do and our own doctors, I know Paul will be all right. Don't worry."

"What now?" Rourke said, looking up at her.

"I'm going to have to take your guns—the .45s. I told them you were my prisoners, but you have saved my life and because of the situation here on the ground I'd let you remain armed. It was the best thing I could think of—they don't speak English. This officer is a doctor."

Rourke glanced around the camp. Mentally and physically he shrugged, looking back up at Natalie, saying, "I can't move my right hand until we get a better bandage worked up for Paul—explain that to the doctor. If you need my guns now, you'll have to take them yourself."

"John—please don't try anything—I know you, remember. And I promised, everything will be all right. After Paul is well, you and Paul can leave— with your weapons and everything. I've even arranged for your motorcycles to be taken along."

"You really believe that?" Rourke said in a low whisper.

"Karamatsov is my husband, John—I really believe you'll go free. He'll do as I ask."

"Mrs. Karamatsov, huh? Any kids?"

"Don't be funny," she snapped. "No one knows about it—except for you, now."

With his left hand, Rourke opened his leather jacket, exposing one of the twin .45s under his arms. "Go ahead—without the right facilities, Paul's going to bleed to death. Go ahead—take them," and Rourke held open his coat. Natalie reached down, grasping one of his pistols, her face inches from his.

She whispered, "There wasn't any other way— believe me."

Rourke said nothing.