Total War

Chapter Fifteen

"Can't your driver make this thing move any faster?" Rourke said, leaning forward in the seat, the muscles in his face and neck taut, his eyes set.

"You've lived on the Atlantic Seaboard too long, John. You're a southerner."

"What? Major?" Rourke interrupted. "Oh, you mean the snow? How it ties things up?" Then, leaning back into the passenger seat beside the RCMP inspector, Rourke sighed, his voice almost a whisper. "Yeah, maybe you're right. How far are we from the airport?"

Rourke leaned forward, rapping on the glass that separated him from the driver. The dark-suited young man slid the panel open with his right hand, without once taking his eyes off the swirling snow and knotted, unmoving traffic along the Toronto airport feeder. "Sir?"

"Masterson, what's your guess on time and distance to the terminal?" Rourke asked in his accustomed softspoken manner.

"Time, sir?" the chauffeur asked. "At least an hour and a half. And the terminal is right out there, sir. Less than a mile away."

Rourke snapped his next question. "Masterson, what's that open area like? I mean, would it be heavily drifted? How high if it is?"

"Shouldn't say more than a foot at the greatest, Mr. Rourke. I run out here quite a bit for gentlemen such as yourself. Never took particular notice of the ground, but it should be pretty level-grassy in the summer time."

"Thanks," Rourke muttered, then leaned back again.

"You're not-" the major started.

"Why not?"

"Well-the snow! The cold out there-you want to get to the flight you're scheduled for in one piece, and-"

"I want to get home. That's my big concern right now and sitting here for another hour or more isn't going to do than-it won't get me home," he added. "Now, maybe my flight can't get off the ground in this storm-I don't know. But we both listened to that radio. A couple minutes ago we both heard about those two submarines colliding. What if that wasn't a collision?" he asked. "What if the reports were lies? What if those were missile exchanges that caused the explosion under the icepack? What about that ultimatum by India, and that unconfirmed report that China plans to side with us against the Soviets?"

"But, surely-"

Rourke, leaning into the flame of his cigarette lighter and firing up a cigar, squinted into the smoke and looked at the RCMP inspector. "Major, I've got a wife. I've got a son and a daughter. I've got a survival retreat that just might save their lives if we get into a world war. Now, my wife Sarah doesn't know how to find the place. I've checked it all very carefully." Rourke's voice was low, almost menacing. He stared at the major. "If the Russians go after big targets, the section of northeast Georgia where my farm is should be safe from direct hits. Residual fallout should be light there. You can check air flow charts yourself and confirm that. But I'm still gonna have to get them out of there pretty fast, or else it'll all be no good." Rourke pushed the power button on the window and looked outside, then turned back to look at the man beside him. "I'm no good to anyone just sitting here. If I were you," Rourke said, pointing to the red flasher on the dashboard, "I'd have Masterson there flick on that little Mars light you've got, turn this thing around, grab your families, and get the hell out of the urban area. You might be sitting smack-dab in the middle of a ten-mile radius of ground zero right now."

The car had come to a complete stop in the snow and traffic.

Rourke opened the door of the Mercedes sedan and stepped out, shouldering into his down parka. "Trunk unlocked?"

"Corporal Masterson, help Mr. Rourke," the major ordered.

As Rourke started to turn away, the major said, "You really think it's going to happen, John? War, I mean."

Rourke leaned into the car, pulled his right glove off and extended his hand. The major took it. "Yes," Rourke said. "I hope we'll see each other again sometime."

Rourke walked around to the trunk. Already-though no vehicles were moving in the traffic jam and heavy snow-motorists immediately behind them were honking, as if the trunk being opened and a man taking his luggage was somehow adding to the delay.

As Rourke leaned down for his aircraft aluminum gun cases, he heard a man's voice behind him. "Hey-what are you doin', Mac?"

Rourke turned around, looking up. The voice belonged to a man in a worn brown leather jacket. He was burly and bearded. A stocking cap was cocked on the back of his head.

"You talkin' to me?" Rourke asked, quietly.

"You're the only bloody fool standing around out here gettin' your grips from a damned Mercedes-yeah. I'm talkin' to you."

"Just wanted to be sure," Rourke said, his voice low and even as he set down his gun cases. Rourke's right hand flashed out then, his fist connecting with the side of the bigger man's lantern jaw. The blow was a quick, short jab, and Rourke followed it with a shortarm left into the man's midsection, then a quick right crossing into the jaw.

As the big man started to go down, Rourke caught him under the armpits and eased him into the snow. "Watch your head," he muttered.

Turning back to Masterson, Rourke took his two gun cases, the smaller, attache-sized one under his left arm, the longer case for the rifles in his left hand. Rourke extended his right hand to Masterson, saying, "Pardon the glove. Good luck, friend."

"And-and to you, sir. You're really going to walk over there, across that?"

"No," Rourke said, the corners of his mouth raising slightly, his lean facing cracking into a smile. "No, I figure that even with the luggage and all, I can still jog it over there-except when the snow gets deep in the drifts. Be see'n ya!"

Rourke boosted his large flight bag into his right hand and threaded his way across the next lane of traffic and onto the shoulder and over to the guard rail. There was-as best as he could make out with the snow cover-a sloping drop of about fifteen feet to the ground level below. He squinted against the glare of headlights and the blowing snow. Across the open space, he could make out the edge of a parking lot. Beyond it was what looked like a hotel, and beyond that, the nearest of the airport terminals. "A little over a mile," he muttered to himself. He lifted his flight bag over the guard rail and let it drop over the side. It slid over the snow. "Not too deep," he muttered again. The long gun case was next. His Colt semiautomatic collapsible stock sporter and the 7.62 mm SSG special rifle, both locked securely in its foam-padded interior.

The long gun case slid down almost like a toboggan, Rourke thought. "Should have ridden it down," he laughed to himself. He stepped over the rail. Losing his footing halfway down the gentle slope, he intentionally let himself fall backward, skidding to the bottom of the slope on his rear end. He stood and dusted the snow from his clothes. Then he looked back up to the level of the highway. He could see Masterson and the RCMP inspector standing at the guard rail.

Rourke made a long, exaggerated wave and, without waiting for them to return it, picked up his rifle case and his flight bag, and started out in a slow jog across the snow.

The snow was drifted heavily near the center of the open expanse as Rourke jogged on. The height of the drifts forced him to slow to a broad stride, a deliberate commando walk. At times, when the drifts were above his knees, he fought the snow, raising his feet high, placing them down slowly to test the footing. His trouser legs were soaked and plastered cold against his skin, but, mercifully no snow had entered his cowboy boots. As he passed the center of the field, the drifts got smaller. As he neared the edge of the snow, he spotted a high fence, snow piled on the other side, apparently from plowing. This separated the parking lot from the open field. It was easy going for him again, and he broke into a jog as he neared the fence.

The snowbank on the opposite side of the fence cushioned the impact for his baggage when he heaved the three cases over. He took a step back and jumped against the fence after he had tossed a snowball against it to be sure it wasn't electrified. Catching the toe of his boot in the chainlinks and holding on with his gloved fingers, Rourke pulled himself up to the top of the barrier and jumped over, coming down in the snow bank. Brushing himself off again, he gathered up his things and started across the parking lot. Climbing the fence had tired him, and now he heard the noise of a vehicle behind him. Turning, Rourke spotted a pickup truck with airport maintenance markings on the door. He stopped as the truck skidded to a halt beside him.

Rourke could see the driver leaning across the front seat and pushing open the passenger side door. "Need a lift? American, ain't you?"

"Yeah, I'm American," Rourke said, nodding. "But, no thanks-good night for a walk-terminal's not too far. Probably faster on foot. Thanks anyway.

"Suit yourself, mate," the driver said, nodding and muttering something Rourke didn't quite catch.

Rourke reached into his pocket, snatched a cigar, and lit it with his Zippo. Looking over the glowing tip and across the lot, he could see the entrance to the hotel-like building he'd spotted from the roadside. "Half a mile," he muttered to himself, picking up his flight bag and walking on.