Ahern, Jerry - Total War

"You mean you'll be killed, and if I don't stay with you, I'll have a better chance of staying alive."

"Yeah, pretty much. Goes back to what we talked about last night. That you opt for life. Anything else is irrational, Mrs. Richards. You don't strike me as an irrational person. And I'd bet that your husband wasn't the kind of guy who'd want you to give up on life."

Rourke brought the plane into another banking maneuver to line up for his final approach. He glanced at Mrs. Richards. She said, "Are you a psychiatrist too, Mr. Rourke?"

"Only the bargain-basement kind," Rourke said, smiling broadly.

"That's the first time I've seen you smile." She rose and started back toward the forward passenger cabin, then turned to him and said, "I hope you make it-and that your wife and children made it too." She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.

Quietly, Rourke said, "Thank you, Mrs. Richards."

As soon as Rourke heard the cockpit cabin door close, he settled himself back in the captain's seat and tightened the lap and shoulder restraints. He fished in the breast pocket of his jacket for his sunglasses to fight the glare from the sand below him. Slowly, he throttled back, stepping down the 747's altitude. The plane was close to the ground now. It raced away beneath the nose of the big jet; it was as if the air speed were a hundred times faster than the readout on the instrument panel. He dropped the landing gear, and the green light indicating that it was locked in place flashed on. He throttled back more. The starboard engines nearly stalled, but he held the speed, skimming less than five hundred feet above the scrub-dotted desert floor.

The 747's nose started to drop, and he brought it up.

The starboard engines almost stalled again, and the altimeter needle started dropping. He punched the PA button and talked into the small microphone attached to the radio headset. "This is Rourke-brace yourselves for impact!"

He tried bringing the nose up, throttled back almost all the way, and let the engines nearly die as the landing gear touched ground, bounced away, and touched again. He throttled forward slightly, using the engine compression to slow the plane as it raced, skipping on the landing gear, across the desert floor. His mike was still open, and he rasped, "We're down but not stopped. Stay in the crash position!"

The plane wasn't slowing as much as he wanted. Rourke stared ahead. The ground dropped off less than a mile away, and he didn't know what was beyond it. He worked the starboard flaps, and the plane started to turn. Mentally, he made the choice. He cut the engines and decided to burn out the brakes. He brought the flaps on both wings all the way up. The plane was starting to slow down, but in front of him was a stand of tall pines. "We're gonna hit," he rasped into the microphone which was inches from his lips. His face was drawn into a tight mask, his lips pulled back, his shoulders set. The brakes held for a moment, then, suddenly the plane lurched, and there was no more pressure.

Rourke could see beyond the stand of pines now. A rock face rose up from the desert floor. Already, the nose of the cockpit was cutting into the trees. He threw his arms up in front of his face and doubled forward. He couldn't see, but the sound was like a thousand chain saws, the pines crashing down on the plane.

The plane lurched and suddenly came to a complete stop. He looked up. The windshields were cracked, shattered, but still holding up. Trees were all around him-pine branches virtually covered the front of the fuselage. He sat for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he fumbled for the microphone.

"This is Rourke. We're down. Now get the hell out of the plane, but don't panic. Everything seems fine." He tossed the headset down, then tore open the seat and shoulder belts and pushed out of the captain's seat.

When he had thrown open the door, he stopped. The portside of the forward cabin's fuselage was almost completely ripped away. A large tree jutted into the cabin, like a can opener. People were screaming, and he knew that others were trapped in the wreckage. As he started back to help them, something on the floor caught his eye. He looked at it for a moment, then turned away and leaned against the bulkhead. It was the severed head of Mrs. Richards.

Chapter Twenty-six

"We'll be together soon," was all the president could say as his wife and children left his office in the Mt. Lincoln complex. He had tried to tell his wife, without letting his children know. But he couldn't find the words. Bobby's face and his wife's were the last faces he saw, as his family turned down the corridor. Bobby was still holding the spaceship. The president turned to Paul Dorian who was standing in the corridor.

"They've landed?"

"Only in token numbers, Mr. President-and they're pushing the timing on the neutron radiation a little at that. Those cities-like Chicago-are still hot."

"Paul, what about the Eden Project. Did it get off?"

"Yes," Dorian said, his eyes downcast. "Without a hitch, sir."

"Then maybe there is some hope after all. Send in the chief of my Secret Service detail."

"Mr. President, you can't do this."

"I have to-if there's going to be any United States left. It's not a country, a land-mass, Paul. I finally see that. The United States is an idea. And if I don't do this, the idea may well die. I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

The president took the outstretched hand of Paul Dorian, then walked back into his office and sat on the couch. In a moment, the chief of his Secret Service detail, Mike Clemmer, came through the door. "Mike, I've got a favor to ask."

"Anything, Mr. President," Clemmer said, entering the room. "Take this." He handed Clemmer an envelope with the presidential seal in the upper left corner. "And now, give me your revolver."

Clemmer started to reach under his windbreaker, then stopped.

"That's an order, Mike. There are two letters in the envelope. One is to my wife, the other is to the American people. Thurston Potter knows what to do with them. This is my last order, Mike. Give me your gun."

Clemmer wiped his palms on the sides of his trouser legs and reached under his jacket to his right hip. The president watched as he produced a short-barreled, shiny revolver. "I don't know much about guns, Mike. Always wanted to try them, but never had the time. Does yours have a safety catch?"

"No, sir. Revolvers don't. Mr. President, you can't. I can't let you."

"You've got to, Mike. If I stay alive, the Russians will find me and use me. If I die, there will be no government left to capitulate, and free Americans will go on fighting until there is a government again-another elected government that will throw the Soviets out. If they get me, it's all over for all of us."

"But Mr. President-they'll never get into Mt. Lincoln."

"You know that's not true," the president said. "And if we're totally cut off, they've got a capitulation anyway. But if the American people know I'm gone, then the Soviets-no matter what they do-can't lie to the American people that the United States has surrendered. It's the only way. Now, give me the gun."

The president looked away from Mike Clemmer and extended his right hand, lighting a cigarette with his left.

He felt the heavy steel object in his hand, then heard the footsteps across the carpet. When he looked up, Mike Clemmer was gone. The president looked into the empty hallway through his open door.

The president of the United States dragged heavily on the cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs. He glanced at the picture of his wife and children on the coffee table in front of him, then looked straight into the stubby muzzle of the revolver. He touched the first finger of his right hand to the trigger...