Ahern, Jerry - The Quest

He scanned through the file to the skills section. There was a repeat of the medical background, the standard things one expected in an Intelligence agent, or former agent, dealing with radio, etc. He was qualified on helicopters, fixed-wing aircraft, military jets. Rourke’s Georgia driver’s license number appeared there—curiously, Varakov thought—the same as Rourke’s social security number. He was reportedly an expert marksman, but that was to be expected. Habitually carried .45ACP or .357 Magnum-caliber handguns.

Perfect—he’d liked the sound of the man when he’d spoken with him and realized that despite their political, ideological, and other differences, to Varakov’s thinking, they were much alike. Men of purpose, men with feeling, men who did what they must. Varakov had never liked Karamatsov who had no feeling, and when the surface was finally scratched, the insides were worse than those of a pig.

Natalia was his special child, Varakov scowled—and for hurting her, Karamatsov would simply and finally die. Varakov did not consider it revenge, and the justice of it was not something that bothered him either. It was just—but more to the point—it was something he wanted done. He sighed, not being a vindictive man, but wishing that circumstance did not preclude him pulling the trigger himself.

His desk phone rang.

“Varakov!” he snapped into the receiver. It was the radio room, his contact.

He waited, thinking about how to handle the man, waiting while the adjustments were made. This was the traitor in President Chambers’s closest group of advisors.

“Hello, yes, Varakov. So—at last. You, too, are a general of sorts I hear,” Varakov said, the thought slightly amusing him. He disliked traitors, and the more highly placed, however useful, the more intense the dislike.

“Yes, sir,” the very American, cowboyish voice answered noncommittally.

“Randan Soames, Commander of the Paramilitary forces of Texas, one of Samuel Chambers’s trusted confidants. A man who visited Russia twelve years ago, has been working for us ever since and has, before the war, handed us over numerous copies of secret files coming through your electronics components businesses. How nice to meet you,” Varakov said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand that you sexually molested a child—”

“Sir, please, I beg—”

“I, personally, would not have chosen blackmailing you into espionage. I would have shot you. You are worse than a savage, worse than an animal. I would have no compunction against leaking to your American friends who you are, what you have done for us and why. That is clear?” Varakov wanted to terminate the conversation as quickly as possible, feeling somehow dirty talking with the man even across perhaps several thousand miles. He wasn’t quite certain exactly how far Texas was from Chicago.

“But, General Varakov—”

“You will do exactly as I say—I am a man of honor and you are not—therefore, you are taking advantage of me and you have nothing to lose. I need the following. I understand this American terrorist Rourke is obsessed with locating his wife and children who were living in Georgia before the war. All indications would be that he has gone there. How can he be found—immediately?” “But, sir, I, ahh—”

“You will find him for me, tell me how he can be located precisely, and all will be as it was. If you do not, then all will be bad for you. I will hear from you in two hours. You would have more time had you contacted me sooner as requested.” “But, sir, I had to be so careful so no one—”

“I am not interested in these concerns, however genuine. Do your job—now!” Varakov hung up the receiver and checked his watch. He shut off the desk lamp and sat in the dark better to study the shadows of the bones from the central hall. He answered the telephone, not bothering with the light, and because of the darkness somehow he found himself speaking more softly that he had the first time.

“Yes, Soames. A team lead by a Captain Reed—you will be left alone—that is my pledge.

Yes, Reed has reported his position. Near where? Ahh,” Varakov remembered the name of the town where he had set up the garrison. “A raid of some kind. That should be easy to determine. You learn, as a real—” and he emphasized the last word— “military commander that there are certain things no Resistance fighter or terrorist bothers with—you may want to keep them busy with these by making them attractive—a bank with no money, a warehouse filled with empty boxes, like this. And, conversely, there are certain targets no self-respecting Resistance fighter will pass up. That is why they die so quickly. You have done satisfactorily. You are safe.” And then, his voice low, he added, “But, if it ever comes to me that you touch another child, I will come after you and kill you myself with my bare hands.” He smashed the receiver down.

He lifted the receiver again, pushed the button, and got the staff office downstairs. “This is Varakov. Contact immediately the Commander of the Southeast Regional District and get him on my line—have my personal plane fueled and ready, and find my secretary and have her pack a bag.” He hung up.

Chapter 27

“We got Committees of Resistance formin’ in Tennessee, Alabama, Pennsylvania, both Carolinas. We’ll alert ‘em all to keep their eyes peeled for your woman and kids, and that’s a promise,” Abner Fulsom stated emphatically. “Don’t think we can’t sympathize with y’all, cause we can. And don’t y’all think we don’t appreciate it, hear? I mean you and these other fellas helpin’ us go up against them Reds—tough stuff, huh?” Rourke remembered having met the man once some years back. He’d run a hardware store. The “Committee of Resistance” was some twenty men strong, at least this night, and their weapons ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous, Rourke thought, and everything in between. There were lever action .30-30 Winchesters, bolt action rifles of various persuasions, Colt, FN and Heckler & Koch assault type rifles and one or two sawn-back pump shotguns. The handguns ranged from single-action Ruger Super Blackhawks in cowboy-style holsters to Walther PPK/S .380s to .45s to almost every imaginable Colt -or Smith & Wesson revolver variant. One man had a MAC-10. He’d been a submachine gun collector before the war and had loaned or given away much of his collection to the Resistance. Unfortunately, Rourke thought, the people who had most of the selective fire weapons were somewhere else at the present.

“What about Colfax?” Reed asked.

“Yeah, but somethin’ tells me, Captain, I’m gonna leave that information on where Jim Colfax is hangin’ out ‘til after tonight. You never know what might happen,” Abner Fulsom said, smiling, his bright white teeth catching the light of the Coleman lamp.

“All right,” Rourke said, tired of the talk, tired of the entire situation. “Where’s the raid going to be, on what. What kind of resistance can we expect, how do we get there, you know, all that standard movie stuff, hmmm?” Darren Ball, Rourke thought, had been strangely silent, sitting with an AR-15 across his lap and a Government Model .45 in a military type across the chest shoulder holster. Rourke thought Ball’s silence wouldn’t last for long.

Abner Fulsom began to speak. “There was a huge, modern shopping center not too far from the city—real popular place before the war. Russian occupation forces are usin’ it now as a supply depot and helicopter base because of the big parking lot. Some of us blew up the airport when we learned the Russians were comin’ in, so they’ve been usin’ the shopping center. There’s a big ammo dump there, too. Figure we can steal all the AK-47s and such we can carry and ammo for them, blow up everything else. We go to the shopping center. We got a code name for it—Firehole.” “Anything else?” Rourke asked.