Both revolvers were empty and she rammed them into her holsters, securing the flaps, bending down, snatching up an M-16 from the ground beside her, standing then, firing out the rifle into the wildmen.

"Close with them!" She started to run, using the rifle alternately like a spear and a club, ramming the flash deflector into a face, swatting the stock against a head, butting the stock against a rib cage.

She stopped— a half dozen of the wildmen in a knot around the squat man who was their leader. The shore party men were around her.

Natalia threw the rifle to the ground, reaching into her hip pocket for the Bali-Song knife, her thumb flicking up the lock that bound the two skeletonized handle sections together, then the interior of the right thumb joint sliding into the open depression in the rear handle section, the knife held between her thumb joint and the side of her first finger, the forward section and the blade rocking forward, the second finger of her right hand forming a fulcrum under the near handle half, and she rocked the near handle half down, both handle halves swinging together, her fist locking around them.

She pressured the near handle half, the Wee-Hawk blade edge outward— with her thumb and first finger, flicking her wrist, rolling her hand and closing the knife, repeating the same motion, but finishing the circle and rolling the knife inward to open it again.

She advanced toward the squat wildman with the bearskin wrapped around him, a knife the size of a short sword appeared in his blood-covered right hand.

He lunged, Natalia feigned, backed off a halfstep and rolled the knife closed, then open, lunging as she rolled the knife closed again, then open again, lunging and parrying as she closed the knife, then rolled it open, the man with the bearskin lunging, her blade open, her fist clenched tight around it, her right arm punching out, the Wee-Hawk blade's tip punching into the carotid artery on the right side of the neck, ripping, tearing— the man fell away, dead.

Natalia did another roll of the knife, closed and open, then leaned down, smearing the blade clean of blood against the bearskin, then rolling it closed and turning the knife end over end in her fist, then closing the lock shut. She dropped it in her hip pocket, the others of the wildmen dead around her, some of the shore party still standing beside her, gunfire from near the helicopter, but mostly the fire from the M-60 machine gun being used.

"Paul— it is Natalia— I must get inside!"

She glanced at the gold lady's Rolex on her left wrist— she judged perhaps five minutes remained until launch.

And if she and Rourke were in the access tunnel trying to confuse or disarm the system when the first missile hit ignition— they would be vaporized.

"Paul!"

"Come ahead, Natalia!" Again, she started to run.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Rourke used the small stainless steel screwdriver on his key ring to remove the last of the bolts over what he hoped was the master electrical panel cover. He tugged at the ends— it was jammed. He withdrew the Black Chrome Sting IA from its sheath, using it to pry against the cover— the cover snapped loudly, echoing in the tunnel as the mechanical voice droned on—"T

minus five minutes twenty-five seconds and counting— T minus five minutes twenty-seconds and counting— T minus five minutes fifteen seconds and counting."

"Shut up!" he shouted. "Shut up, damnit!"

"T minus five minutes five seconds and counting," the voice almost answered.

Beneath the panel were a maze of multicolored wires— he had wired his own home, wired the Retreat— he had wired bombs of conventional explosives— he had never seen such a confusing array of wires in his life. Some would be blinds, some double blinds, some trip detonators that would fuse all the wires in the panel and make disarming the system totally impossible— "Shit," he rasped.

Rourke glanced to his left— "T minus four minutes fifty seconds and counting."

He could see the fin section of the nearest of the missiles, this the missile that would launch first, its flame discharge sufficient to vaporize him before he would have the chance to realize it was happening.

"T minus four minutes forty seconds and counting."

"Shut up—"

Rourke snatched one of the Detonics pistols out of the double Alessi rig and fired up into the speaker box at the far end of the tunnel.

But still he could hear the voice, only more distant from the next farther speaker.

"T minus four minutes thirty five seconds and counting."

Rourke holstered his gun, studying the wiring diagram— "Come on, Natalia— damnit— come on!" She knew the system better than he did— had studied its stolen plans. For once in his life he prayed Soviet Intelligence had gotten perfect information.

Rourke touched at the nearest blue wire— he followed it out to the terminal— his hands gloved to guard against electrocution— but leather wouldn't do much he knew— he worked with his tiny screwdriver.

The computer voice droned on. "T minus four minutes twenty seconds and counting."

Didn't the voice know that it too would die, he thought?

Chapter Thirty-Nine

"T minus four minutes, fifteen seconds and counting." Natalia heard the voice, stared for a moment at Cole's dead eyes, then ran on, her pistol holsters slapping at her sides, her feet seeming to her barely to touch the concrete floor as she reached the ladder, then started down three rungs at a time to the lower level and to the missile access tunnel. "T minus four minutes five seconds and counting."

The voice was maddening...

Rourke looked up, hearing the thudding of heels on the concrete. "T minus three minutes twenty seconds and counting. T minus three minutes fifteen seconds and counting. T minus three minutes ten seconds and counting. T minus three minutes five seconds and counting. T minus three minutes to irretrievable launch. Two minutes fifty-five seconds to launch. T minus two minutes fifty seconds and counting."

Natalia— he shouted her name— "Natalia!"

She skidded on her heels, dropping into a crouch beside him at the electrical panel— six wires were removed, three cut— he held his knife against a fourth, his finger behind the wire.

"What happened when you cut these?" she said breathlessly.

"Nothing— not a damn thing—"

"This could take hours and we still might fuse the wires and automatically trigger a launch—"

"Shit," he rasped.

"I love you, John— I think we're going to die here—"

"I love you, too," he told her, the knife blade still poised over the wire.

"Don't cut that— I wish we'd had more time together— I wish you'd made love to me—"

"I couldn't— why shouldn't I cut it—"

"Sarah could never understand how lucky she is— that you love her— were faithful to her—"

"I had no choice— it's me— it wasn't you— it's the way I'm made— I wanted to so much—"

She looked at him, Rourke taking her hand, squeezing it. "I never loved anyone like I love you," he whispered.

"I'll love you even after death—"

"T minus two minutes five seconds and counting. T minus two minutes and counting."

"The wires have to be the way to stop this," Rourke rasped.

She shifted her gaze, Rourke following it as she picked up the cover panel that had been over the wiring itself.

"That protected the wires—"

"Protected—" She dropped the panel, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, Rourke feeling her mouth full against his lips. Breathless, she told him, "That's it— if I can find the preignition wire here, I can activate the ignition test sequence and start the nearest of the missiles to burn—"

"What are you talking about—"

"The panel, John— that's what it did— the packing inside— all around here— fireproof— it's like a fireproof vault— these launch in series— these missiles. If the panel and the circuit box weren't fire-proofed, the first burn would destroy the launch system wiring and the other five missiles wouldn't launch at all— if I can get an ignition check burn, the flames will vaporize the wiring and the system will be dead—"