by Ahern, Jerry
They were too far away for sure kills, the ranging devices in his night vision goggles confirming what his senses and experience already knew.
He watched and he waited.
Eight men, but coming from where? How many men behind them? He wasn’t even certain of the name of the island on which he’d landed the gunship, so many so close that without additional readings which neither he nor Paul had had the time to take, precision was impossible.
Would this night end?
His limbs shook with the cold. There were eight men coming from the north. The action of the M-16 protected under his gloved hands, he knelt in the slush deep within the rocks.
What sort of electronic sensing equipment did these Soviet personnel have available? Could they tell that one man waited for them in the rocks to intersect their line of march with a rifle, and that another waited for them near
CHAPTER FIVE
_She made coffee, given up on adjusting her body’s circa-dian rhythm to what the time here was supposed to be.
If she’d been alone, or if only the members of her family were around her, she would have changed into something more comfortable. All she wanted now was to strip off the damned BDU pants and slip into a nightgown and scratch her pregnancy-swollen abdomen.
It would have been more than a bit unseemly with Wolfgang Mann, the injured Akiro Kurinami and two of Mann’s soldiers in the Retreat with her.
But as she crossed behind the counter to get cups, the counter masking her from view, she sneaked a scratch of her abdomen and it felt good.
“Sarah?”
It was Colonel Mann. She turned toward the sound of his voice. He hau been studying the Retreat’s electronic monitoring system. Her husband, John Rourke, had recently upgraded it with German equipment, but it looked much the same as it had in those pre-dawn moments five centuries earlier when she’d been able to watch the sky catch fire and ball lightning roll across the ground and a Soviet KGB Elite Corps force sent to destroy her and her entire family wiped clean from the face of the earth.
She almost dropped one of the coffee cups.
“What is it, Wolf?” She still felt a little awkward calling him by his first name, let alone a nickname, but he insisted she use it.
“The more I learn about your husband, the more remarkable I find him. The electronic security system here is amazing, not in its equipment, but the use of such equipment, the innovation it displays.”
“He’s always been very smart, John has,” Sarah Rourke agreed.
“More than smart, as you say. If there were the opportunity, now, it would be wonderful if he were to devote his mind to new challenges, not just staying alive.”
She smiled. “Well, he’s always seen staying alive as the ultimate challenge, I guess. That’s the only reason this place exists, Colonel. And John is also the only reason Michael and Annie and I still exist.”
Mann smiled. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Would you like some coffee? I made enough for you and your men.”
“That would be very pleasant, Frau Rourke — Sarah.”
It would be time to check on Akiro Kurinami in a few moments—her watch told her that—but not yet.
“This place, its very concept, amazes me!” Mann enthused, sitting down on a stool on the ppposite side of the kitchen counter.
Sarah Rourke looked past him, out across the Great Room, its books, its music, the video library, the gun cabinets. “I never wanted him to build this place. Every spare dime we had, every spare minute he had, always here, building this. And then, when the Night of the War came, he was away. I’d sent him away, really. We were going to try things again. I didn’t think it would work, but we’d always loved each other, and Michael and Annie were so little then.” Sarah Rourke felt a catch*5 in her throat. That her husband had robbed her of their childhood was something she would never forget, although she wanted to forgive. And there was another chance, inside her womb. Had John made her pregnant because of that? To give her a second chance?
“And you spent much of the period immediately follow
ing the bombings endeavoring to reunite. It is a fabulous story, Sarah. And that you were able to find one another.”
“After the Night of the War, I realized,” she said slowly, “that John wasn’t waiting for disaster, like I’d always thought, but simply preparing for it. And I realized that he had been right. I never thought mankind could be so insane. And, despite the crisis which brought it about, East-West tensions were easing. That was the real insanity of it all. And we’ll never know who pushed the button. That damn button.”
She sipped at her coffee.
Wolfgang Mann spoke so softly his voice was almost a whisper. “There were disaffected elements on both sides, those who truly saw war as inevitable and wished to hasten it along before supposed weaknesses they saw in their own sides became more serious, irreparable. It was one of these men who pushed the button you damn, Sarah.”
And she laughed.
“Why do you-“
She looked at him across the lip of her coffee cup. “Before the Night of the War, the majority of the planet’s population was comprised of women and children, Colonel; not men. I always wondered why a minority decided the fate of the majority.”
He just looked at her, looked away for an instant, smiled defensively as he looked back. “That is merely the natural order of things, Sarah.”
She looked at him, feeling a smile of her own starting. “Yes, but isn’t a natural hierarchy of things, especially people, simply because of the way they were born, isn’t that the Nazi part of your education coming out?”
He looked grounded, true hurt in his eyes. He had fought to make New Germany in Argentina a free nation, fought, risked everything, to depose the Nazi Party and the dictator at its head. He was a liberator.
“What I mean, Colonel,” Sarah Rourke began again, “is that who says there’s a natural order to things like that? Just because a man could move a bigger rock? Or because of the biological necessity of women nurturing children? I mean, look at it in simpler terms. Those few men. Let’s say they weren’t all men, that some of them were women, those ones who wanted war. Whoever pushed the button, and whatever group he represented, who gave that person—notice, I didn’t say man—but who gave that person the right to play God?” “No one, Frau Rourke.”
“Wolfgang—” Sarah Rourke set down her coffee cup, held both his hands in hers. “That same mentality is at work today, this instant. People who are willing to risk total annihilation just to have it their way. That’s why Akiro is injured. That’s why John and Paul are off looking for Annie and Natalia and your Captain Hammerschmidt. That’s why Michael and Maria Leuden and Bjorn Rolvaag and your volunteers are in Iceland, trying to forestall something terrible happening with the people of the Hekla Community. Because some people play God. And no one has that right.”
As she looked away from his eyes and across the expanse of the Retreat, she didn’t say, “Not even John Rourke,” but she thought it… .
Paul Rubenstein’s hands shook as he held the Schmiesser. His hands shook because he was cold and one of the principal reasons he was cold was because his coat was open. His parka was partially open in order to protect the submachinegun’s action from the freezing rain. Under a rain poncho, which had become stiff as board, he kept an M-16. But he wanted the Schemisser just as ready to fire, warmed by body heat and dry, as the Browning High Power he wore in the tanker holster on his chest. The M-16 was one of more M-16s that he could remember well enough to count which had passed through his hands since the Night of the War. But the Schmiesser, or German MP-40 as he knew it was more correctly called, had been with him since that first battle.
He could still remember … “Here, use this for now.” John reached into the pile of weapons assembled there on
the ground near the jetliner crash site, weapons taken from the dead Brigands. John killed eleven men and one woman while fighting to save the passe
ngers, outlaw bikers all of them, bent on lawlessness and death. “This is a 9mm. One of the best there is.” And John gestured toward what Paul Rubenstein was about to learn was a German MP-40 submachinegun, there on the ground beside him, “There should still be plenty of 9mm stuff available.” John ruminated softly about the compatibility between the two guns … It was Greek to Paul Rubenstein then, even more intelligible than Greek because at least he knew how and what to order in a Greek restaurant if he needed to. But despite the fact his father had been a career Air Force officer, he’d never had any experience with firearms of any kind. It had simply never come up. And suddenly, his whole life was changed.
As he crouched near the helicopter, waiting for the inevitable, if indeed a group of Soviet personnel were advancing on the helicopter, he thought of how strange it was. Before the Night of the War, he had walked the streets of New York City, some areas of the city possessed of almost incalculably high crime rates. He had never thought to carry any sort of weapon. Since the Night of the War, a handgun had become so constant a companion that he felt, literally, naked without one, slept with one beside him; the only activities he performed without a gun two — showering and making love to his wife, Annie.
As a boy, he had never seen himself in the role of the hero, nor did he see himself that way now. He was a hero’s sidekick, and the thought of that amused him. Should he get a battered old cowboy hat and wildly flamboyant red and white checkered shirt and ride a mule? Should he wear buckskins and ride a brown and white paint horse and speak in a unique mixture of perfect elegance and flawed syntax?
He had never seen himself as a hero’s sidekick, either. He had grown up without illusions of adventure, enjoyed the same books and movies and television programs as his friends in the string of military base schools he’d attended, but never projected himself into the chase scenes, the gunfights, the hand-to-hand battles between good and evil.
He supposed he’d been what kids of his generation had called a square. While other boys were planning to get tough and join the Marines or something, he’d been planning on what extra courses he could take during the summer vacation period. All of that changed.
This was reality, now. And, for all the things of the old life he missed, there was his love with Annie and his friendship with Michael and Sarah and Natalia—and, most of all, with John Rourke. John Rourke had recreated him. And, without that, he would never have survived. And, even in the darkest moments, moments where death might overtake him in the next instant, as it was now, life was too precious to surrender… .
John Rourke uncovered the action of the M-16. It would be exposed to the icy rain—the rain was turning again to snow, but mixed with sleet—for only a few seconds. He moved the safety tumbler. With the howling wind, the crunch of ice under the boots of the eight Soviet Marine Spetsnaz coming along the gap in the rocks, total silence in his own movements was unnecessary.
The safety tumbler was set to full auto.
John Rourke contemplated what made these men his enemies. The simplistic answer was, of course, that they wore the uniform of his enemies. But the Marine Spetsnaz of the Soviet underwater civilization which had battled Mid-Wake for five centuries following the Night of the War were very much like the KGB Elite Corps of the Russians. John Rourke had fought for five centuries—they were committed to an ideology, an ideology John Rourke felt was morally wrong. And, because of this commitment, any atrocity, no matter what, was permissible, excused by the dedication to the dubious ideal.
They were morally empty.
He would relieve this deplorable condition from which
they suffered in a matter of seconds. But he was not planning to kill them because they ascribed to an ideology he considered morally reprehensible. He didn’t have that right. He intended to kill them for the most basic reason. If he didn’t, they would kill him.
He whispered into the radio headset. “Paul. Do you read me?”
“Loud and clear and freezin’ my tusch off. Over.”
“Ditto, here. On the way, as we discussed. Out.”
As soon as the eight men passed him, he would open fire. With the wind, it was unlikely the sound of gunfire would travel that far. But there was no choice of method. If he and Paul were able to act quickly enough, none of the eight would have time for a transmission.
CHAPTER SIX
Otto Hammerschmidt was awake. Annie Rubenstein pulled a surprisingly lightweight plastic chair nearer to his bed, sat down beside him. “You saved my life, Frau Rubenstein.”
“You would have done the same for me, Otto. How are you feeling?”
Hammerschmidt’s blue eyes were slightly watery looking, she imagined because of medication. “I am feeling well, all things considered. The doctors here tell me that I will be up and about in a very little time. And that is good. I wish to rejoin my men.” Annie just looked at him, the silence so intense, except for the heaviness of his breathing, that as she crossed her legs she could hear her stockings rubbing against each other under her slip. “And how is the Fraulein Major?” Hammerschmidt asked her at last.
“She’s not well, Otto. But we’re going to try to fix that, a Doctor Rothstein and myself.”
“What-“
“There’s a psychotherapy technique that may have some good results. He’s of the opinion I might be able to help because of—well, you know. The tricks I can do with my mind,” she smiled, rearranging her hands in her lap.
Otto’s eyes became more intense as he looked at her, the light from the small lamp over the bed through the crewcut blond hair bathing his face in a yellow glow “I do not like
the sound of that, Frau Rubenstein. What sort of—”
“We’re going to play it by ear,” she told him. Her head still ached from what she had done to prove to Rothstein that she could help. And her stomach churned from it. It was terrifying to her, How would this be, with Natalia? ” ‘By ear’?”
“American expression. We’ll kind of work things out as we go along. Now.” And she stood up, smoothing her skirt down along her thighs. She leaned slightly over the bed. “You need your rest. They said I could only talk with you for five minutes, Otto.” And she bent over him, kissed him on the left cheek, the stubble of his beard rough. She thought of Paul. She closed her eyes, opening them as she stood erect again.
“Please, Frau Rubenstein—Annie—”
She gave him a little wave as she walked to the doorway, opened the door, then stepped out into the hospital corridor. She leaned against the doorjamb as she closed the door behind her, hugging her arms about her.
Paul would not want her to do this. Her father, John Rourke, would not want her to do this.
She had to do this.
She began to walk toward the two Shore Patrol officers waiting for her near the nursing station, listening to the clicking of her heels against the floor surface, trying to focus her attention on the sound they made,
Entering Natalia’s mind, if she could do that really, frightened her. There would be secrets inside Natalia that were not things she—Annie—should know, had no right to know. About her father, perhaps. But even more than that, she was frightened of the secrets in her own mind. What could she really do?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Marine Spetsnaz corporal at the very rear of the eight man file fell back, some problem with his equipment. John Rourke, despite the cold which racked his body, had shifted quickly out of his parka, wrapping his rifle in it. His body shook as he moved through the swirling snow and sleet, whirlwinds of icy spicules surrounding him. He relied on the warmth emanating from his armpits and the superior construction of the stainless steel Detonics Combat Masters to keep them from freezing up. In his right hand, held like a saber, was the Life Support System X, the twelve inches of steel which formed the blade already coated with a thin film of ice.
John Rourke moved quickly—it was that or freeze to the spot where he stood—and with each step there was crackling of ice, the sucking sounds of th
e slush, rapidly freezing, trying to close around his feet, the temperature dropping again, but the wind heightening.
The Spetsnaz corporal was adjusting a strap on his backpack. His rifle-an AKM-96 of the type Rourke had come to know so well in the short period since his first encounter with these men—was already frozen shut with ice. The man’s body moved so slowly, Rourke realized, because he was nearly freezing to death.
John Rourke stepped up behind him, no attempt at silence because silence was impossible; but noise would be
effectively masked by the ambient sounds of the night. Rourke’s gloved left hand reached out, cupping over the Spetsnaz corporal’s mouth lest the man cry out, Rourke’s right arm arcing forward, driving the. point of the LS-X into the Russian’s kidney, like a stake through the heart of a vampire.
He saw them coming. John had said eight men. He saw only seven. Why?
Paul Rubenstein slowly moved the Schmiesser from the protection of his coat, drawing back the bolt over the magazine, cupping his left hand over the open action lest it ice up.
Seven.
For an instant, in the light of a flashlight one of the men held, Paul saw the face of one of the men. It was gray, like the face of a walking dead man might be expected to be. One of the men at the lead of the file evidently spotted the helicopter gunship. He moved, gesticulating toward it, but so slowly it was apparent the man seemed to be dying on his feet. c
One of the men started to raise his rifle.
Paul Rubenstein shoved the Schmiesser forward, to fire.
The eighth man appeared at the rear of the file, suddenly, shouted something unintelligible over the wind. But the eighth man wasn’t wearing a pack, and the blackness of his arctic gear was somehow different looking than that of the other seven.
The seven turned toward the eighth man.
The eighth man fired, Paul Rubenstein recognizing the familiar sound of an M-16. Paul broke from the rocks in which he hid, veering left fast so he’d be on a tangent to the seven but out of line with the eighth man when he fired. Two men were down. Now three.
