by Jerry Ahern
There were more military traffic cops, gesturing for Rourke to move the vehicle around into a slot from which he could back toward the dock itself for unloading. “Whatever Vladov’s play is going to be, it’s gonna have to be quick,” Rourke murmured, cutting the wheel into a hard left, intentionally missing the maneuvering bay, the traffic director shouting up to him in the cab, Rourke making a rude gesture—they were of equal rank, then backing the truck slightly, hearing the vehicle behind him screech its brakes, then Rourke cutting the wheel slightly right, edging forward into the maneuvering bay. He was stalling for time—time for Vladov. “Be ready,” Rourke rasped through his tight-clenched teeth.
He brought the truck to a halt, then started into reverse, fumbling the gear box, making the gears grind, stalling again for time. He started backing the vehicle toward the loading dock. Once the first of the boxes was moved, the Americans inside the truck would be spotted—and push would have come to shove.
He let the engine die, making a show of starting again, letting the engine die, half tempted to flood it, but worried that he might so overdo the incompetent driver routine as to raise suspicion. Instead, he let the engine catch, then eased the truck back toward the loading dock lip. The traffic director was cursing. Rourke grinned at him.
Vladov and the other motorcycle combination driver had parked at the farthest end of this section of loading dock, near to the vault door that led into the Womb.
Rourke said quickly, “Tell the convoy personnel to disembark the vehicles. When they holler at you for it, tell them the men are tired from the drive and you’re going to rest them—you outrank everyone I’ve seen out here.”
“All right, very good, Doctor,” and as Rourke slammed the vehicle to an uneven halt, intentionally bumping into the loading dock—watching in the mirror as the loading dock personnel jumped back—Daszrozinski jumped down.
“Disembark the vehicles. Stay near your tracks,” Daszrozinski shouted.
Rourke could hear Ravitski, from the running board of the second truck, echo the command as the track pulled into its slot beside them.
The third track was still in motion.
Rourke cut the engine, leaving the vehicle’s transmission in reverse, leaving the emergency brake off. He started down from the driver’s side as the third vehicle pulled into its slot.
He made a show of stretching, but not so much a show as to profile the guns under his tunic.
From the loading dock, he could hear a voice shouting, “Comrade Major, the men are not allowed to leave their tracks.”
“Captain, these men are tired. They shall not damage your precious loading dock.”
“But, Comrade Major—”
“Yes—it is Major—do not forget that, Captain.”
The conversation ended, Rourke smiling. From the tone of Daszrozinski’s voice, Rourke surmised the lieutenant had always wanted to talk to a senior officer that way and was making the most of the opportunity of pulling his spurious rank.
Rourke could see Natalia standing beside the front of the cab, at the right fender, trying to stand with her legs apart, her hands locked behind her—trying to look like a man. It wasn’t working to anyone who looked closely, Rourke thought.
He glanced toward Vladov, following Vladov’s gaze. A ramp led from the level of the horseshoe up toward the level of the door into the Womb. Vladov looked at him. Rourke nodded, he hoped imperceptibly.
The loading dock personnel were approaching the trucks now—it would be time.
Each of the personnel inside the trucks—mostly Americans—carried five pounds of the C-4, liberated from the packing crates, the rest of the C-4 in the three trucks wired to detonate—Natalia had seen to that quickly after the takeover. The battery from the commandeered patrol vehicle had been wired into the plastique in the center truck, the charges positioned to blow outward toward the flanking trucks and detonate the plastique there. The last man out would leave the wristwatch commandeered from one of the dead KGB men beside the battery—set for two minutes.
Rourke knitted his fingers together, bracing them against his abdomen, working open two of the uniform tunic buttons as he did—the Python was under his jacket as well, stuffed in his trouser band. It would be the first gun he could reach.
The loading dock personnel were starting to lift the tarp cover.
Rourke heard the roar of Vladov’s motorcycle combo, Vladov shouting in Russian, then in English, “We attack!” The RPK on the sidecar was already opening up, Vladov racing his machine toward the ramp and the vault door, Rourke reaching inside the deuce and a half s cab with his left hand, awkwardly, finding the ignition switch, starting the engine. Still in reverse, the emergency brake off, the truck lurched backward into the loading dock and the men starting to lift the tarp, Rourke’s right hand finding the butt of the Metalifed and Mag-Na-Ported Python under his tunic, ripping the six-inch Colt .357 clear, his right index finger double actioning the revolver into the face of the traffic director who was already pulling his .45. Rourke fired again, killing a KGB guard as he raised his M-16, men pouring from the backs of the three trucks now, assault rifles— M-16s and AKS-74s—blazing into the dockworkers and the guards. Rourke pumped the Python’s trigger once more, gunning down another of the military traffic cops, snatching up the M-16 from the guard he’d shot an instant earlier. The selector moved under his right thumb as he switched the Python into his left hand, opening up with the M-16 on full auto, three round bursts punching into targets of opportunity as he ran for the loading dock, jumped, rolled, on the dock now, the Python firing once, then once again, shearing the nose and left ear from the face of another of the guards.
Rourke was on his feet, emptying the last round from the Python into another of the military police, the man’s body jack-knifing, his .45 discharging into the loading dock surface near Rourke’s feet.
The tunic open fully now, Rourke rammed the fired out Colt into his trouser band, snatching up a second M-16, forwarding the selector, opening fire—he had gambled twice the chambers would be loaded and they were.
An M-16 in each hand, he started to run, for the vault door, claxons sounding in the air around him, shouted commands, curses, the M-72 combination Vladov piloted through the vault door now, each side of the door littered with bodies cut down by the RPK light machinegun. The second M-72 was moving along the horseshoe, the RPK in the sidecar firing at anything that moved beyond the loading dock.
Rourke saw Natalia, an AKM in her tiny fists, the muzzle spitting bursts of fire, KGB guards falling before her as she raced along the ramp, up toward the vault door.
Daszrozinski held an M-16, firing it out in neat bursts, cutting down guards on both sides as he covered the dock area.
Reed, along with a half dozen Americans, was holding the center of the loading dock—they looked like a picture of Ouster’s last stand, Reed at their center, wingshooting a .45 from each hand, the men kneeling around him, firing their rifles. Where Reed had gotten the second .45, Rourke didn’t know.
“Come on!” Rourke screamed the words. The vault door! Hurry!”
And as Rourke turned, the vault door was beginning to close.
A jeep in the horseshoe—KGB guards firing from behind it, Rourke turned both M-16s toward them firing as he ran the width of the loading dock, jumping, both guns going dead in mid-air, throwing the guns away from his sides. He hit the road surface, going into a tuck roll, coming up on his knees, in both fists one of the twin Detonics stainless pistols, his thumbs jacking back the hammers, both .45s belching fire as he climbed to his feet, storming the Jeep.
One KGB guard dropped, beside the two Rourke had already killed with the M-16s, a second man down, his head exploding with a double impact of 185-grain JHPs, a third one—his M-16 was firing, Rourke hitting the road surface, rolling up, firing out both pistols, fists at maximum extension, emptying the twin .45s into the assault rifle firer’s chest.
The body rocked back,
then slumped against the Jeep.
Rourke was up, stabbing both pistols, slides still locked back, into the side pockets of his uniform, jumping into the Jeep.
He found the key, pushing a dead man from the seat, snatching away the man’s M-16—how many rounds the thirty round magazine still contained he had no way of telling exactly, but from the weight as he slipped the Jeep’s clutch, it felt like it was about half full.
He let the clutch all the way out, stomping the gas, stomping down the clutch again, upshifting, taking the ramp as he let out the clutch and floored the accelerator—the vault door was nearly closed now—Rourke wrenched the transmission into third, stomping the gas, bracing the pedal down with the butt of the M-16—it was half empty anyway—jumping clear as the Jeep hit the vault doorway, Rourke rolling to the loading dock surface, the screech of rubber, the sound of metal tearing, ripping—but as he looked up, the vault door had bitten into the Jeep, the Jeep partially crushed, but the vault door open three feet wide at least.
Rourke started to his feet. One of the KGB guards was lunging for him, Rourke’s left foot snapping up and out, against the muzzle of the M-16, kicking it to Rourke’s left, Rourke’s right hand hammering forward, the middle knuckles finding the adam’s apple, crushing the windpipe, blood gushing from the man’s mouth through his clenched teeth, Rourke’s fist snapping back, then forward, the middle knuckles impacting the base of the nose, driving the bone up and through the ethmoid bone and into the brain.
Rourke’s left hand snatched the M-16, Rourke’s right hand finding the little AG Russell Sting IA black chrome, Rourke hacking the sling free of the dead man’s body with it as the body fell.
Rourke wheeled, the M-16 still not in a firing position, another KGB guard lunging toward him. Rourke underhanded the knife the six feet separating them into the center of the guard’s chest.
The M-16 in his right fist now at the pistol grip, he eared back the bolt—this one hadn’t been chamber loaded. He’d bet on that and won—and he fired, spraying out half the magazine into the KGB defenders on the loading dock.
Two of Reed’s men were down, one dead and one wounded.
Rourke fired toward the KGB force assaulting their position, emptying the rest of the magazine, killing three more of the KGB guards.
He leaned down, retrieving his knife from the dead man, shouting to Reed as he wiped the blade clear of blood, “Get your men through the doorway—hurry!”
As he rammed fresh magazines into the Detonics pistols—all he had on him were two spares and he was using them now—he searched for Daszrozonski. “Lieutenant,” Rourke shouted, seeing him leading a small force of the Soviet Special Forces troops— “The vault door—hurry!”
Rourke started to run, firing the Detonics pistols at targets of opportunity, seeing Natalia reach the vault door, watching as she clambered up and over the half crushed Jeep. He shouted to her over the rattle of assault rifle and pistol fire, “Natalia—blow the Jeep so the door will close—get ready—” Like himself, she carried on her five pounds of the C-4—it would be more than enough to vaporize the Jeep—she was good at blowing things up.
Rourke glanced at his watch, then he looked to the center of the three trucks. Corporal Ravitski was running from the back of it, shouting, “It is set—the charge is set!”
As Ravitski swung his AKS-74 toward the KGB, three of the guards opened up on him, Rourke seeing it as if in slow motion, Ravitski’s body seemingly cut in half by the assault rifle fire, his left arm severed from his body, his face shot away.
Rourke’s pistols were up—he fired both simultaneously—the left ear of one of the three guards, the back of the neck of another.
He swung both pistols as the last of the three KGB men wheeled toward him, the M-16 already starting to make fire. Rourke fired both pistols at once—both eyeballs in the KGB man’s head seeming to explode, and then the whole head exploding.
Rourke wheeled toward the vault door—a half dozen of the KGB guards were charging Natalia behind the Jeep—Rourke emptied the one round left in each pistol, taking out two of the guards, the slides locked open.
He jammed the pistols into his uniform pockets, not bothering to close the slides, running, diving to the loading dock surface as gunfire rained toward him. He rolled—a dead KGB guard, an M-16 in his right hand—Rourke wrenched it free, wheeling on his knees, firing out the M-16 toward the remaining guards assaulting Natalia’s position. He threw the rifle— empty—into the face of another man rushing him, took three steps and jumped to the Jeep, rolling across the deformed hood, falling to the floor beside Natalia. “Take my rifle—I’ve got to finish this,” and Rourke snatched her M-16, Natalia sliding under the front of the jeep, murmuring, “I’m wiring the explosives into the engine—it should create a shrapnel wave effect outward—get as many of them as we can.”
“Right,” and Rourke shouldered her assault rifle, firing as another group of the KGB guards charged their position. He had to clear it for Reed, Daszrozinski and the others. Rourke glanced at his watch—less than a minute until the trucks blew.
Rourke fired out the magazine. “Gimme a spare—”
“I don’t have any,” she shouted from beneath the Jeep.
“Wonderful,” Rourke snarled. A KGB man was coming over the Jeep—Rourke rammed the flash deflectored muzzle of the M-16 into his right eye, snatching the just dead man’s M-16, firing point blank at a Soviet guard less than a yard away, severing the man’s head from the body at the neck.
The M-16 belched fire again in his hands, the guards falling back.
“Where did you get the fresh magazine?” Natalia shouted up.
“A nice man happened along and loaned me his gun—you almost done?”
“Almost—”
“Get up here—I need someone else shooting at these guys— hurry it up!” Rourke burned out the magazine, pulling another from the dead man’s utility belt, ramming it home, working the bolt release, firing again.
Then Natalia was up from under the Jeep, beside him. “All I have to do is touch this one wire to the positive terminal of the car battery—”
“How the hell you doin’ that without blowing yourself up?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
Rourke glanced at his watch—ten seconds maybe, Reed coming up at the left corner of his peripheral vision, others of the Americans and some of the Russians following him. “Where the hell is Vladov—”
“I haven’t seen him since he got inside—I don’t know—but I heard machinegun fire from deeper inside.”
Why weren’t their people attacking from their rear? Rourke wondered. Perhaps Vladov and his man.
Reed was over the top of the Jeep, a .45 in each hand, Daszrozinski and three of the Russian SF-ers and the GRU major and the GRU sergeant behind him, running the ramp. Rourke shouted, his throat aching with it, “Move it, Lieutenant! Move it!”
Daszrozinski was up, diving across the top of the Jeep, his men following him, doing the same, Rourke tucking back, wingshooting beyond them toward the KGB personnel.
The flash of light—Rourke turned his face away, shielding Natalia against him, the sound of the explosion momentarily deafening him despite the insulation of the vault walls around them, the Shockwave slapping at Rourke, forcing him down, still clutching Natalia.
Rourke rolled on his back as the sound of the three explosions died, debris raining down just beyond the cracked open vault door. “I have an idea,” Natalia shouted. Rourke could barely hear her. “Ill just shoot into the engine block—to hell with the battery wire.”
“Everybody up—away from the door,” Rourke shouted. “Now!”
“You heard the man—move,” Sergeant Dressier ordered, even Reed to his feet, running, Daszrozinski firing an M-16 over the top of the Jeep as more of the KGB attacked.
Rourke dragged Natalia with him, running now. Ten yards— twenty—twenty-five—”We’re far enough—give me a rifle,” Na
talia ordered.
Rourke tossed her his, Natalia swinging the M-16 to her shoulder, settling the muzzle for an instant, firing, then running, Rourke beside her, the force of the explosion hammering him down to his knees, Natalia beside him.
He looked back—the fireball was already dying—screams were barely audible from beyond the vault door—but the door was slowly closing, and then there was a loud clanging sound and the vault door leading outside the Womb was closed.
From the far side of the high ceilinged area of the natural rock cave in which they were, near the vault door at the far end, Rourke heard machinegun fire—it would be Vladov. “Let’s go—otherwise we’ll be trapped between the vault doors for good!” Rourke started to run, Natalia beside him.
Chapter Forty
MiG 27s were closing from the horizon line to the east, Chambers shouting to his driver, “Get this thing going faster!”
“Yes, Mr. President!” The Volkswagen’s transmission rattled, the driver upshifting into fourth. Chambers thought of it for an instant. He was the president — no armored limousine, just a liberated Volkswagen Beetle that had to be more than twenty years old. And he was running in it for his life to get the half mile down the road beyond the lines of the U.S. II anti-aircraft batteries.
“Faster—”
“These things don’t go that fast, Mr. President!”
“Shit,” he snarled. The MiG 27s came fast enough—he had learned Soviet fighter aircraft well when participating in a strategic arms limitation session as a science advisor to the Secretary of Defense, years before his short elevation to the presidential cabinet, and before his assumption of the presidency by default.
The MiGs screamed through the air above, machinegun fire chewing chunks out of the road surface as the MiGs attacked the U.S. II defensive position. And Chambers realized it suddenly—driving in a Volkswagen down an otherwise deserted road toward U.S. II lines they would have had no way of knowing he was the president, no desire to waste a missile to destroy them.
