Earth Fire

by Jerry Ahern

  Natalia took two hesitant steps forward, leaned up and kissed Reed on the cheek. Reed looked at her and smiled. “Major, if you don’t mind a dying man getting his last re­quest?”

  She didn’t answer him. Reed put his hands on her upper arms and drew her toward him, then kissed her full on the lips. Rourke watched as she kissed him back. “I was right all along,” Reed smiled, letting go of her. “Rourke—he was crazy all this time, lady,” and Colonel Reed turned away and started to walk—quickly, erect—toward the knot of his men ten yards away. He never looked back.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chambers ducked his head down, the lip of the trench blowing away, dirt and rocks showering him. He clenched his M-16 in his fists, ducking back under the sheltered por­tion of the redoubt, “Halversen,” he shouted, calling to the radio man at the far end of the bunker. “Halversen!”

  “Mr. President, nothing yet. I’ve tried every frequency that the KGB hasn’t jammed. If the Texans are coming, sir—well, they aren’t receiving us at all and I’m not picking Up any of their talk.”

  Chambers turned away, rasping, “Keep trying, Halver­sen.”

  Footsteps along the trench, Chambers looking up, a young man in Air Force fatigues running in. “Where the hell’s the president?”

  “Who wants him, Sergeant?”

  “My lieutenant told me to run over here. The last of the surface to air missiles was fired.” There was the sound of an explosion from outside, then more gunfire. “They send any more of them damn MiG airplanes against our position, we’re goners.”

  “They send too many more against this whole Army, we’re goners.”

  “Where the hell’s the president—supposed to tell him per­sonally.”

  “Be back in a minute,” Chambers said, glancing toward Halversen, but the radio man’s head was leaned toward his machine.

  “Probably off stickin’ his head in some goddamned hole figurin’ he’s gonna get shot.”

  “Or maybe he dressed up like a woman and tried to es­cape through the lines, like Santa Anna did after he lost to Houston at the Battle of San Jacinto.”

  The Air Force sergeant laughed. “Naw, everything I hear, well—Chambers—he’s a good old boy, even for a scientist, or a president. But I gotta find him though. Lieutenant wants to know what to do.”

  “You found him, son, I’m the president.”

  “You—why—” and the young Air Force sergeant—he looked barely older than nineteen—but promotion had come fast during the weeks since the Night of The War—snapped to attention. “I’m sorry, sir—I—”

  “You tell your lieutenant that when the SAMs are gone to get every man in his battery to pick up an assault rifle off one of the men who’s already dead. When the Russian planes come, have him have all of you fire in volleys toward the weapons pods underneath the wings. If the weapons are armed and you get a lucky hit, you might activate a detona­tor and blow up the damned plane. Move out, Sergeant.” .

  “Yes, sir,” and the man started to go, then turned back. “I’m sorry for what I said, Mr. President, about the damn hole and all—”

  “It was a goddamned hole—and no offense taken—good luck, Sergeant,” and as the sergeant started out of the bun­ker, Chambers found his cigarettes and his matches, light­ing up. He read the warning on the side of the package and laughed out loud.

  Chapter Fifty

  There were a large number of “lake-worthy” craft still about, Maus had known that from his work in the Resist­ance and, as he stood up to survey his armada as it moved shoreward, what he saw only confirmed it. He had never stopped to count the number of craft. Marty had counted them but never told him the number.

  He waved his right hand high, across the distance sepa­rating the small cabin cruiser in which he rode from the mo­torized sailboat in which Stanonik stood. Behind them, around them, there were more than a hundred craft—from large sailing boats to motorized launches, men and women of the Resistance, civilians who had helped but never before fought, the few survivors of Ft. Sheridan and Great Lakes.

  As the ranking surviving military man, command had fallen to him. He watched as Marty—his Python in his right fist—waved back.

  For the several hundred men and women, there were fewer than one hundred M-16s, some of these not originally military assault rifles at all but after-market altered from the commercial civilian model, these by the wide range of gun tinkerers Maus had collected around him into the Re­sistance after the Night of The War. For the most part, pis­tols, the dreaded “handgun” that so many had fought to eradicate from the American scene and which since the Night of The War had helped to hold the Russians back however slightly. That Americans could be armed—unlike the citizens of many nations of the world—had proven an ultimate blessing in combating the Soviet invaders. Some shotguns, some .22 rifles.

  Not a machinegun among them. Not a LAWS rocket. Not even a subgun. These that they had over the course of their battles stolen from the Soviets who had stolen them from U.S. military armories, had been sent with the bulk of the Resistance toward Texas to help combat the fight against the Soviet forces massing against U.S. II. Maus and the other Resistance leaders had known that reaching Texas in time was impossible, but necessary. If sufficient forces started climbing up the backs of the Russians, they would have to divert troops from their main objective, buying time for U.S. II, however little.

  The lake shore lay ahead.

  Already, Soviet patrol boats were steaming toward them.

  Maus raised the loud-hailer to his lips. “This is Maus. All right, they’re coming to meet us. Most of us won’t get through—but we knew that. Those of us that make it to shore—well, they know where we’re headed. Forget about Soviet headquarters. We attack the prisoner compounds at Soldier’s Field and nearby. Free as many Americans as we can. And kill as many of the Soviet troops as we have to. Good luck.”

  And under his breath, as he set down the loud hailer, he whispered a prayer.

  In less than a minute, as he judged it, the Soviet forces would open fire.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  They moved on foot, running, the corridor as wide as a four lane highway, overlit by long fluorescent tubes, the corridor itself more like a seemingly endless tunnel, leading slightly upward, Reed and his men holding their rifles at high port, hugging both sides of the corridor wall, Reed leading one element, Sergeant Dressier the second element.

  There were numerous side passages, but Reed wanted to keep going up, toward the particle beam weapons at the top of the mountain. Paralleling the corridor on each side was a walkway perhaps five feet higher than the main corridor surface, the walkway itself little more than six feet wide, a metal railing at the lip.

  The tunnel-like corridor curved, not only upward but in a gradual spiral as best Reed could tell — it was taking him to the right place.

  The absence of resistance of any kind bothered him, but also reassured him.

  The KGB had second-guessed the reason for penetrating the Womb. It meant they were concentrating their efforts on the particle beam facilities and the cryogenic laboratory. It at least meant, Reed thought, that he would have a chance of nearing his goal. And once he was near to it, then he could get to it.

  The men who would guard the cryogenic laboratory—if they knew the extent of the plans for the Womb—would be desperate men, fighting for their continued existence. But the men who guarded the particle beam facility were only guarding a massive weapon.

  Desperation would be on Reed’s side.

  To a man, his soldiers were resigned to death and com­mitted to victory. With men like these he could cut through any resistance, he told himself. If one man only could reach the facility there could be a way of turning such massive power against itself.

  He thought of Rourke and laughed. Rourke who always planned ahead. Rourke had never said, “If you don’t knock out the particle beam weapons I’ll never get any of the cryo­genic chambers or any of the serum
out of here. They’ll blow my aircraft out of the sky.”

  Rourke had never said that, but to Reed it was implicit in his understanding of the situation. That at least some of Rourke’s people survive. If somehow some of the Russians survived in the Womb, or even survived vicariously through five centuries of breeding underground in the Womb, some­one would need to be alive to warn the returning Eden Pro­ject, to tell the story of what happened.

  To give the story of the valiant dead on both sides. That thought surprised him—to consider a Russian valiant. But Ravitski had been brave, had died. Vladov, Daszrozinski and the others would die.

  It was only fitting that someone survive to remember them.

  Reed walked on, the corridor taking a sharp bend, up­ward and angling left. They were nearing their goal—and nearing death.

  Reed slipped his hand under his fatigue blouse. There was a ziploc plastic bag there, folded inside it an American flag. He had a planned use for it.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Rourke slowed the fire engine red Kawasaki Ninja, mak­ing a wide circle as he stopped, swinging the M-16 forward on its sling, keeping the Ninja’s engine running under him.

  Natalia, at the wheel of the Ford pickup, slowed, stopped. Vladov, riding beside her, jumped out, shouting something to Daszrozinski in the truck bed, Daszrozinski and the nine other men of the SF unit and Major Gorki and Sergeant Druszik of GRU evacuating the truck bed as well.

  Rourke stared down the corridor. It was as wide as a four lane highway, a walkway on each side just about the width of a car, a railing running the length of the corridor. Over­head, banks of fluorescent tubes glowed brightly, giving an almost green tinge to everything the light touched.

  “There it is,” Rourke almost whispered, squinting against the light and gesturing along the length of the corridor. The corridor ended some two hundred yards ahead, and beyond it would be the cryogenics lab.

  “They are waiting for us,” Vladov observed.

  “Yeah, I figured that, too,” Rourke nodded. He took the .45 from his belt, snapped back the slide and let it run for­ward. He upped the safety and stuffed the pistol back in his belt. The grip safety had never been pinned or otherwise de­activated—if the thumb safety should wipe off, the gun was still at least marginally safe to carry that way.

  “There is no way to go around them,” Natalia called, climbed down from the cab of the pickup. “At least if we want to reach the lab.”

  “They’ll let us get close enough, then open up, most likely.”

  “Doctor,” Vladov began. “I view our mission—meaning by that the mission of myself and my men — I view it that we have the primary goal of getting yourself and Major Tiemerovna inside the cryogenics laboratory, to destroy the supplies of the cryogenic serum and perhaps to steal some for use at your Retreat, along with the appropriate cryogen­ics chambers and monitoring equipment. That being the case, we shall go ahead, forming a corridor for yourself and the major through which you can penetrate the laboratory. After that, I’m afraid the rest shall be left in the capable hands of yourself and the major. We shall be otherwise en­gaged.”

  “Let’s get this straight for once and for all. I want to save my family, but my primary mission is to prevent Rozhdestvenskiy’s people from sleeping through the holocaust and awakening to destroy the Eden Project — when and if it re­turns.”

  “And if it doesn’t, Doctor, you should consider that. If we succeed in destroying the utility of the Womb, but do not succeed in saving your family, then it will all have been meaningless if the Eden Project should fail to return. I know little about space travel, aside from the exploits of our Soviet cosmonauts, aside from the few American films I have seen when for a time I served as military attache to our embassy in Japan. But I understand that quite a few things could go wrong. A malfunction in the onboard elec­trical systems could cause the cryogenic chambers inside the shuttles to cease to function. The occupants would die. A meteor shower could attack the ships and destroy them. If the mathematical calculations were incorrect, rather than an elliptical orbit taking them to the edge of the solar system and back again, they might instead drift out of the solar sys­tem and voyage endlessly. When they awaken, they would be doomed to wander forever, if they chose to return to their sleep, or they would die in a matter of hours when shipboard oxygen was depleted. In other words, the survival of your family, though I have never met them, is vital. Without their survival, if we succeed, we will have achieved nothing. There will be no human race. All mankind would be lost.”

  “Some people may survive, living underground, if they’re smart enough and technologically set —”

  “Another maybe. Whereas, the mountain Retreat Gen­eral Varakov has spoken of should be impervious, the elec­trical supply you yourself saying should likely be infinite. There is an Americanism, I believe—the best wager—”

  “Best bet,” Rourke corrected automatically.

  “Very well, your family is the best bet for the survival of the human race. That is the priority which my general has given me, and which I shall obey. Perhaps, if you do sur­vive, and in the era five centuries from now you should help to rebuild cities and towns,” and Vladov smiled, almost sheepishly, “I would find it amusing. In the Soviet Army, my particular unit has earned the name Drahka—it simply means in English —”

  “Fight,” Rourke interrupted.

  “Yes. It sums up our lives, our destinies, our spirit, our honor, that we never give up. Perhaps—well—a street, or a village square where children play—it might somehow be something we would somehow know.”

  Rourke swallowed hard, then nodded.

  “After all, a Russian name, a Russian word in an Ameri­can town—it might be very amusing.”

  “I shouldn’t think it would be amusing—but it would be fitting,” Rourke nodded.

  “Comrade Doctor, I understand Daszrozinski has called you this once and you did not find it an offense. For in truth we are the best comrades, all of us in this fight.”

  “Comrade Captain, Zehlahyou Udahchee,” Rourke mur­mured.

  “Comrade Doctor, good luck,” Vladov echoed. He ex­tended his right hand—Rourke took it. Vladov stepped back. He turned to Natalia. He called his men to attention, the GRU major and sergeant snapping to as well. He raised his hand in salute to her, “Comrade Major. Your uncle was and always shall be our nation’s finest officer. On behalf of your uncle and yourself, please accept our salute.” He called to the other Russians, “Present arms!”

  Natalia stood for a moment—Rourke thought she was about to weep. But she raised her right hand—it was the last salute she would ever give, he knew, however it worked out. She held it. Finally, Vladov commanded, “Order arms,” and the rifle salutes went down. Vladov nodded to her, “Com­rade Major,” and lowered his salute. She lowered hers.

  And as Rourke watched her, now she did weep.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Of the armada, only some two dozen of the ships re­mained, Maus hauling himself up from the waves, his left arm bloody and useless to him, a .45 in his right fist as he ordered his legs to move him forward. KBG troops, ahead of him, to his right, less than a half dozen of the Resistance coming out of the water with him. He fired the .45, taking down one of the KGB men. For a moment he thought of his wife. He swallowed hard, fir­ing again, slugs tearing into the rocks near him, one of the Resistance fighters going down, screaming.

  Maus stood his ground, stabbing the .45 ahead of him, firing.

  A searing pain in his left leg and he stumbled forward, falling hard against the rocks, firing the pistol as soon as he raised it, another of the KGB men going down.

  “Hang on, Tommy!”

  The voice almost made him laugh. The boom of a .357 Magnum, again and again and again, the thunder of a shotgun, then again.

  He looked to his left.

  It was Marty, the Python in his fist, another man be­side him holding a riot shotgun.

  Marty dropped to his
knees beside him. “You okay, Tommy?”

  “Am I okay? You crazy. My left arm’s almost shot off and somebody shot my left leg out from under me, but I’ll make it. Get me up. We’re headin’ for Soldiers Field. How many of us left?”

  “Maybe fifty, scattered all over the shoreline for about a city block. Seven of the Russian patrol boats are left.”

  “The hell with ‘em—let’s move—get me up,” and Marty hauled Maus’s right arm across his shoulders, Maus getting to his feet, wincing from the pain in his left leg. But he could hobble.

  “All those times I told ya, without me you’d be flat on your face—took this to make you see it seriously,” Marty laughed.

  “All right. So walk already. In my next life I’ll treat you better.” Moving made him scream inside himself, but he forced the pain from his mind as much as he could. There were Americans who needed to be freed before they died.

  They reached the height of the spit of land near the airfield, Marty discharging the Python twice more, downing one of the KGB men.

  The man with the shotgun on Maus’s left picked up the AKM and handed Maus the shotgun. “Can you hold it with your left hand enough to use it like a cane—it’s outa ammo anyway.” Maus took it, his left arm barely able to move, but he closed the fingers of his left fist around it, supporting his left leg now rather than just dragging it.

  “I can walk,” Maus snarled, Marty letting free of his right arm, reloading the Python.

  “So you can walk—how about shoot?”

  “Put a fresh magazine in for me and we’ll see, huh?”

  Marty took the Colt from Maus’s right hand, dumped the spent magazine—the slide locked open already— and took the magazine from the single carrier on Maus’s belt. He rammed it home, letting the slide run forward, upping the safety, handing the Colt back to Maus.