by Jerry Ahern
Ball moved to the left, away from the Griffin and stood ready; the short sword in his right hand. The Mongol charged and swung his blade at Mad Jack’s head. Ball parried with the flat of his double-edged sword sending the Mongol’s blade at a different angle and ducked. The Mongol recovered and backed away; a smile returned to his lips.
Just a short distance away, Sanderson was locked in a grappling match with a Mongol about his same size. The Mongol’s firearm was empty; he had discarded it and pulling his dagger had closed on Sanderson with a vengeance. Sanderson had blocked the initial swing with his rifle, the impact of the blade shattering the stock. Sanderson dropped the useless rifle and pulled his combat knife. The two now stood locked together; neither with an advantage and neither able to turn loose of the other for another attack. The Mongol was wiry, strength coming from desperation; his foul breath blowing into Sanderson’s face with exertion.
Rourke saw the struggle and pulled his Detonics with his right hand. He was still firing the M-16 A12 on full auto at six Mongols closing on him when he snap fired a .45 slug into the chest of the man fighting Sanderson; the man staggered back dropping his dagger. Rubenstein dropped another Mongol with the Schmeisser and pushed his wire frame glasses back in place before splattering the head of a charging, sword-wielding Mongol. He spun violently to the right as a slug passed through his right leg, breaking the femur. “Go, go John, find Natalia.”
Sanderson pulled back and then charged the man, driving his own blade into the man’s stomach and jerking it upward. The point penetrated the man’s heart, but he didn’t die quickly; he struggled to attack Sanderson with his teeth. A few more heartbeats were required before the man slumped to the ground and Sanderson pulled the nine-inch blade out of his gut. Wiping it on the man’s tunic, Sanderson turned to survey the battle.
Out of sight from the camp, a silent and deadly dance of steel continued between Mad Jack and his Mongol. Both blades flashed and the ring of steel on steel rang out. The son of a bitch is good, Mad Jack thought. Both men backed away from the fight, neither had scored first blood yet. Breathing deeply, they walked in a large circle facing each other, waiting. The Mongol whistled and his horse walked over to him. The Mongol pulled an animal skin bladder from the saddle. He stepped back and stuck his blade in the ground, uncorked the bladder, and took a drink; his eyes never leaving Mad Jack’s.
Jack dropped the point of his sword and relaxed as he watched the Mongol. The Mongol finished his drink, corked the bladder’s stopper, and held it forward in an offer to his opponent. Mad Jack smiled and nodded. The Mongol threw the bladder; Jack caught it with his left hand, pulled the cork and took a sip. The fermented goat wine stung his mouth but warmed his belly. Corking the bladder, he threw it back to the Mongol who nodded approval and tossed the bladder away.
Pulling his sword up, he looked at Jack. Jack smiled and gave a slight bow while raising his sword back into position. The Mongol charged, the wicked blade held high for a final stroke. The stroke came at Jack on his side; he sidestepped forty-five degrees to his right and deflected the attack with the forte, the third of the blade closest to the guard. He flicked his wrist letting his pummel go over his opponent’s wrist, while stepping forty-five degrees to the left. Disengaging his blade, he pulled it back and thrust low into the Mongol’s gut. For an instant the two men stood motionless, then the Mongol’s knees buckled and he fell. It was over.
Chapter Sixteen
Rourke stuck the Detonics in his belt, changed rifle magazines and started forward to the nearest tent. Inside he saw the bodies—Natalia wasn’t one of them. He pulled out and ran to the next tent; still no sign of her. Then behind and inside the third tent, he saw her. “Paul, over here,” he screamed.
She lay covered in blood, partially hidden under one of the Mongols. Beside her lay another Mongol; his throat was ripped out. Rourke jerked the dead man off of her and pulled the Bali-Song from the man’s chest. She had cut the man twice; the first cut had opened his stomach, dumping a huge volume of blood and his intestines on her and the ground. The second thrust was to his heart.
Kneeling, Rourke took a deep breath before feeling for a pulse in her neck—it was weak but it was there. “Medic,” Rourke shouted. “Medic, get your ass in here!” A Navy Corpsman knelt next to Rourke, took one look and went to Natalia. Rourke stood up, getting out of the way. “Doc!” Rourke said harshly. The Corpsman worked silently, ignoring him. Rourke said a silent prayer and wondered, How will I tell Michael and the kids? He pulled one of his thin black cigars but didn’t light it. While he wiped the blood and gore from the Bali-Song’s blade and handle on the pants of the man she had killed, the Corpsman continued to work on Natalia.
Finally the Corpsman sat back on his heels and looking over his shoulder said, “She’s lost a lot of blood. I’ve put an IV in to replace her blood volume; there may be damage to both her skull and cervical spine. We’ll need x-rays to be sure. I’ve stabilized her neck with this collar. She’s been beaten and she’s dehydrated and needs surgery. But I think... I think Dr. Rourke, she’s going to be okay. We need to get one of the ATPAAVs down here and get her back to Mid-Wake as soon as possible.”
Rourke nodded, gave silent thanks to God and said, “You stay with her, as of right now I’m holding you personally responsible for her welfare.” The Corpsman nodded and went back to work as Rourke stepped outside and waved for Rubenstein to send the all clear signal and bring his ATPAAV down to the camp. He held up a clenched fist with his thumb extended, the signal he and Paul had worked out if Natalia was alive. Then he pulled his battered Zippo and lit the cigar; he noticed his hand was shaking just a bit.
Rubenstein’s leg wound had been bandaged and a field splint applied; he hobbled and was half carried by the other team medic to Rourke’s side. “How is she?”
“Hurt but I think she’ll survive. The medic thinks so and he pretty well confirmed my initial examination. We have to get her back.”
“Any other members of the expedition make it?”
Rourke shook his head, “My focus was finding her, but I don’t think so. Did you get the message out?”
Rubenstein nodded and walked painfully back to the right side of Rourke’s Griffin, “I assume you’re driving.”
“Yeah,” Rourke said, pulling the fold-out stretcher from the back of the ATPAAV. “As soon as we can, load her.” He glanced up the hill. Mad Jack Ball was walking toward Rourke, his sword still dripping blood. “Colonel, you look like hell,” Rourke said.
“Take a look at the other guy,” Ball smiled and raised his right hand; the severed head of the Mongol rider in it. “Got shot down by this fellow,” he said, explaining the fight to Rourke. When he finished, Ball spun the head by its long hair braid and heaved it off into the distance.
“Did you locate your daughter-in-law and is she alive?”
“Yes,” Rourke said. “She’s injured but we have her stabilized. It looks like the rest of her team was butchered. Sanderson is checking though.”
Ball nodded, “I’m glad she’s going to survive. How long before we move out?”
“Should be about…” Rourke glanced at his Rolex, “shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
“Then, I don’t have very long to complete my mission.” He pulled a small rectangular device from his breast pocket and flipped it down; a soft beeping sounded. “I better get started. Where was she found?”
Rourke pointed at the tent where he had found Natalia; Ball took off at a jog. Fifteen minutes later, Natalia, bandaged and tied to the stretcher, was loaded onto the roof of the Griffin; an IV bag hung from one of the crash bars. Sanderson and his men checked the other tents, he looked at Rourke and just shook his head; Natalia’s archeology team members were all dead. Rourke nodded and signaled it was time to go. It would be a long trip back to Mid-Wake but not as long as he had feared. Natalia was alive—at least for right now.
Ball bummed a ride back with Rourke; he stretched out in the cargo area behind
the seats. “I found what I came for,” he said, padding his pocket.
“Colonel,” Rourke started.
“John, would you just call me Jack?”
Rourke focused on the drive, “Absolutely Jack, about that short sword of yours. What is it?” Rourke asked, pointing at the sword, “Am I correct, it is a modified version of the Roman Gladius?”
Ball smiled, “You are, but I worked several changes into this design, especially the hilt, grip and pummel. It is modeled on the Gladius Hispaniensis, or Spanish Gladius. The Romans placed a lot of emphasis with the sword. I wanted one that would cut and slash. All types of the Gladius were perfectly good at cutting if necessary, though this one was definitely best since it was longer, twenty-five to twenty-seven-inch blade. I split the difference and have a twenty-six-inch blade and a different style of hilt and pummel.”
“I try to practice daily using a double-weight training model. While the classic attack involved knocking an opponent off-balance then a very fast thrust to the belly with the sword, I incorporate more of the medieval fencing and Japanese Wakizashi techniques.”
Rourke nodded and thought for a moment, when he looked back at Mad Jack, he was sound asleep; his body bouncing with the movement of the Griffin. Rourke smiled to himself, Yeah, Mad Jack fits.
Chapter Seventeen
The older gentleman stood outside a door in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, stroking his heavy mustache. Baton Rouge had climbed out of the apocalyptic destruction after the Night of the War and reestablished itself as a trade center between the wild areas that remained on both sides of the Mississippi and the few commercial areas that remained.
Confirming the address from a note card, he leaned heavily on the ebony cane with a sterling handle, opened the door and walked in. “Hello,” he said to the secretary. “I don’t have an appointment but if the owner is in, might I speak with him?”
She dialed an extension number and said into the handset, “A gentleman would like to speak with you, Sir. Okay, will do.” Hanging up she gestured to the older man, “It is the door at the end of the hall, he said to come on in.”
William Robert “Beaux Diddley” Delys, pronounced like the last part of the French emblem, the fleur-de-lys, rose from his desk and went to the door; he was casually dressed in slacks and a sports coat. “Hello Sir, I’m Beaux Delys. How can I help you?”
“Sir, I believe I have need of your services. But first I would like to interview you if you don’t mind. My needs call for... shall I say, special considerations.” He did not offer his name, but the handshake was firm and confident.
“Sit down and fire away,” Delys said. He was used to being interviewed by potential clients. After all, trust and confidentiality were absolutely necessary in his line of work. “Would you care for coffee?”
The man sat down, “Yes, black please.”
Delys punched the intercom, “Two cups Sally, black for both, please.”
The old man scoured the citations and certifications on the wall as they waited. A gentle knock came at the door and the secretary entered with a tray carrying two coffees. She handed the first cup to the client, the second to her boss. “Thank you Sally,” Delys said and she left.
“Mr. Delys,” the older man said once Sally had closed the door to the office, “I hope you understand the need...” he said, pausing. “Shall I say the need for discretion of the highest order during our conversation?” Delys nodded and for the next hour, Delys fielded the usual questions he was so used to. Finally, the older man nodded with finality and said, “Then for our current purposes you may call me Otto Gruber. I’m confident that this nom de plume will be penetrated by you eventually, but by that time, I’m sure it will be irrelevant. I believe you were with the Honolulu Police Department originally, is that correct?”
Delys nodded, “Yes Sir, I suspect you knew that already. Additionally, by the nature of your questions, I can deduce you have already conducted a pretty thorough background check on me. That indicates you have a need for someone with discretion and some experience in covert operations. Am I correct?”
“You are,” the older man said. Reaching in an inside coat pocket he pulled out a single index card. “I need to know if you can personally deliver this card to the gentleman whose name is on the reverse.”
Delys reached across the desk taking the card, he sat back down before he read it. Glancing down at the card, Delys said under his breath, “Holy shit...” Looking up after almost a minute of staring at the card, Delys cleared his throat. “You realize this will require some... finesse?”
The older gentleman smiled, “I do Mr. Delys, I do. You may call me at this number when the card is delivered.” Gruber slid another card across the desk. “You are to give this number to the recipient. I have already purchased a plane ticket for you.” He slid a small envelope across the desk followed by a larger one. “There will be some travel expenses incurred; I believe this should cover your expenses and time. Additionally, I would like to place you on retainer. It is probable there will be additional requirements and for the duration of this arrangement I must insist your total attention and time be at my disposal. Is that a problem?”
Delys stood again and reached over to accept the heavy manila envelope. A phone number was printed on the front; inside he counted six bundles of currency wrapped with a simple mustard colored paper band. By that marking strap, Delys knew each bundle would—or should—contain 10,000 dollars in 100 dollar bills. Delys shook his head, “No Sir, I don’t believe that will be a problem. I assume you wish me to begin immediately?”
The older man nodded, “You may advise me of the details at the number on the larger envelope. He stood, extended his hand and said, “I will be waiting for his response, tell him that please.” Standing, the older man said, “May I ask you one final question? I understand you go by the nickname of Beaux Diddley, why?”
Delys smiled, “One of my old partners stuck me with that; it’s a play on my last name. The original Bo Diddley was a rhythm and blues singer, rock and roll pioneer, guitarist and songwriter in the early part of the twentieth century. In old American slang, bo diddly means ‘absolutely nothing’ and diddly is short for diddly-squat, or ‘nothing’ and bo meant ‘a lot.’ I changed the spelling to Beaux to compliment my French heritage and correspond to my last name. That’s the whole story.”
Otto Gruber, former president of the German Republic, smiled, shook Delys’ hand and left the office, closing the door behind him. Delys picked up the card again and reread the message’s two short sentences. “Jew, call me. The Nazi.” There was a phone number at the bottom and on the reverse, a man’s name was printed neatly, it read “Paul Rubenstein.”
He glanced at the departure time on the ticket then at his watch. He would have to hurry. Pocketing the larger bundle, he opened his office closet and pulled out his “go bag” he kept for emergency travel. On the way out he told Sally, “Cancel the rest of my appointments. I need you to clear my schedule for the next ten days. I’ll be leaving this afternoon and will check in from the road. Reassign any critical assignments among the team.”
He made the flight with only minutes to spare.
Chapter Eighteen
Colonel Thorne couldn’t sleep; a single thought kept running through his mind, How do I turn the craft on? Maybe we’re making this more complicated than it needs to be. Simple is always better. He stopped tossing, got up and dressed. Walking from the Bachelor’s Officers Quarters, he ran through the idea again and again. I wonder, could it be that easy?
The guard at the hanger saluted, “How you doing, Colonel? Your duty day is starting pretty early, isn’t it Sir?”
“Couldn’t sleep Sergeant, I want to try something,” Thorne said, returning the salute. At the Entry Control Point, Thorne handed over his Restricted Area Badge to the guard and received an exchange badge system to wear while he was in the hanger. Flight Surgeon Dr. Dalton was coming down the stairs as Thorne entered the office section of the hanger,
“What are you doing here, Colonel?”
“Doc, I have been thinking. Take me to the craft.” Dalton took him to the hanger floor where the egg-shaped craft stood. “Give me a minute alone in there, will you?” Thorne said. “I want to try something; probably won’t work but I need to know.”
Thorne walked through the hatch and sat down in the pilot’s seat. He swiveled it around and sat there looking at the blank control panel. “Feels right,” he said aloud as he settled into the seat, “Feels right.” He reached out with his left hand and laid it on the surface of the panel, nothing happened. He moved his right hand and laid it on the surface, still nothing. He pulled them back and sat there for a moment, thinking. Then he laid both hands at the same time on the panel and thought, On.
Instantly, a holographic image sprang into view. He jerked back in surprise and the image vanished. “Whoa, I didn’t expect that,” he said. Wiping his hands on his pants’ leg he did it again and the image returned; this time he left his hands in place. He thought, Systems, and data began to stream across the hologram. That’s good, he thought, it is in English. The order of the data was different from what he was used to but it was all there. Taking a deep breath, he thought, Remain on standby.
Standing up, he went to the hatch and hollered out, “Doc, have you got a camera?”
“In my office.”
“Get it and come in here, hurry. Make sure the camera has good batteries and a new memory card.” Dalton took off at a run returning in less than ten minutes with the camera, slightly out of breath.
“What now?” he asked.
Thorne sat back down and said, “Get the camera ready and watch this.” Placing his hands again on the panel he thought, Resume. The holographic image sprang into being.
