by Jerry Ahern
“Sure,” Sanderson said. “I don’t know what you mean though, he seems fine to me.”
“I don’t know what, but...” Akiro said, “something just doesn’t feel right where he is concerned. I agree it could be nothing more than pre-operations nerves. But help me watch him.”
“Will do.”
Chapter Seventy-Three
Dr. Cummings consulted with Frank O’Conner, “Here are the readings and our extrapolations, Frank. Do you agree?”
Studying the reports, O’Conner pushed his glasses up on his forehead. “Yes, I agree. At those angles I believe you can set up an area of disturbance. By my calculations, after thirty minutes of stimulation, if the ice has not started to slide, we can initiate sonic concussive blasts with the ultrasonic cannons here, here and here. That should dislodge the ice face.”
Cummings studied the computer model, after several seconds she said, “Then we initiate now,” and flipped a switch. The microwave generators hummed as their power was increased. “Start the time clock.”
Sanderson and Kuriname’s men had established over watch security for the entire operation one half mile back from the affected zone. They were monitoring the air space above them and staying in contact with Paul Rubenstein and Walls who were monitoring the entire northern hemisphere above the continental U.S.; so far everything was going as planned.
Twenty-five minutes after the microwave transmitters were activated there were no signs of activity. At twenty-seven minutes, thirty seconds, the first fissures began opening in the glacial covering. O’Conner said, “Now! Hit the sonic cannons.” Deep, thumping sounds were directed toward the ice and snow on both sides of the monument and were felt, more than heard, by the scientists. The ice coverings on the monument faces had to be simultaneously destroyed for a successful archaeological mission. But, they also had to clear the ice from the top of the monument and the back slope to accomplish their real mission—access to the Hall of Records.
The slippage of hundreds of years of snow and ice accumulation had to be precise or the Mount Rushmore monument and the Hall of Records could both be destroyed. O’Conner studied the snow, “Kick it up another five decibels please.” One of the technicians dialed in the corrections—the fissures widened.
“Alright, mount up!” O’Conner ordered. “We have to leave here right now.” He knew he was probably sacrificing hundreds of thousands of dollars of equipment but it couldn’t be helped. The concussive waves had to continue but he would not ask anyone to stay behind to operate the equipment.
Chapter Seventy-Four
The slides started minutes later; thousands of metric tons of ice and snow which accumulated over 650 years, shivered. Fissures opened from mere inches to several feet and then yards. Suddenly, there was a cacophony of sound and force on both sides of the crest of Mount Rushmore. In front, the busts of presidents shown through with just a microscopically thin layer of water generated by the microwave generators that provided the lubrication. The concussive cannons provided the kinetic energy. The roar of falling ice and snow was deafening.
Rourke watched the monitors and then looked down the slope. For the first time in centuries, four presidential faces shown in the morning light. Darker than Rourke remembered, I hope that is just the water layer, he thought. Turning to Dr. Cummings, “Okay Doc, looks like this worked. Where is the Hall of Records?”
Sanderson’s and Kuriname’s teams reformed on the crest of the mountain. Security was the first consideration; scientific discovery a distant second. Setting secure points and attaching repelling ropes, several squads of men descended behind the presidential busts while their compatriots remained on guard. Following their locator devices they moved forward. After moving several feet of debris and ice, the doors stood before them. The doors had stood for centuries, solid and locked as though against the world—against the insanity of it. Electronic lock picking devices opened the doors in less than fifteen minutes. They were inside—Shangri-La!
The conservation technicians examined the storage containers; six had lost structural integrity. Only the universe knew what secrets were lost. The rest appeared to be intact; there was more material than anyone had imaged. A “fire bucket brigade” was formed and the intact containers were moved to the pickup points on the crest of the mountain. That project alone would take several hours.
Chapter Seventy-Five
Three of the ATPAAVs were making constant round trips to the VTOL transport plane over a mile away. Now, the Hall of Records stood empty for the first time in centuries. It had served its purpose with distinction. With the last containers on their way to the transport planes, the operation had moved to a cleanup phase. Two more trips and the last of the scientists and the first of the security teams would be loaded and ready to return home. John Rourke smiled at Sanderson and slapped Akiro on the back, “A double success guys: recovery of the artifacts and successful abatement of centuries of ice and snow from one of our nation’s greatest monuments. It is a great day.”
“Yes, it is,” Kuriname said, still unable to shake the sense of foreboding.
At that instant, Rourke’s satellite phone cheeped. “Go ahead,” was all he said. This phone was on a separate frequency from the others. On the other end was Paul Rubenstein, watching for those “patterns.”
Paul advised, “You have incoming! ETA fifteen minutes, maybe ten. Evacuate to the southeast. Rally at Point Victor for extraction. I repeat, Point Victor.”
“Roger,” Rourke said into the radio. “Damnit! Get everything moving; we have company, inbound. Load everybody up, Wes, contact the VTOLs, tell them to launch and move to Point Victor; we’ll meet them there. Any equipment not already loaded on the ATPAAVs; leave it. We have to leave now. Tell your drivers to make it to Point Victor for extraction.”
Sanderson and Kuriname nodded and ran off to initiate the orders. Rourke hoped they had time to complete them but he didn’t think they would. Rourke watched the loading process and took a last look around; discarded equipment littered the area. Rourke ran to the juncture of the glacier; a Viking slid to a stop next to him, “Get in Mr. Rourke.”
“Thanks for the lift, let’s move out.” The driver stepped on the gas and rocketed across the ice. The other ATPAAVs charged ahead of them. They were already over a half-mile away and leaving them behind. Rourke shouted into the wind, “Go! Go! You have to catch up to them.”
Rourke realized the gap to the other Vikings increased; it now stood at about a mile. A hundred yards in front of them, the snow suddenly exploded. Rourke lost sight of the other vehicles; more energy bolts flashed from the sky. The driver swerved to avoid a chasm that opened up in front of them. Hanging on to the overhead roof cage, Rourke turned to his right and looked behind; two silver objects streaked toward them belching green energy bursts. “Turn!” Rourke shouted. “You have to go right damnit and step on it! We have to catch up; the VTOLs won’t wait on us.”
Suddenly, the vehicle slowed then stopped. Rourke whipped around to see what new danger was stopping them; nothing. He looked incredulously at the driver and shouted, “What the hell?” The driver’s left hand held a pistol pointed at Rourke’s chest. “I’m counting on the VTOLs not waiting for us, Mr. Rourke.” An energy blast hit nearby, throwing snow and ice on them just as Rourke pulled his Sting 1A boot knife and lunged. The driver squeezed the trigger just as the wave of concussion violently rocked the ATPAAV onto its side, throwing both men out.
Rourke rolled through the impact, landing on his back. He scrambled to his feet just as the driver leapt at him; Rourke’s left hand closed on the man’s throat as the impact sent them rolling. Rourke now on top, his grip tightened; the man’s face began turning red. Rourke stabbed at the man’s face but his assailant’s left hand gripped Rourke’s wrist in mid thrust.
Sharp pain suddenly stabbed through Rourke’s chest; his strength faded and his grip loosened. The driver coughed violently and shoved Rourke over. Rourke tried to move but couldn’t, he thought
, I’m dying. Looking down he saw a hypodermic sticking out of his chest. Rourke’s world started spinning as his attacker stood over him and he noticed the man’s name tag for the first time—ARNOLD.
Why? Rourke’s mind framed the question silently as darkness took him completely.
Epilogue
Every fiber in Rourke’s body was on fire, but he could do nothing. His mind had climbed slowly back to a conscious level and he screamed silently—the scream was locked in his mind. Not a sound came from him. The fire consuming him was total; he wished for death. The pain was so intense. He wished for movement so he could run, but he was keenly aware of the restraints that held him to the hard, unyielding surface. Feels like an examination table, he thought. Rourke had no choice but to suffer the agony, silently.
He was mentally aware but physically numbed—unable to move. Bits and pieces of his life flashed through that part of his mind that was conscious. Memories of every injury he sustained came back; every agony he endured flooded over him. None of them came close to the suffering he now endured. Then, as suddenly as the agony had consumed him, it miraculously stopped.
Sweat covered his naked skin. Stink from the sweat threatened to smother him; still, he could not move. Blessedly, he lost consciousness again. The being he knew as The Creator stood over him, expressionless, without Rourke’s knowledge.
He awoke again; he opened his eyes. After many minutes, his vision returned. I’m not blind, he thought. As he focused, the scene around him could only be described as... alien. He was alone. He had no frames of reference to define where he was. Then it hit him, with the force of a nuclear detonation.
John Thomas Rourke had been captured. He was now in the hands of the greatest enemy the planet Earth had ever faced—The Creator. Fear grabbed him low in the gut, and flushed upward through his chest. The first sound he made erupted from his mouth—a single scream that encompassed more fear, more dread, more hopeless than he had ever felt.
His right hand convulsed, seeking a Detonics CombatMaster or the Sting. His last conscious thought was, if he found either, he’d kill himself. Then darkness came to him again, a single burning tear escaped his right eye and slowly slid down the side of his face. Now, fully engulfed in the black void of his mind, the only movement was a continuing twitch of his right hand.
The Creator stepped back in the room. He, or more possibly “it,” had dark grey skin, an elongated body and a small chest. The creature lacked muscular definition or visible skeletal structure and had no visible sex organs. The legs were shorter than in a human; the humerus and thighs appeared to be the same length as the forearms and shins.
Its head was unusually large in proportion to the body. There was no hair visible anywhere on the body, including the face. The face had no noticeable outer ears or nose, only small orifices for ears and nostrils. Its mouth was small. Its opaque black eyes were very large, but with no discernible iris or pupil. The creature stood about four feet tall, maybe slightly more, but only by an inch or two.
It stood for a long time staring at Rourke. The total lack of expression would have been disconcerting had Rourke been conscious to witness it. The only movement was isolated to the creatures head, periodically moving from side to side. On a human, it could have been interpreted as quizzical or thoughtful. Slowly, it laid its hand on Rourke’s head, a gesture that could have been construed as gentle.
Had the creature been able to speak, or if John could have listened to its thoughts, he would have heard… You are mistaken John Rourke.
Author’s Note
If you’re like me, you’ve wondered about Rourke’s Retreat; was it a real place or just part of Jerry’s creative mind? According to Sharon Ahern, “Shortly after moving to Georgia in the late 1970s, we started exploring the beautiful countryside. We’d grab the kids, fill up the tank of our Ford LTD and take off for the day. One of these excursions took us into higher elevations and we discovered towns like Helen and Cleveland. Cleveland, by the way, is home to the original Cabbage Patch dolls where, if you’re there at just the right time, you may be able to witness a birth. As we drove, a very distinctive mountain loomed off to our right. It wasn’t the tallest mountain we’d seen in Georgia but, it was just different. For those of you who remember the beginnings of THE SURVIVALIST series, you might be interested in knowing that in order to get close to its base, the last paved road before you hit gravel is named Chambers Road. It just called out to us as the perfect place for the location of the Retreat. The actual name of that mountain is Mount Yonah or Yonah Bald and is located in the Chattahoochee National Forest.”
Wikipedia credits the Spanish explorer Hernando de Soto who in the early 1500s, searched the caves of Yonah for a lost Indian treasure; de Soto never found the treasure but in 1834, the village he and his men inhabited during the search was discovered by gold miners. To his credit though, de Soto did discover the Mississippi River.
Sharon added, “In THE SURVIVALIST, John Thomas Rourke actually bought the mountain and spent years renovating and supplying his hideaway. One thing most readers miss when they’ve talked to us about the Retreat is the fact that wherever a character traveled from point A to point B and there were stairs to take, for example, if they were going to a bedroom or the kitchen, we always had the same number of stairs throughout. Check out THE SURVIVALIST #3: The Quest. We did the same thing in some other books but it started with the Retreat. Writers do not remember everything and it pays to plan ahead, even with stairs.”
Working with Sharon has been an ongoing educational process for me, not only has it been fun but I’ve learned some interesting facts. I’ll share some of these with you from time to time. Not only was the location of the Retreat based in reality but... Jerry and Sharon always saw John Rourke with Charlton Heston’s demeanor combined with the laconic voice of Clint Eastwood. There’s a bit of trivia for you.
Bob
The Warrior’s Last Stand, by Vic Roseberry
Copyright ©1980
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