The Doomsayer ts-4

by Jerry Ahern

  Chapter 41

  "What the hell is going on down there?" Tolliver snapped, dropping to the ground behind a palm trunk, Rubenstein dropping down beside him, the Schmeisser in his right hand.

  "It looks like they're getting out of the camp— but why? What's going on?" Rubenstein riveted his eyes to the camp. The guards were running from their posts; the officers were running too. Rubenstein looked overhead. Planes of every description imaginable were filling the sky from the west. "Those are American planes!"

  "Commies use ones they found on the ground a lot."

  "No— they're coming from the west, maybe Texas or Louisiana."

  "You're dreamin' kid," Tolliver snapped.

  "No! Look— more of them!" The droning sound in the air was as loud as anything Rubenstein could ever recall having heard. The sky was filled, the ground darkening under the shadows of the aircraft. The ground began to tremble under him, but this time more violently than before.

  Rubenstein stood up, Tolliver trying to pull him down, the young man shaking away Tolliver's hand. "It's an earthquake. Some of those planes are landing." He looked down toward the camp. The Cuban guards and officers were fleeing, the gates of the compound wide open.

  "They're evacuating. There's gonna be an earthquake."

  "You're nuts, kid."

  Rubenstein looked down to Tolliver, started to say something, but then the ground shook hard and Rubenstein jumped away as a crack eighteen inches wide began splitting across the ground. Then a palm tree fell, just missing Pedro Garcia and the other Resistance people.

  "A damned earthquake!"

  As if to underscore Tolliver's shout, the ground began shaking harder, so hard Paul Rubenstein fell to the dirt on his hands and knees. "Oh my God!" he said.

  Chapter 42

  John Rourke sat in the detention cell, his feet up on the edge of the cot, his eyes focused on the guard sitting at the far end of the cell just beyond the bars. Rourke mentally shrugged. He'd waited long enough. He palmed out the A.G. Russell black chrome Sting IA with his left hand. He had not been searched.

  "Guard," he rasped in English.

  The Communist Cuban guard stood on the other side of the bars. "Si?"

  "That's perfect," Rourke smiled. His left hand whipped forward, the Sting in his palm, point first, sailing from his hand, across the six feet or so to the wide bars, the shining black knife impacting square into the center of the guard's chest. Rourke was on his feet, diving toward the bars, his hands out, catching the guard before he fell and snatching the key ring. Rourke let the body fall to the basement floor as he reached around, fumbling for the right key. He found it and unlocked the cage, swinging the door out as far as it could with the body there, then going through.

  He reached down, grabbing his knife, wiping the blade clean on the guard's uniform, then sheathing it. As he reached down for the Communist's AK-47, Rourke froze, a familiar voice behind him saying, "Wait, John!"

  Rourke turned, slowly rising to his full height. His eyes tightly focused on Natalia, every outline of her tall, lithe body visible under the black jumpsuit she wore. And in her hands were his twin Detonics pistols, the hammers back.

  "Well what is it? You going to kill me?"

  "Why did you kill Vladmir?"

  Rourke saw no reason to lie— to lie wasn't his way. "He was an animal, he would have killed you."

  "My uncle told you this?"

  "Yes." He hesitated. "But it was something I could see. Did he hurt you?"

  "In many ways."

  "Did I hurt you?"

  "Only because you had no choice, because you have honor."

  "I'm sorry," Rourke said softly.

  The woman's eyes shifted a moment, down to her hands, then she took a small step closer to him, rolling over the pistols in her hands, presenting them butt first. "The earthquake— it has already started on the Gulf Coast. There is little time."

  "I know," he told her, his voice low.

  "Hold me, John— just for a moment.... Please."

  The guns still in his hands, Rourke folded Natalia into his arms, feeling her dark hair against his stubbled face. "I can't say everything will be all right, can I?"

  "No," he heard the girl whisper. "Never lie to me, John. Then I would die, I think."

  She stepped back from him, and he set the pistols down on the small table beside the cell door. It wasn't something he'd intended to do, he thought, even as he did it.

  His hands grasped her by her elbows, then he drew her toward him, looking down into her eyes. Then he kissed her lips, his mouth crushing down on hers, her body pressed tight against him. As he held her, he could hear and feel her breathing. "I love you," she whispered.

  Rourke started to open his mouth, but the woman in his arms touched her fingers to his lips. "No—" She said nothing else.

  Rourke looked at her a moment, then smiled. "All right," he said slowly, then bent to pick up his guns.

  "You checked them?"

  "Yes. There are five rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. Just like you carry them."

  Rourke left the pistols cocked and locked in his fists as he started away from the cell door, Natalia beside him in a moment with the dead guard's AK-47. "What's the situation?" he asked her as they reached the base of the stairs.

  "Miklov— he is a good man— has my pistol to Santiago's head. I forced Santiago to begin the evacuation, and to begin the truce so our planes and yours can land. The girl, Sissy, is with Miklov. She will be safe."

  Rourke turned and looked at Natalia, stopping in mid-stride. "Back there, I.."

  "I understand you better than you think," she said, smiling a little.

  "I know that," he told her, then started up the stairs two at a time.

  Rourke kicked open the door into the main part of the house, the doorway leading into the hall. Men were running in every direction, armed men, servants, none of them giving Rourke and Natalia as much as a second glance. And suddenly below his feet, Rourke could feel the floor starting to shake. He glanced toward the high ceiling extending upward above the second floor. There was a chandelier there— crystal, Rourke thought absently. And suddenly it started to shake.

  Rourke turned, pushing Natalia back into the basement doorway, shielding her with his body. The floor shook hard and there was a sound like an explosion as Rourke glanced behind him and toward the high ceiling. The chandelier crashed to the floor, shattering.

  There was a gunshot then, loud but muffled, followed by a woman's scream.

  Natalia looked up into Rourke's eyes. "That was Sissy— Santiago!"

  The Russian girl was already running across the central hall, jumping to clear the debris of the chandelier, Rourke running behind her. She stopped in front of the double doors leading into Santiago's office, then lashed out with her left boot, the doors splintering apart. Rourke was beside her, shouldering through as she stepped into the doorway. They both stopped. Sissy Wiznewski was standing in the middle of the floor, her hands to her open mouth, her eyes wide. On the floor beside her were two men— one of them was Miklov, Rourke assumed. There was a knife sticking out, high in his chest, just below the throat. The second body belonged to Santiago. Rourke could tell from the uniform, but only that. Where the face had been there was now only a red, pulpy mass. There was a dark object in the center of the mass. Rourke had no idea what had happened to the other eye.

  Chapter 43

  Rourke dashed down the front steps of the house, the Detonics pistols in both hands firing into the Cuban troops in front of him. He dropped to one knee, snatching up an AK-47 from one of the dead soldiers, then bumping the selector to full auto and spraying the Soviet-built assault rifle ahead of him, hearing Natalia opening up beside him. "The half track— there!" Rourke shouted, starting down the steps.

  He could hear Natalia, behind him now, screaming to the Wiznewski girl, "Sissy, get those guns and ammunition belts— hurry!"

  Rourke reached the truck, snapping the butt of the A
K-47 up into the jaw of a Communist Cuban soldier hanging onto the running board. Then he climbed up, into the cab, reloading the Detonics pistols and leaning the AK-47 beside him against the seat. He turned the key, the half-track truck's engine rumbling to life. "Come on!" he shouted.

  Natalia backed her way down the steps, firing the AK-47 in witheringly accurate three-round bursts as the Cubans started after her. Rourke swung open the cab door, snatching the AK-47 from beside him, half-stepping out onto the running board. He fired the assault rifle, nailing two Cuban soldiers running up for Natalia from her left flank. "Come on!"

  Sissy Wiznewski, her arms laden with rifles, belts with spare magazines festooned around her shoulder, was stumbling toward the truck. Rourke jumped to the driveway, feeling the ground tremble under his feet.

  He grabbed an armful of the guns and pushed the girl up into the truck cab.

  As Rourke turned, shouting again to Natalia, "Now! Come on!" he looked up. The sky overhead was dark, almost green in color, and he could feel rain on his face.

  He looked down, firing a burst from the AK-47, Natalia beside him now. "Get into the cab. We have to make it to the airfield— come on!"

  He shoved Natalia in, climbing back behind the wheel. The door still open, he released the emergency brake, gunning the engine as he let out the clutch. The half-track lurched ahead along the gravel drive.

  The cab door slammed as Rourke cut the wheel into a hard right, a truck blocking his path. He took the half-track up over a small rock barrier and onto the lawn of the estate, then across it, Natalia firing out the opposite window. He could hear the Russian coaching the Wiznewski girl in how to change magazines for the AK-47s. Rourke cut the wheel hard left, shouting, "Hold on!" He turned the truck from the grass and back onto the gravel driveway, toward the closed iron grillwork gates at the far end. The shaking of the ground was something inescapable now— he could feel it even as the half-track lurched ahead.

  Rourke fumbled for the windshield wiper switch. The rain was starting to fall in sheets now. The double iron gates were just yards ahead and Rourke, double-clutching to upshift and get some speed, shouted to the women, "Get your heads down— we're going through!"

  Less than a yard from the gates the brick support columns began to crumble as the ground running along side the driveway started to crack. Rourke hammered his right foot down on the accelerator, released, double-clutched, and upshifted, then stomped the accelerator again. The crack in front of them widened. He had no choice but to drive over it.

  He could feel the front tires go into the crack, hear the engine groaning, then feel the half-track bump and lurch ahead. He stomped down hard on the gas pedal as the front of the truck smashed into the gates, the brick support columns already crumbling down on the cab, the windshield cracking across its entire length.

  The gates split open and Rourke cut the wheel into a sharp right along the road paralleling the estate. He glanced to his right at Natalia, her hair streaming rain water as she leaned from the cab window firing at their pursuers.

  He could see the crack in the ground widening and running alongside them now, seeming to move faster than they were.

  "I've got to outrun that fissure!" Rourke shouted over the roar of the engine and the howling of the wind and rain. "Natalia, get back inside!" Rourke lessened his pressure on the gas pedal, worked the clutch and shifted into fourth, the engine whining. He shot a glance to his right. He was gaining on the widening fissure in the earth; but silently he wondered if he could pass it before it cut the road ahead of him and blocked his only chance of escape— the airfield ten miles away.

  Chapter 44

  Sarah Rourke could just see the faces of her children, Michael and Annie, in the back of the fisherman's boat, packed there with Harmon Kleinschmidt, two of the women, and the dozen or so other children. Sarah had reasoned that once the attack against the Soviet prison compound had taken place, the island would no longer be safe. Mary Beth had surprisingly, she thought, agreed with her.

  Mary Beth was at the wheel of the boat Sarah had stolen earlier, taking it coastward. And again, Sarah smiled at the thought, she was wearing borrowed clothing. She had reasoned that the best way to reach the prison and free the men who were to be executed that day was to appear as innocuous as possible. Most of the women were wearing dresses; some of them, herself included, had bundles wrapped up to look like babies. Inside Sarah's was a borrowed MAC-10

  .45 caliber submachine gun. Under the long, ankle-length skirt of the borrowed dress she wore, the .45 Colt automatic was strapped to her left thigh with elastic.

  Mary Beth had beached the boat, and Sarah and the seven other women had fought their way through the surf. The tides were high, and the wind strong for some reason. From the shore there had been a two mile walk into town, and at Sarah's urging the women had split up into three groups to attract less attention to themselves and to avoid blowing the entire operation should one group be captured.

  Now, as Sarah rocked the imaginary baby in her arms a half-block from the factory gates— the factory that was now a prison— she looked at the borrowed watch on her wrist. If a Soviet officer did not come along in another five minutes, she would have to scrap plan "A" as she called it and go to plan "B." The second plan called for an assault by herself and the rest of the women on the prison gates. It was suicide.

  She sucked in her breath. There was a Soviet officer walking with a noncommissioned officer, turning into the street and walking toward her. She quietly wondered if she'd have the nerve. Still rocking the swaddled submachine gun in her arms, singing to it softly as she moved, she walked toward the Soviet officer.

  She had no idea what rank he was, but since he was older-looking, she assumed the rank was high enough that his life would be important— she hoped so, at least.

  She stopped, standing a few feet to the right and ahead of the Soviet officer and the soldier with him.

  "Sir?"

  The officer stopped talking to the soldier, stopped walking and turned to face her. He nodded. "If you need help with your child, madam, there are doctors in the city who will offer what medical aid they can. The nearest facility is—" and he started to gesture down the block behind him.

  "No, sir," Sarah told him, forcing a smile: "It isn't that. But it has to do with my baby. Please, would you look at him?" She hoped to appeal to the officer's vanity, to his ego. The helpless woman asking his advice— she hoped he saw it that way. She was committed now. There was little time before the execution was to take place.

  The officer looked to the soldier beside him, shaking his head, saying something in Russian. "Very well, madam. But I fail to see..."

  She started walking slowly toward him, watched the soldier's eyes, watched them shift as she moved her

  "baby" in her arms into a better position. The Soviet soldier started to open his mouth and Sarah swung the "infant" into position, letting the faded blue blanket fall to the ground at her feet. The MAC-10 swung in a firing position, the stubby muzzle aimed at the soldier, her right first finger twitching against the trigger, the soldier falling.

  Sarah, her feet braced apart, turned the muzzle of the weapon against the officer, whispering, "I'll kill you too if you move."

  There were soldiers running up from the prison gates, the gates open, and she turned back to the Soviet officer. "What is your name?"

  "I am Major Borozeni."

  "Major," she began, not attempting to pronounce the last name, "tell those soldiers to stop where they are and drop their guns, or you're dead."

  The Russian officer smiled, beginning to laugh. "Madam, I am not so important that I can be used as any sort of bargaining—"

  Sarah fired a burst into the cobbled street in front of the officer's gleaming boots, then looked up into his eyes. "For your sake you'd better be."

  The major shouted something in guttural Russian and the soldiers stopped in their tracks. Sarah smiled at him. "See— you're more important than you thought. Doesn't
that make you feel good?"

  The Soviet major had ceased to smile.

  "Let's go," she said. As the major began walking ahead of her in the direction in which she'd gestured with the submachine gun, the other women started coming from the doorways and alleys, their guns in their hands, advancing toward the Soviet soldiers and the open prison gates. Sarah's stomach churned. She had just murdered a man— for all she knew a good man, perfectly innocent, not trying to harm her.

  She promised herself she would vomit later— there was no time now.

  The soldiers parted in a wave in front of her, one of them moving and gunfire— from Mary Beth—

  cutting him down. "Nobody should try that again," Sarah screamed," or he gets killed!" Then, on second thought, she shouted to the major a few paces ahead of her, his hands upraised,