by Ahern, Jerry
Madame Jokli had come to rely on her, in fact, in her dealings with the German commander, Major Volkmer, asking her —Annie —to accompany her when necessity demanded going to the German base just outside the cone of the volcano that walled Hekla against the ice and storm of the arctic environment in which it was an island of warmth and flowers and beauty.
And Annie Rourke looked forward to it as she did now, because the meetings allowed her the opportunity to meet
with Dr. Munchen, Munchen always arranging his appointments so they could talk without interruption, disregarding the occasional emergency.
Annie Rourke had boarded the German helicopter following closely at Madame Jokli’s heels, the President of Lydveldid Island swathed in a woolen shawl which covered the tiny woman from the tip of her head nearly to her ankles and could have wrapped around her at least twice.
Annie sat beside Madame Jokli, fixing her dress, slipping her own shawl down from her shoulders. It was equally as heavy as that of the Icelandic President but Annie, rather than cocooning herself inside it, had felt its warmth re-pressively heavy here inside the cone. But when she disembarked the German gunship, there would be a few moments of bitter arctic cold between the helipad and the heat lights which blanketed as much of the base exterior with warmth as could be arranged. And for that Annie knew from experience, she would need every calorie of warmth.
It was a routine to which Annie Rourke was well used now. As the helicopter rose over the Hekla cone, she surveyed the landscape below through the swirling snow, her throat catching slightly as she spied the patch of ground which was the common cemetery, where Madison Rourke and Madison’s and Michael’s unborn child rested for all eternity. The cross could no longer be seen and she consciously lied to herself that it was merely the altitude at which the German gunship flew and the swirling snow around it which obscured the gravemarker. But it was none of these. She shivered and drew the shawl up about her shoulders and tightened her knees more closely together beneath her navy blue woolen ankle length skirt. For a moment, she had pictured herself lying cold and dead beneath ground that was forever still colder than death itself. It was not a psychic flash —she recognized those when she had them. It was no premonition of her own death. Instead, it was, she realized, her empathy with the dead girl, her
“little sister,” her sister-in-law, her girlfriend, really the only one she could ever remember having.
They had shared their wedding day, worn identical dresses, arranged their hair identically, carried identical bouquets, married two of the three finest men in the world together. And now Madison was dead.
Annie Rourke drew herself deeper into the folds of her shawl, the helicopter starting the downward leg of its arc, the swirling snow parting sufficiently around them that she could see the helipad and the warm yellow of the lights beyond it.
Habit took over. Methodically, her eyes rivetted to the helipad for a moment, then to the movements of the pilot at the gunship’s controls, then alternating back and forth between them. She began to cocoon herself within the shawl, draping it over her hair, swathing it across her chest and folding it back over her left shoulder so it all but completely covered her face.
The helicopter began to hover, then seemed to skid downward —she imagined an unexpected gust of wind—and then settled just over the helipad, touching down. German soldiers in arctic gear ran from the heat lamps and toward the helicopter’s hatchway, wrenching it open, profferring hands to assist Annie and Madame Jokli down from the machine. Annie, though she needed no assistance, took it, waiting despite the cold on the snow-slicked tarmac for Madame Jokli to disembark. Then, together, huddled in their shawls, they walked on the arms of German soldiers from the icy blast into the yellow warmth.
She lifted the double fold of wool from her head and arranged the shawl about her shoulders.
Madame Jokli remained as she was, still apparently cold, Annie passing through the open airlock-like door after the Icelandic President, then stepping over the second flange and at last inside.
In here, she was warm and she slipped the shawl com
pletely down, beginning to neatly fold it, one of the enlisted men saying in poor but sincere sounding English, “May I take Frau Rubenstein’s coat?” It was not a coat and the temperature in some portions of the base structure was at times at considerable variance from the warmth of the entrance foyer.
Annie Rourke Rubenstein smiled. “No—but thank you, soldier.”
He smiled at her.
She followed Madame Jokli along the corridor, an officer—a lieutenant—joining them and ushering them along.
The matters of diplomacy were none of Annie’s concern unless requested by Madame Jokli to assist. There had been no such whispered remark aboard the helicopter this day and so, Annie volunteered, “If it is all right, Madame, I’ll visit with Doctor Munchen while you confer with Major Volkmer.”
“Yes child,” she smiled, her blond hair, her blue eyes, all in concert with the smile somehow.
Annie entered the medical laboratory section off the main corridor and started across it. There were ranks of test tubes, retorts and burners and lab coated men and women, German military and civilian, working here. A few, whose faces she recognized, nodded, smiled, then returned to their work. She returned their greetings, stopping before Doctor Munchen’s office and knocking.
After a moment, the door opened, Munchen tall, rapier thin, his face beaming as it always seemed to when he saw her. “Frau Rubenstein —I anticipated you.”
“Herr Doctor Munchen —may I?”
“Of course, my dear,” and he ushered her inside. The door closed behind her and he took her shawl. “You’ll find it if anything a bit over warm today. They are still balancing the system.”
Doctor Munchen held a chair out for her on the side of the desk opposite his and she sat, folding her hands into her lap,
waiting. He would offer refreshment. “Coffee, my dear?” “Yes, thank you.”
He began to pour from an insulated coffee pot at the side of his desk. It had thermal sensitive heating coils, she knew, subtly rewarming the contents when the coffee dropped below a certain temperature. She had never decided at exactly what temperature she would set such a thing. She took the cup and saucer, holding it like she had learned to hold a tea cup, as though it were fragile. But indeed these were not, made of something that was apparently plastic but felt like china. She had seen a similar cup dropped once to the floor here and it had merely bounced.
“More discussions, then. Is there word of your father, my dear?”
“Not unless you have heard anything. My father and my husband were still with the main body of troops when the last regular report was relayed to us. And Michael was still substantially ahead of them. I wish I were there with them.”
“Ahh —but you cannot be.”
“When we talk like this, Herr Doctor, are you psychoanalyzing me?” And she smiled, then sipped at the black coffee. It was very good and warm as it reached her stomach.
“What would you prefer that I say?”
“The truth?”
“The truth —you are so remarkably well-adjusted that you amaze me. And, without being rude I hope,” and he smiled at her across his coffee cup, “I suppose I am more than curious.”
“Women have to be well-adjusted. They can’t afford the same luxuries as men.”
Munchen laughed, asking as he always did as he withdrew a cigarette from his case, “May I smoke, Frau Rubenstein?”
“Certainly — but one day I’ll have to try it.”
“As you wish.” He made the case disappear inside his uniform jacket. Men were lucky to have so many pockets,
she had always thought. He set the lighter down on his desk top, exhaling smoke as again he spoke. “You were litde more than an infant when what you call the Night of The War took place. You were shunted from one place to another by truck, by horseback, saw incredible violence, then slept for almost five centuries and
all but raised yourself, all but educated yourself—”
“My brother, Michael —he did the same thing,” she interrupted.
“But perhaps my own sex prejudices me —but a man will adjust more to violence.”
“Men expect it more, that’s all. And anyway, after Daddy found us at the farm where we were hiding out with the Resistance, there wasn’t really that much more violence. I was too short to see the video monitors that showed what was going on when the sun rose. And I don’t remember too much of the other, before I mean.”
“But subconsciously, you do —don’t you see?”
“I don’t see.”
“Your subconscious of course affects your conscious actions and decisions, colors your choices, as it were.”
Annie Rourke sipped at her coffee again, then set cup and saucer on the edge of the desk, returning her hands to her lap, palms up, one inside the other.
“You exude tranquility.”
“Isn’t it,” she began, “that which men so need in women — islands of tranquility amid the storm of life?” “Is that a quotation, Annie?”
“No— I think I made it up. But I read so much, perhaps it is. Don’t snitch on me.” “Snitch?”
There was a knock at the door. It was a man’s knock, she could tell.
“I think it’s time for me to go,” she told Doctor Munchen, rising, Munchen rising with her, Annie arranging her clothes. She wondered if she were becoming manipulative.
“I shall look forward to our next meeting.”
“As will I, Herr Doctor Munchen.”
He called for whoever was at the door to enter and a male lab assistant half-entered the office, saying in German which Annie could understand by now quite well enough, that Madame Jokli awaited her near the entrance foyer.
Annie allowed Munchen to press her offered hand and left on the heels of the lab assistant, passed along the work area and through the doorway into the corridor, seeing Madame Jokli and the same young German lieutenant at the end of the corridor.
Annie quickened her pace. She could see it in the set of Madame Jokli’s mouth. There was something wrong …
The flight aboard the helicopter had been quiet, fast, uneventful, Annie lost in thought—considering one’s own nature was difficult.
When the helicopter returned to the grassy parkway near the presidential residence which also served as the meeting place of the Althing, Madame Jokli quiedy asked, “Annie, would you come with me please?”
Annie merely nodded, having expected the request.
As she followed beside Madame Jokli, the quite pretty older woman began to speak. “Major Volkmer relayed to me some rather alarming news.”
Annie usually trusted her abilities to differentiate between a psychic flash and natural apprehension. But she asked anyway: “Is it something with Paul or my father or Michael—or Natalia?”
“No—but it is related directly to their actions —not those of Michael, I understand. But your father, Doctor Rourke. He and the others apprehended several prisoners from among the Russians whom they have been pursuing. I was given to understand that intelligence data found among the prisoners or extricated from them by means of drugs—
Major Volkmer was not specific in that area—suggests a major attack on our community. And very soon. I fear great loss of life on all sides. I fear it greatly.” She fell silent.
Madame Jokli stopped before the low steps of the presidential residence, turned, faced Annie, Madame Jokli drawing her shawl tighter about her shoulders, the purplish aura of the growlights to which Annie had so well adjusted as an artificial sun now something of which she was suddenly acutely aware.
“I was asked to leave my residence here and take refuge with our German friends at their base. I told them I could not, while one of the people of Lydveldid Island was unable to do the same. Major Volkmer commended me. He will spare as many troops as possible to assist in our defense but sees the base as being the most desirable strategic objective. Therefore, it must be defended. I would consider it a personal favor, Annie, if you and your fine mother would take refuge at the German base. Major Volkmer asked that I offer his hospitality to you both. He mentioned that you or your mother would be the ultimate strategic prize for a Soviet offensive. Logic dictated that no argument could be given in that regard.”
“I’m sure that I speak for both my mother and myself,” Annie began, looking down at her feet, trying to find the toes of her slippers beyond the hem of her skirt. “We will stay unless you directly order us to leave. We can help with the defense. And if the Russians are able to take over Hekla, we wouldn’t be much safer at the German base, I don’t think.” She finally found the toes of her shoes and then looked up into Madame Jokli’s face.
“All right, Annie. As you wish. I will summon the head of our police and then make a general announcement to the community and see to it that word is spread among the other communities as well, that they should be prepared, should the Russians attack them as well.”
“I don’t think,” Annie interjected, “that theyH do that, divide their forces I mean.”
“Then you’ll have work to do, Annie. I won’t detain you.”
“Yes ma’am,” Annie smiled. She always felt as if she should curtsy or something when she left Madame Jokli’s presence.
But she turned now, walking back along the path —there was a great deal to do …
Annie Rourke shifted the lighter weight, crocheted shawl from her shoulders to the crooks of her elbows as she picked up the German assault rifle, a German non-com and a German private moving about the twelve seated Icelandic police who were dubbed by Annie and her mother the SWAT Team.
She worked the rifle’s action to hold open the bolt and began to speak. “In real combat with a firearm youH learn one thing. Count your shots, be ready for a swift magazine interchange—or there’s a substantial chance youH die. The sergeant has been training you to function as a unit.” Old Jon, the swordmaker interpreted as Annie paused. He finished, nodded and she continued. “My father has an expression that he got from his father. It sums it up best. As John Rourke puts it, ‘Plan ahead.’”
Chapter Four
John Rourke had finally slept, for seven hours, angry that Natalia or Paul had not awakened him sooner, but forgiving of their motives.
He sat now, beneath a rocky overhang around a German military portable heater unit, eating from a bag of German field rations and listening as Captain Hartman discoursed on the intelligence data gleaned so far from the Soviet prisoners. “The attack against Hekla seemed, of course, inevitable. In addition to alerting Major Volkmer, I have also alerted our forces with the Eden Project Base in Georgia. I believe that Marshal Karamatsov plans to attack at several locations using those forces not already joined with him in the possible hope of drawing us away from the main body of his force.”
“What about the possibility of an attack on New Germany itself,” Natalia suggested.
“Colonel Mann has been alerted as well. He has placed our forces on alert.”
“I doubt Karamatsov would attack in Argentina, Iceland and Georgia simultaneously,” Paul Rubenstein noted.
John Rourke looked at the younger man and nodded. “I’m in full agreement. It won’t take much to cause grief for Eden Base. Likely, Karamatsov’s forces will send in as few people
as they can get away with to go against Eden, because they’ll need substantial forces to go against Hekla. Hekla and the German base outside Hekla are considerably more defensible. There’s been no sign of Karamatsov bleeding off forces from his main body of troops and if that pattern holds, that means he’ll be relying on the forces he already has in the field under his commanders. And there’s no telling what the loyalty situation is among Karamatsov’s people now, after his attack on the Soviet Underground City. He’s not going to want to dissipate his forces while the possibility exists for defection.
“And,” Rourke continued, setting down the food packet and plucking one of
the long, thin, dark tobacco cigars from the right pocket of his shirt, “he hasn’t been able to hand his people a victory. The attacks we’ve been running, although militarily ineffectual, have to have been demoralizing.” Rourke flicked back the cowl of the battered Zippo with the thumb of his right hand, then rolled the striking wheel, thrusting the tip of the cigar just above the lighter’s blue-yellow flame, drawing the flame up into the cigar. It was one of the non-carcinogenic German cigars, physically identical to the cigars he had always smoked and to the ones Annie had rolled for him, but somehow just slightly less satisfying.
“What would you propose, Herr Doctor,” Hartman asked, lighting a cigarette.
“I’m becoming more convinced that Karamatsov has some definite goal which he’s drawing closer to and that he sees it as some sort of panacea for his current situation. It can only be one thing.”
“The Chinese,” Natalia supplied.
“Yes,” Rourke nodded. “Obviously, he has additional intelligence data from before the Night of The War which has led him to believe that some substantial advantage lies to the east. He still has the gas, but without a base from which he can manufacture more of the substance, the scope of its use is rather limited. I think we’re talking nuclear weapons.”
Paul Rubenstein visibly shuddered. Natalia made to light a cigarette, Rourke lighting it for her instead with the Zippo.
“That would be insanity, Herr Doctor Rourke,” Hartman said softly.
“Vladmir is insane,” Natalia murmured.
“If a stockpile of Chinese nuclear weapons exists, and since the Chinese, as far as everything I’ve learned of the aftermath of the Night of The War seems to attest, utilized only tactical nuclear weapons in their land war against the Soviet Union, the rest of their nuclear arsenal was unused when the Great Conflagration took place. If some of it could be made usable, as I’m sure it could, he’d be master of the earth. Which is what he wants anyway,” Rourke concluded.
“But the Soviet Underground City would be insusceptible to nuclear attack, as would — “
