by Ahern, Jerry
The German sergeant, Ludwig Peiffel, had heard the sound too, and with his eyes he telegraphed it to her.
If it were Russians out there —and some of their commando units were good at infiltration, very good —it might somewhat disarm them to think that Lydveldid Island was guarded by women, that the situation were so desperate that just defenseless women —and she smiled despite the danger she knew she was exposed to as she walked on, in the open. She had never felt herself to be particularly undangerous because of her sex, or that sex automatically made someone more or less of a danger. Maybe, if it were Russians who had caused the all but undetectable noise, they would learn about dangerous women this night. She was nearly to the edge of the open space, nearly to where she could duck beneath the comparative shelter of the porch railing.
Sergeant Peiffel cleared his throat and she didn’t move her
head but let her eyes follow his out toward the greenway. Had it been movement?
There was still no gunfire from the rim of the volcano.
“Ludwig—awful quiet, isn’t it?” she said in a not overly loud stagey voice.
“Yes, Frau Rubenstein, it is very quiet,” Sergeant Peiffel agreed, his eyes shifting toward the greenway again.
Annie stopped beside the vertical where the porch rail began and looked deliberately down into the greenway. She saw nothing. She felt something. She closed her eyes, trying to focus her concentration. What she could do with her mind sometimes was starting to scare her. It wasn’t something she could see, but she could feel it just as surely as she had felt the presence of the man who had knocked at the door of Doctor Munchen, known his purpose. It was a combination of logical interpretation of fragmentary available data and some power she didn’t understand at all. She had talked about it with her father. He had told her that she shouldn’t push it, but rather let it develop naturally as it already had. She had read about such things, in women seemingly coming on at the outset of the menstrual cycle, but sometimes vanishing when the metabolism changed during and after pregnancy. Logic dictated that it was some delicate chemical balance.
She felt the men out there. Her gift, if indeed it was that, was not so well-honed as for her to be able to tell numbers, even see them. But she felt their presence. Many men. And she felt a mixture of anger, hatred, and fear.
Sergeant Peiffel had a radio set with which he could contact the defenders at the rim of the volcano, the two German counter snipers in place —precariously—on the roof of the presidential residence. She whispered to him without moving her lips, “I want you to alert the snipers on the roof, and then the forces at the rim. We have company.”
Peiffel raised his eyebrow and smiled for an instant and then moved to reach the radio at his belt.
The smile froze on his face.
Annie saw that before she heard the burst of automatic weapons fire and threw herself down to the floor of the porch, but inside herself she had felt it a split second before and that, more than his death, more than her immediate danger, terrified her. It was hard crawling in an ankle length skirt without falling flat on your face, but she made it behind the rail, automatic weapons fire tearing into the porch itself, into the railings, shattering glass despite the protective shutters that had been installed when the building was sealed with Madame Jokli inside. Annie stabbed the M-16 through an opening in the porch rail and opened fire, razor edge chips and granite dust so heavy around her that she had to squint to protect her eyes.
“Get ‘em,” she screamed, returning fire now general from the porch, the heavier cracks of the counter-sniper fire from the roof coming too now. Annie shifted the M-16 to her left hand, outstretching her right arm, balling her tiny fist into the uniform tunic of Sergeant Peiffel — but she knew already that he was dead and the wide open stare that she had seen too often before confirmed that. She released the grip on his uniform and moved her hand down toward his utility belt, going for the radio. Automatic weapons fire from the greenway laced across his chest and abdomen as she drew her hand back.
They’d hear the gunfire at the rim, she told herself. But they wouldn’t hear it if there were a battle in progress at the rim. “Shit,” she snapped. She screamed up toward the roof, drawing herself deeper into cover, the M-16 in both hands now again. “On the roof—call for help! Use your radios!”
There was another volley of the heavier rifle fire from the snipers, but now in an arc all .along the greenway facing the presidential residence there was heavy automatic weapons fire and Annie recoiled as the body of one of the counter-snipers plummeted past her from the roof above, catching for an instant in the bushes which fronted the high porch,
then tumbling away.
There was no more of the heavier sounding gunfire of the sniper rifles. Had a radio transmission gotten through? In an instant, the Russians would charge the porch …
Captain Pavornin had given the attack signal and the gunship which would transport him forward to join the ground assault team was airborne now, some of the German mini-tanks already in motion, Pavornin’s gunships firing their rockets. The German armor was tough.
“This is Pavornin—Lieutenant Askonikov—bring up the left flank — quickly and get your grenadiers and missilemen into position—heavy concentration of the German mini-tanks coming right at you!” He was beginning to reconsider joining Sergeant Borov with the right flank. A trio of German gunships was coming at him now, Pavornin elbowing the pilot opposite him. “There!”
He had heard about this strategy from those who had fought against the Germans before, seen it himself during the attack on the German stronghold in Argentina. Rumors circulated that the strategy had been taught the German military by the American John Rourke. Cut a wedge through the battle lines at all costs and attack the field commander and thereby so disrupt the chain of command that the battle was broken off.
Pavornin suddenly felt very naked in his gunship. “Take me away from here now!”
His pilot nodded rather than replying through the headset radios they both wore. He glanced back. The door gunner was strafing the German counter-attack below. The pilot wasn’t using his missiles—not yet. The helicopter rose, then fell, then rose again, the streak of a missile contrail just passing beneath their chin bubble. Pavornin felt it —fear.
Akiro Kurinami spoke almost softly into his headset radio. “The Russian pilot is trying to avoid us —I wonder why. Ed —go high. Walter, stay on me!” Kurinami dodged the chopper down and to starboard, now giving the German gunship maximum acceleration, feeling himself pushed back into the pilot’s seat as he climbed the machine, the G force pressing against his chest. The Soviet gunship rotated one hundred eighty degrees on its axis, hesitating for a split second, then started back toward the advancing Soviet lines. Kurinami worked the safety release for his starboard missiles, punching the button as he levelled off, firing his machineguns as well, the gunship vibrating with the missile launch. The contrail —the missile streaked toward the Soviet command gunship, the tail rotor, the entire tail section vaporizing in a fireball of black and orange and yellow. Kurinami still fired his machineguns as he made the pass across the dorsal side of the Soviet gunship. There was an explosion, even more violent than before, the chin bubble of Kurinami’s helicopter smudged suddenly black with it, Kurinami banking his machine hard to starboard, glancing back over his shoulder. The Soviet gunship had vanished. #
He spoke into his headset mouthpiece. “All right —let’s help our people on the ground,” and he started the chopper down at almost maximum pitch, near maximum speed …
Annie Rubenstein had no way of knowing if a radio message had gotten out to the rest of the defenders and, even if it had, whether or not reinforcements could be expected to arrive on time. Five of the Icelandic police remained alive with her there on the front porch of the presidential residence, though one of them was wounded and bleeding badly from a shoulder wound, another’s face cut from a spray of rock chips.
She asked herself what her fat
her would do in the same situation, and she knew what he would do instinctively. “All
right—you and you —cover us —you three—with me —now!” She was up, firing a burst from her M-16, the assault rifle in her right fist along with a handful of her skirt’as she vaulted the railing and dropped toward the ground. Her body caught up in the bushes for an instant, then rolled free, tearing her clothes, feeling the branches as they swatted against her face and tugged at her hair. She hit the ground in an undignified roll, firing the M-16 again as she got to her feet. The three Icelandic police were just behind her, one of them on the steps as she looked back, the man taking a burst across the chest and going down. Annie shouted to the other two, “Stick close!” hoping that they understood enough to do it. She dodged left, into a zigzagging run at a tangent toward the arc of Soviet gunfire, throwing herself down just inside the borderline of the greenway, gunfire plowing the grass near her head as she rolled onto her back, then over again onto her stomach, the assault rifle at her shoulder now, on full auto, firing, spraying into the Soviet cover.
One of the Icelandic police was beside her, firing out his assault rifle, the second —as she stopped to change magazines she could see him — a few feet to her left behind the trunk of a tree, up on one knee, still firing.
The Soviet attackers broke from cover and stormed forward, laying down such a heavy volume of automatic weapons fire she couldn’t raise her head long enough to return fire.
Suddenly, the pattern of gunfire changed, a heavy concentration from behind her and she looked back. Her mother and three more of the Icelandic police and German corporal were coming in two units from both sides of the presidential palace. Her mother led two of the Icelandics and the German corporal led the other, Sarah Rourke’s M-16 on full auto. Some of the Soviet attackers started to go down, their attacking wedge broken; others dodged for cover.
Annie shouted to her two men, “Now!” She was up, running, firing, the M-16 in her right fist, the Beretta from
the Bianchi holster at her left hip, firing in her left hand. She emptied the assault rifle into two of the Russians, then slapped the muzzle into the face of a third, took a half step back and fired into his left eye with the Beretta. The rifle fell on its sling, empty, to her left hip; no time to reload. Her right hand snatched the Scoremaster from the identical holster on her right side as she turned half to her left, discharging both pistols simultaneously-tnto the chest of one of the Russians. She looked behind her, her mother gut-shooting a Russian officer as he turned toward her to fire.
Sarah Rourke snapped the rifle up and left and fired it out, shouting across the din of battle, “Not bad for a pregnant lady who’s busting out of her blue jeans, huh!”
Chapter Eight
There were flashes in the darkness, the sweep of searchlights, the brilliant bursts of light from explosions. John Rourke was ready by the open gunship door, holding to one of the safety straps with his left hand, his M-16 in his right fist, the hood of his parka up against the cold. The German base loomed ahead; the German gunship banked, Rourke feeling it, skirting the edge of the aerial batdefield, well beyond the furthest edge of the German base which fronted the Hekla Community, aiming as Rourke had ordered toward the interior of Hekla itself, which had to be the ultimate Soviet objective in the attack.
Natalia’s voice drew him back to the moment. “When they let us out, you and Paul cover me —I’ll take the grenade launcher.”
“Agreed,” Rourke shouted back over the icy roar of the gunship’s slipstream. He glanced back into the subdued green light of the cabin. Paul was readying himself, an M-16 slung on each side, bags of grenades slung crossbody on each side along with bags of spare magazines for their weapons.
There were explosions behind them now, and explosions and pinpoint lights of small arms fire in the distance ahead by the crater rim. Rourke’s plan was a simple one —insert behind the main body of the attacking Soviet force and
counter-attack from the rear, the gunship going airborne again and strafing the Soviet line, attempting for radio contact with the German and Icelandic defenders at the rim of the volcano to start a second wave counter-attack. If it worked —but if it didn’t, Rourke considered. But there was no other option. He had counted on arriving before the Soviet attack began, but fate and Soviet battle plans had mitigated against that.
The helicopter was steadily dropping, the land beneath it steadily rising, the effect unnerving slightly as Rourke’s eyes surveyed the battlefield they fast approached at the rim of the cone. The main body of Soviet forces and hence the main thrust of the Soviet attack against the Hekla Community seemed concentrated against the face of the cone nearest the German base —a poor move, Rourke felt subjectively, but if the Soviets had been better tacticians and strategists, they would have been that much more difficult an enemy.
Rourke shouted to the pilot, Rourke’s radio set already stripped away before he had entered the open doorway. “Bring her down now!” It was convenient that the German officer corps spoke English, but for himself and Natalia, though her accent was better and her vocabulary broader, German was not a problem at any event.
The pilot made a hand signal showing recognition, Natalia joining John Rourke at the fuselage door, holding to the same safety strap that he did. Paul Rubenstein wedged himself just inside the door as he pulled up his parka hood then regripped the M-16s. The German MP-40 submachinegun was strapped to and snugged tight against his chest.
The rotor pitch shifted abruptly and Natalia was thrown slightly off balance, Rourke feeling her impact against him. “Be careful,” she shouted over the slipstream.
“I love you too,” he told her.
“I know that,” she nodded, leaning up quickly, tugging away the scarf which protected the lower portion of her face against the wind and the cold, kissing him full on the lips,
but briefly, then pulling away and raising the scarf again. Rourke glanced at his friend Paul. Paul nodded.
The helicopter was nearly down, but attracting no noticable attention from the rear of the Soviet lines as it swept in. The chopper skimmed the glacier crusted surface now, stopping abruptly to hover in mid-air, then seemed to skid into touchdown.
Rourke loosened the security strap and jumped, nearly losing his balance on the glacial ice, breaking into a dead run as he regained it. Paul and Natalia jumped out side by side as Rourke glanced back, Rourke diving for cover behind a wide ice ridge which signalled a crevasse below, looking back again. Paul and Natalia had taken up positions nearer the landing, side by side behind the protection of a massive upthrust boulder. Rourke worked the safety tumbler of the M-16 to full auto, shouldering the rifle, waiting. He glanced right, across the snowfield, the light nearly bright enough to read now that the clouds above which had darkened the sky during most of their journey from Europe had broken to reveal a three-quarters full moon. Natalia nodded and Paul loosed one of his M-16s, gave a handsignal and then shouldered the other assault rifle. Rourke moved his right first finger inside the trigger guard.
There was a whooshing sound, then a whistling sound and then a roar, the first grenade from the multi-barreled German grenade launcher impacting, exploding, into the core of the Russian rear. Bodies sailed into the night sky, plummeting downward, in whole or in fragments, a puff of orange tinged white smoke belching upward. The whoosh, the whistle, the roar again, another grenade detonated; some of the Russians dodged to take cover, others turned to fire. Rourke touched his finger to the trigger, spraying, burning through at least ten rounds, shifting the muzzle, doing it again, confident against burning out the barrel with the sub-zero temperatures. He blew out the entire magazine, bodies falling as the Russians rushed their position.
The grenade launcher again, assault rifle fire from Paul’s position as Rourke changed sticks, ramming the fresh thirty-round magazine up the well, continuing firing. The whoosh, the whisde, the roar, more Russians down. Rourke was up on his feet, spraying out the entire magazine, then dropp
ing as enemy soldiers fell and others rushed toward him to take their place. Paul was up, an M-16—one his and one of them one of the two Natalia carried —blazing from each hand, the guns on full auto, Russians going down. Paul ducked’down, Rourke up to his knees, the M-16 to his right shoulder, spraying death again. The whoosh, the whisde, the roar, then the whoosh, the whistle, the roar again—then again and again.
Rourke changed sticks and was on his feet. He glanced toward Paul, the younger man doing the same now, but an M-16 in each hand, Rourke and Rubenstein firing simultaneously into the attacking Russians.
Bodies fell and men died. The whoosh, the whisde, the roar, then again and again.
Rourke changed sticks for the M-16 again and started forward around the edge of the crevasse. He felt it, shouted over the roar of gunfire, “Paul!”
His footing was suddenly gone and he was plummeting downward, into the crevasse …
Annie Rourke felt something stabbing her, dropping to her knees, loosening her rifle from her grasp, her hands going to her temples as she screamed.
They had been moving across the greenway searching for what remained of the Soviet infiltration team, her mother near enough to her that she was beside her the next instant. “What is it, Annie?”
“Daddy—oh my God, Momma!”
Chapter Nine
John Rourke let go of the M-16 the instant he realized what was happening, before he even shouted. The impact of the explosions had forced apart the crevasse and the ice-bridge had disintegrated beneath his feet. His right hand had grasped upward for the surface, his gloved fingers slipping across it, his body hurtling downward, his left hand reaching to the butt of the Crain System X knife he had just recently added to his gear from his supplies at the Retreat. And he silently thanked God that he had. There was no time to verbalize. As his body skidded downward, the space surrounding him narrowed dramatically with each foot, the light ebbing even faster. His left hand tore steel from leather and as his left fist balled over the tubular haft, he stabbed, his right hand splaying outward, his feet twisting outward, his legs spreading. The Crain knife bit deep into the ice, his shoulders and neck taking the shockwave as it engulfed his body, his full weight with its acceleration abruptly stopping, Rourke’s body swinging by his left fist from the haft of the Crain survival knife.
