by Ahern, Jerry
The head of the triumvirate smiled, folding his hands on the conference table. “Ten percent of our fleet? The Mid-Wake vessels are yours, but this ten percent—”
“I can assure you, Comrade, that your forces would be more than compensated. You would have full right to all armored vehicles and surface weapons technology captured from the Allies, as well as ten percent of our armor, to include the mobile missile launchers we discussed earlier.”
“And the Particle Beam weapons technology, Comrade General? Would you share this with us?”
“I am not authorized to do so, Comrade. But such details as these would be open to discussion in the future.”
“We should, of course, be prepared to share with you our nuclear warheads.”
Antonovitch smiled. “But following a victory over the Allies, Comrade, of what use would such devices be to either of us? And, as I have said, if we utilize these missiles during the conflict, we will all suffer the consequences. The nuclear missiles figure into our overall strategic plans as a Sword of Damocles only, to—”
The admiral asked, “A Sword of what?”
Svedana Alexsova answered for Antonovitch. “In the mythology of an ancient land known as Greece, a sword was suspended over a man’s head on a single thread. If the thread broke, the sword would fall and kill him. If it did not, he was spared.”
The head of the triumvirate said, “Then under no circumstances would we utilize our nuclear missiles?”
“We would be committing racial suicide, Comrades, were we to do that. But the Germans and Americans at Mid-Wake will believe that we will use them if necessary, therefore holding back.”
The admiral asked, “Does not your intelligence suggest that the Germans are perfecting nuclear capabilities?” “Yes, but-“
“If they are sufficiendy far along, not only can these missiles be used against land-based targets, but also against ourselves here beneath the sea. It would not be difficult for the submarine vessel captured by the war criminal Darkwood, which has a full complement of missiles fitted with conventional warheads, to be turned to our destruction merely by utilizing the German warheads.”
“It is not my fault, Comrade Admiral, that one of your submarines was stolen, but the likelihood of such a development in time for it to be of any consequence against us is highly remote,” Antonovitch asserted, lighting another cigarette. “If we strike now, your vessels will catch the German defenses by surprise. My land forces will attack. We could achieve a major victory. At the very least, we will so severely weaken our adversaries that they will never fully recover. The Allies, without a manufacturing base in New Germany or in Mid-Wake, would be powerless to resupply.
“A full company of Elite Corps Commandoes stand ready to join with your Marine Spetznas’ personnel,” Antonovitch told them, “in an assault on Mid-Wake. If we can even severely, damage both technological centers—New Germany and Mid-Wake—victory is ours.”
“And what do you say, Comrade Doctor Alexsova?”
Antonovitch stared at Svedana Alexsova, then at the triumvirate head. “Why do you ask?”
“I have curiosity for the scientific perspective, Comrade
General,” the old man smiled.
Svedana Alexsova folded her hands at the very edge of the table, looked at Antonovitch for a split second over the rims of her glasses, then said, “All which General Antonovitch says is true, Comrade, of course. But the argument that the atmospheric envelope would be irreparably damaged by one or even a few nuclear detonations is theory at best, based on computer models. Indeed—”
“Svedana!” Antonovitch said, standing up.
“Indeed,” she continued, ignoring him, “the Particle Beam technology may be sufficient to defeat the Allied land forces and allow total concentration then on the forces of your historic American enemies at Mid-Wake, but should the energy weapons—which were developed,” she added, removing her glasses, smiling, “under my direction—should they prove inadequate to the task, then we must be militarily and psychologically prepared, Comrades, to use the warheads.”
Antonovitch stood there, wanting to say something but not knowing what.
She looked up at him. “I speak on full authority of our government.”
“What are you-?”
She smiled at him, cocking her eyebrows as she responded. “A realist, Comrade? I did not endure the nuclear war in the era from which you survived. Therefore, perhaps I have a clearer perspective, can view the events unfolding before us with a degree of objectivity greater than yours, Comrade. If the Allied forces on the surface are vaporized, what does it matter so long as Communism triumphs?”
“What does it matter? Are you insane? We would all die because the planet would no longer be capable of supporting human life … any life.”
“Speculation, only speculation.”
Antonovitch sat down heavily in his chair.
The head of the triumverate spoke. “I will order the commander of our fleet stationed off the coast of Argentina to await coordinates from your forces so the missile bombardment of New Germany can begin in coordination with your surface attack.”
Antonovitch heard the words but did not look at the man. He looked at Svedana Alexsova’s eyes. He saw madness there.
Chapter Eighteen
White tableclothed round tables accommodating eight persons each were placed about the banquet hall, the head table on a long dais overlooking these, the German officer corps and government functionaries out in such seeming full strength Rourke wondered half seriously who was minding the front. In addition to the Germans and their spouses, there were quite a number of unaccompanied officers from Mid-Wake, some from the First Chinese City, among both officer corps, faces Rourke readily recognized. Bjorn Rolvaag was the only Icelandic.
Rourke and his family sat at the head table, along with Jason Darkwood, Sam Aldridge, Otto Hammerschmidt, and Hammerschmidt’s younger brother. Dieter Bern had just concluded speaking—in English, in deference to those non-German speakers in his audience—and now Wolfgang Mann ascended to the podium. “We are here tonight to pay honor to several brave men, two of them American and one of them German.
“But although we specifically honor these three men,” he went on, “we honor all men and women tonight who so honor freedom that they willingly risk their lives. We sit here tonight knowing that at any moment our units might be called up in the event of an attack by the Soviet Forces who have penetrated New Germany, and off our shore lie the undersea boats of still a second Soviet power.”
There were murmurs throughout the audience now, hurried looks one to another among the officers, both senior and junior. But Colonel Mann continued speaking. “Most symbolic of our fight is one man. His name is Dr. John Thomas Rourke.”
Rourke looked down into his drink.
“The good Herr Doctor is, indeed, the rallying point, the focus of our fight. Without his help, those of us who are citizens of New Germany would still be living beneath the heel of a tyrant leader who espoused the vile philosophy of Naziism, suppressing all free thought. Those of us here tonight from the First Chinese City might well have been crushed by the Soviet war machine had it not been for Dr. Rourke’s courageous leadership in preventing the Soviets from obtaining the nuclear missiles of the Second Chinese City. Indeed, all of us might have suffered … died. And Lydveldid Island. Tonight we are honored by the presence of one of the heroic Icelandics, a humble officer of the law. Lydveldid Island, too, owes its debts to John Rourke.
“And let us not forget Mid-Wake, the last bastion of the United States of America, a city beneath the waters of the Pacific which, for five centuries, has single-handedly and heroically combatted the Soviet Communist war machine. Here, too, John Rourke played an important role.
“John Rourke. Although all assembled here tonight know his name as well as their own, not all of us know very much more about him. I conferred with his heroic wife, Sarah … with his son and his daughter and his friends. I will sha
re with you some of what I have learned,” Mann said. Rourke wanted to escape. There was nowhere to run. “John Thomas Rourke was born during what is often called ‘The Cold War,’ the only child of an American agent who fought against Germany during World War Two. It appears that fighting Naziism may be something in the Herr Doctor’s blood.” There was a litde laughter, then Mann continued. “John Rourke trained to become a physician, but after completion of medical training he joined the United States Intelligence organization known as the CIA, or Central Intelligence Agency. During those years, he fought against the forces of Communism in our very own South America and elsewhere throughout the globe.
“The Herr Doctor left the CIA to teach and write. Peaceful pursuits, one might indeed say, but for John Rourke there was no peace as long as there was injustice. He taught survivalism, taught weapons use, taught counter-terrorist tactics. He lectured widely.
“And, to paraphrase the good Herr Doctor himself, he ‘planned ahead.’ Despite the periodic warmings and coolings in relations between the United States and the Soviet Union, John Rourke used all of his income not necessary for the immediate maintenance of his family to construct and stock a survival retreat in the mountains of Georgia, then one of the forty-eight contiguous states of the United States of America. When the exchange of nuclear warheads took place that fatal night, the Herr Doctor was separated from his family.
In the intervening period between that night of terror and the dawn when the skies turned to fire, not only did Dr. Rourke locate his family and get them to safety, but he also foiled a plot by renegade forces within the Soviet government to become the only survivors on the planet… to destroy the returning spaceships of the Eden Project—of which we all now know—and become masters of a desolated earth.
“When, after five centuries of cryogenic sleep, the Rourke family emerged from The Retreat, there was more work to be done and John Thomas Rourke did not shirk, did not say ‘Enough,’ but again risked all for freedom.
“Tonight, he honors us with his presence. We intend to honor him with our highest decoration, but the two honors cannot be compared.”
Could nothing save him from this? John Rourke asked himself.
Colonel Mann stepped aside and Deiter Bern reascended to the podium.
Otto Hammerschmidt’s younger brother, still pale, walking with the help of a cane, was called to the podium and presented with the Knight’s Cross. He declined to speak other than giving thanks. Jason Darkwood was called next and also awarded the Knight’s Cross, accepting on behalf of all citizens of Mid-Wake, partners with New Germany and the other Allies for victory, for freedom.
“Dr. John Rourke.”
Rourke sat in his seat, Sarah on one side of him, Natalia
on the other. Sarah prodded him, hissing, “Go on!”
“John … don’t be bashful,” Natalia whispered.
Rourke inhaled, then exhaled as he stood, buttoning his coat as he walked to the podium.
The Knight’s Cross was placed around his neck and the applause rose, every man in the hall coming to his feet. The orchestra played “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
John Rourke tried to step away when the National Anthem concluded, but the applause began again, continuing, not stopping. Paul was shouting, “Speech!” And John Rourke looked daggers at his friend.
The applause continued.
John Rourke looked from side to side, for once in his life praying to be rescued.
Help was not on the horizon.
He stepped forward and faced the crowd. The applause thundered on. “I’d like—” He could barely hear himself over the speaker system.
Rourke raised his arms, the palms of his hands outward.
The applause trickled off. The men sat down.
John Rourke began to speak. “As you may have detected, I’m feeling a bit uncomfortable this evening.” There was some laughter, the loudest coming from Paul and Michael. He looked at them both, smiled, shook his head, then went on. “My family apparendy is enjoying my discomfort. I’ve never been someone shy about public speaking, but I’ve never really been someone who felt he deserved an honor such as this, so forgive my halting attempts at thanks. I … uhh …” Rourke looked down and laughed at himself. Then he picked his head up and said, “Thank you on behalf of myself, my family … on behalf of all those who died fighting for the cause all of us here believe in—freedom.” And he left the podium.
The applause began again, even the women standing now. Rourke seated himself, Sarah and Natalia standing on either side of him, applauding. Annie leaned over and kissed him. Paul and Michael shook his hand.
Sarah shouted over his head to Natalia. “Kiss him! I’m go
ing to!” And, simultaneously, both women kissed him.
There was a shriek, a roar, and then the room began collapsing around them.
Chapter Nineteen
John grabbed for the women, Natalia’s head pressed against his chest, Sarah’s body hugged against him as he shielded them both. Portions of the walls were collapsing and part of the ceiling was falling down. That was the last Natalia saw as John pulled her and Sarah beneath the table, still shielding them with his own body.
Her first thought was that one of the Soviet submarine-launched missiles had struck the mountain. But if it had been nuclear, in all likelihood they would have been vaporized; or, if it had not been a direct hit, more of the structure would have been collapsing upon them. It had to have been conventional explosives, which meant it was not a missile at all. Because a conventional warhead would not have had the power to reach them this deep in the mountain that formed the center of New Germany’s civilization.
They were under attack from the inside.
John had to be thinking the same thing. “It’s not the Soviets, it’s the damned Nazis!” he shouted over the cacophony of falling debris, screaming women, and men shouting orders all about them. In the next instant, before she could shout back to him, there was automatic weapons fire filling the hall.
Natalia tugged away from John, started to crawl along the plaster-dusted floor, her beautiful new black dress already covered with dirt. She closed her eyes, shaking her head to get some of the plaster dust out of her hair. She found what she was searching for on the floor and opened her evening bag. Crammed inside it, along with lipstick, a small hairbrush, and a handkerchief, was the Walther PPK/S, a spare magazine, and the suppressor. The suppressor was an unnecessary luxury, only the gun and the spare magazine useful to
her now. But if she left it, she might lose it. She twisted the suppressor onto the PKK/S’s PP-length barrel, slipping the spare magazine down the front of her dress between her breasts.
More automatic weapons fire.
She peered beneath the tablecloth. A dozen men at least, in black commando gear with swastika armbands, were moving through the hall, indiscriminately spraying every table. “Bastards,” she hissed.
She looked to her right. John was already in motion, the little snub-nosed .38 revolver he’d picked up at The Retreat in his right hand. Beside her, she felt a familiar presence. “Any good ideas, Michael?”
There was one of his Beretta 92Fs in his left hand. “Yeah, I guess. Let’s go.”
As she got to a crouch beside him, she could already see Annie and Paul, guns drawn, moving off the side of the platform at the far end of the speaker’s table. So far their movements had not been detected, the Nazis so methodical as they swept their way forward.
Side by side with Michael, she edged back toward the near end of the table.
Many of the round tables were overturned, officers sheltering their women behind them, those apparent few who carried arms returning fire but with little or no effect.
And then Natalia heard John’s voice, “Let’s get them!”
And with only the litde revolver in his hand, he was running toward them.
She knew then the meaning of the expression about one’s heart leaping to one’s throat… .
Rour
ke found the nearest of the Nazi attackers, a man close to his own size, carrying an M16 like all the others he was able to see. “Dodd” Rourke rasped. It was the power-mad Eden Project Commander who had to be responsible for arming these men. Natalia had told him that the arms used during the attempt made on her life and Annie’s could only
have come from the Eden Project stores.
Rourke advanced. As the black-clad Nazi assassin he’d targeted made to fire on another group of defenseless people, Rourke stepped away from the wall, the Centennial in his right hand at near-maximum extension, his right first finger drawing the trigger back until the cylinder was fully rotated and it was just ready to break. “Hey!”
The Nazi wheeled toward him, and Rourke pulled the trigger that extra fraction of an inch to strip it, the litde stainless steel .38 Special bucking hard in his hand under the pressure of the Plus P load, the bridge of the killer’s nose collapsing, blood spurting outward across the man’s face as the Nazi fell back.
Darkwood came up in the edge of Rourke’s peripheral vision, weaponless. “Grab that M16.” “Right, Doctor.”
Rourke dodged left, four shots remaining in the litde revolver, a single speedloader with five more rounds in an outside pocket of his tuxedo. There was pistol fire from the opposite wall. Rourke looked toward its origin, Annie and Paul engaging two of the attackers.
More debris was falling, and as Rourke looked upward for an instant, he realized the ceiling was about to completely collapse.
More of the Nazis were entering through the doors to the hall, but some of the German officers had already gotten weapons. Fighting was everywhere. Rourke reached round his back and under his coat, jerking the litde A.G. Russell knife free of its sheath.
The Centennial in his right fist, the pear-shaped boot knife in his left, he started forward. A German officer was locked in combat with one of the Nazis, the latter twisting his Ml 6 around and dealing a glallcihg blow to the officer with the buttstock. As the officer fell back and the Nazi turned his weapon to fire, Rourke stepped between them, firing the revolver at almost point-blank range into the Nazi’s chest. The German officer grabbed for the Ml 6 and Rourke moved on.
