by Ahern, Jerry
to your unspoken question. It is almost as old as I am. You are here because you are an honorable man, honorable to the point of willingly surrendering your life because it is the morally correct thing to do. I wish for you to leave me with this in your pocket.” And the Comrade Marshal produced a small object about the size of the spool of thread Prokopiev kept in his kit for the resewing of buttons. “There is film inside this canister. The film contains the plans for the particle beam devices which will soon be used in the field against the allies of Doctor Rourke. Make no mistake, Vassily. I am a loyal Communist. I shall continue to defend the Soviet people to the best of my ability. But my answer, I have realized—and it has taken me five centuries to come to this realization—my answer is not the best answer. Will you serve the Soviet people and all people?” “How, Comrade Marshal?”
“Doctor Rourke is a man like yourself, a man of honor. And, it would appearfrom your report, so is his son. Give this film to him and tell him that I trust he will do the right thing. Will you take it?”
“How can—”
“You are the most highly trained man in the Elite Corps. I cannot believe you could not find a way, Vassily.”
Prokopiev cleared his throat, looked at his hands. They trembled slightly. “Yes, Comrade Marshal.”
The Comrade Marshal tossed the canister across the desk, Prokopiev watching it come toward him somehow as if it were in slow motion. He caught it in his right hand. His hand no longer trembled.
“I have two messages for you. Tell Comrade Major Tiemerovna that perhaps she was right about me after all. She always told me that I was not born to Karamatsov’s work.”
“Two messages, Comrade Marshal?”
“Yes. Tell Doctor Rourke this changes nothing. I would kill him if I had the chance. And I will expect the same courtesy from him. There is a pack, there are winter clothes, there is a fine knife, there is a pistol, an assault rifle and adequate ammunition, foodstuffs and personal medical supplies. Do what you must. If you take a life from within the Elite Corps, it will be one less to hunt you down and kill you. Remember that Communism, if it is good, is to serve the people. Living people. Now take the film, guard it against any sort of radiation. Take this pistol and shoot me in the arm with it. In the fleshy part—here.”
He set the pistol on the desk, then touched at his outer left forearm.
Prokopiev picked up the pistol. It was very small. “The hammer is already cocked, Vassily,” the Comrade Marshal advised. “The gun shoots true at short range. There is little muzzle blast. We fought over the gun, of course; you took it and attempted to kill me, but I shoved you away and that deflected your bullet. The safety catch is on the left-hand side. Push it down. Watch for the web of your hand as you shoot. It is a very small gun. Shoot me.”
Vassily Prokopiev raised the pistol, took a single step, hesitated, then took another step back. He aimed the pistol—it had very rudimentary sights—at the Comrade Marshal’s outstretched left arm. His thumb found the safety catch and he pushed it down as instructed. Why would anyone wish a gun so small?
“Yes, Comrade Marshal.” Vassily Prokopiev pulled the trigger and the Comrade Marshal fell back against the picture of Lenin, clasping his left forearm. The Comrade Marshal smiled.
/
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was necessary, after trying to connect the pieces as best as possible, to rope the dead down through the rock chimney. A mass grave would have been impossible to dig on the volcanic flow. One hundred and twenty men were detailed to the surface warfare group on Iwo Jima. The remains of as many as fifty— at least there were fifty skulls that could be found— were in the giant bonfire, parts of it still reeking of something which smelled like gasoline and which the men of Mid-Wake identified as something which sounded to be the Soviet equivalent of napalm.
There were the remains of plastic ropes, not fully burned, and there was no evidence any of the men had been shot before being set afire. The evidence, on the contrary, seemed clear that the men were executed in the flames, by the flames.
Once their bodies were roped down, the grave was dug. No one suggested that the six Soviet prisoners should be used to assist. It would have seemed, Paul Rubenstein reflected, to dishonor the dead.
John Rourke interrogated the six Soviet prisoners. The remaining survivors of the attack on Iwo Jima were being transported—walked—through the jungle, stripped of their uniforms (hence freezing), toward the
Island Class submarine anchored off the island. They would be taken by the Soviets for “scientific experiments.” The Soviet undersea colony had been practicing surface warfare for the last decade, been aware of the Iwo Jima facility for six months at least, decided to leave a message for the people of Mid-Wake, one they would never forget.
Paul Rubenstein agreed with that; the message would never be forgotten.
“We have two choices,” John Rourke said, Paul Rubenstein watching him as he, John Rourke, Jason Darkwood, and Sam Aldridge walked toward the helicopter gunship, the six Soviet prisoners and the rest of Aldridge’s Marines waiting uneasily near the rock chimney. The Soviet prisoners had to be terrified that they would be executed in like manner to the Americans from Mid-Wake, or worse. And the Marines had to be tempted.
Captain—formerly Commander—Jason Darkwood asked, “Are they the same two choices I’m thinking of, Doctor Rourke?”
“I would imagine they are,” John nodded.
“With your daughter, Mrs. Rubenstein, and Major Tiemerovna and Captain Hammerschmidt safe, you and your flying machine are capable of pursuing other interests.”
“That’s right, Captain,” John agreed. “Revenge sounds like a good start.”
“Can this—this gunship,” and Darkwood gestured toward the German craft, “destroy an Island Classer, Doctor?”
“With a great deal of luck, yes. Although I know what the German missiles will do against Soviet surface armor, I have no idea what they’ll do against a double hull capable of withstanding the depths these vessels routinely sustain. With a great deal of luck, yes—I can probably destroy it. Or, with a little assistance and less
luck, I know I can destroy it. We’ll have to free the prisoners first, of course. Have to free them so that if we do get the Island Classer to blow, when she does their captors won’t automatically massacre them. And we’ll have to do it very quickly—the rescue, I mean—so they won’t have time to radio the Island Classer that we’re getting them. The Island Classer knows about the helicopter, but probably has very little understanding of its capabilities. At best, computer records might give a breakdown of the abilities of late twentieth-century helicopter gunships. This German version is vastly quicker, more maneuverable, better, and more heavily armed. They couldn’t expect that, at least not without some good minds going to work on it, and there won’t have been time for that, either.”
John stopped beneath the now-still blades of the main rotor. “Now,” he continued. “I think we have a chance. The six men you took prisoner are the key. From your account, Captain, of their capture, they couldn’t possibly have radioed in their predicament. Therefore, they’re still expected. Even considering the time we spent in the burial, we can get them to the right spot using the helicopter, making up for the lost time.”
“Get us, you mean,” Jason Darkwood said.
Sam Aldridge smiled. “We put on their uniforms, walk right up to them.”
“No—that suntan routine worked the last time, Sam,” Darkwood said. “You control the second element, for the ambush.”
Paul Rubenstein spoke. “Assuming we get the rest of the Mid-Wake personnel free—what, seventy or so?”
“Aside from casualties,” Captain Aldridge interjected, his voice low. “They might have been heavy. Probably were. Most of the people here were Marines.”
“Then assuming we get them free,” Paul continued, “what if we salvage as many additional uniforms as possible, then walk the Mid-Wake personnel aboard
&n
bsp; the Island Class submarine. Instead of you blowing it, John, why not take it?”
John Rourke turned and looked at him. “That’s very simple, very brilliant, Paul.”
“No IT.S. skipper has boarded a major enemy vessel during an action since the U-505 submarine during World War Two,” Jason Darkwood murmured. “I mean, that Island Classer we hijacked wasn’t manned, wasn’t—”
Darkwood referred to the vessel he and Sam Aldridge and a handful of Marine raiders had stolen during their rescue of Natalia from Mid-Wake. Aldridge interrupted Paul’s thoughts. “Well, don’t forget that little scout sub my people took. But you’re right, Jase.”
“How’s that Island Class submarine you and your men took doing, anyway?” John Rourke asked, smiling.
“Well, now that you bring it up,” Jason Darkwood smiled back, “I understand it’s getting very lonely for one of its own kind. In a way, we’d be performing a humanitarian act. Not to mention probably netting ourselves a full complement of Soviet missiles, too.”
Paul Rubenstein watched as John Rourke turned away from the gunship and stared back toward where the six prisoners were. “That Soviet Marine Spetznas Sergeant. He’s a big one. That might be why he didn’t give in entirely to the truth drug. Or maybe he really had no knowledge of the burning of the prisoners and couldn’t tell us. At least I can hope. It wouldn’t be convincing to put someone into his uniform. And anyway, the blood stains on the other uniforms weren’t so bad. I think it will just have to be five of us. You, Captain, Paul here, myself and two other of your men.” John Rourke lit the partially burned stump of cigar, shielding the flame of his Zippo against the wind in his cupped palms.
I f
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Falling, blowing snow swirled in kaleidoscopic patterns in the light.
Michael Rourke’s flashlight showed solid rock. But Bjorn Rolvaag tapped him on the shoulder and gestured that they should move ahead. Michael switched off the flashlight and followed him.
The snow which seemed to fall everywhere according to the German meteorological reports was a blizzard here. Michael Rourke doubted that even with Rolvaag’s expertise in Arctic travel and survival and the aid of his dog, Hrothgar, they would be able to go on much farther, nor certainly be able to turn back.
Maria was roped behind him, Michael following Rolvaag, Maria and the German commandos and volunteers from the German Hekla Base following him.
Somehow, the dog would be there one instant and gone into the blizzard the next, totally lost from sight, only then returning to run off once more.
It crossed Michael’s mind that perhaps Rolvaag’s head injury had been more serious than anyone considered, that he was simply leading them on into the blizzard out of delusion. Michael Rourke could feel
Maria Leuden beside him, feel the pressure of her heavily gloved hands on his left forearm. He folded his arm around her, trudged ahead, the snowdrifts at times waist-high, the temperature so cold that his thighs, despite the several layers of thermal clothing, were stiffening, his legs almost refusing to move. He kept going.
Bjorn Rolvaag was a man who was driven, clearly. Every instinct in Rolvaag’s body must have been telling him to press on, to find this tunnel whether it existed or not, penetrate the tunnel, reach the interior of the Hekla cone and rush to the rescue of his country’s leader, Madame Jokli.
Every instinct. Michael hoped they were real, rather than delusion.
Maria Leuden was shouting something and Michael could not distinguish the words. He pushed his hood back on the left side, a sudden shock of cold as he opened it, leaned his toqued and scarfed head toward her completely covered mouth. He thought he made out the words, “I will die, Michael!” He held her more tightly, kept moving. Turning back would have been pointless. Where was back?
Michael kept moving, slamming into what felt like a wall. It was Bjorn Rolvaag, swathed in his furs, Hrothgar bounding back and forth in the cone of Michael’s flashlight as, once again, he turned it on. There was no chance that the Russian occupation forces might have had sentries at the height of the cone who could have seen the light. Visibility was nearly measurable in inches, certainly only in feet.
Rolvaag pointed into the darkness beyond the snow which swirled in Michael’s light, then started toward— what? Michael saw nothing. Rolvaag kept moving, Michael in his wake, dragging Maria now almost, ready to take her up into his arms and carry her because
j he realized she could go no farther, really. If they were attacked now, even assuming they could tell from which direction, he doubted his M-16’s bolt could be cleared of ice quickly enough to fire back. His other weapons were beneath his parka, hopeless to get to, his hands numb and stiff.
Michael Rourke kept walking.
Rock— He slammed into it, stumbled, dragging Maria Leuden down into the snow with him. But as he reached out, there was nothing there. He swept his hand right and left. To the right, there was solidness.
Michael pulled himself to his knees, to his feet, spoke to Maria, knowing she couldn’t hear him over the keening of the wind. “I think it’s the tunnel, Maria.”
He pulled her to her feet, feeling the forward pressure of Rolvaag’s rope tugging him ahead.
He took a step, then another and another, then another and then—then the snow stopped and the howl of the wind was like the howl of the sea in a shell. He’d heard that as a little boy.
One of the lanterns was lit, moved. In the light from it, he could see Rolvaag’s face. There was no snow around his face. They were inside the tunnel.
Bjorn Rolvaag’s great lionine face seamed with a fine smile.
Chapter Thirty
Since it was Colonel Mann’s personal J7-V, the aircraft was furnished rather differently from the others in which she had flown, Sarah Rourke observed. His J7-V, for example, although a fighter craft, had a complete radio room in the rear of the fuselage. She gathered it was for more than ordinary radio. More likely, sophisticated electronic intelligence equipment racks.
He emerged from that room now, his face looking sad. She liked him very much as a person, as a friend. He treated her as a person and friend. And she liked that very much.
“Frau Rourke—Sarah.Your friend, Lieutenant Kurinami. He is now listed as officially missing in action and presumed dead. The men whose lives he saved have personally conducted an air search, had to turn back because of the storms raging in the southeastern United States and because of significant and growing Soviet presence. Nothing was seen of him. I hate to be the bearer of such news, Sarah.”
Sarah Rourke stared out the cabin window of the J7-V.
“Wolf—would you try something? For me?”
He sat down opposite her, leaning toward her, his hands near her coffee cup. “If I can, of course.”
“When Akiro and Elaine Halversen—his fiancee? When they escaped from Commander Dodd before, they went to the Retreat. I wouldn’t feel as if everything had been done if somehow we didn’t go there, make an aerial search of the surrounding area if possible, go to the Retreat itself. He could be there, perhaps injured or dying. It’s worth a chance, isn’t it, Wolfgang?”
Wolfgang Mann nodded, slowly, then said, “Yes—it is worth a chance. The aerial search may prove impossible. But we can try. And if the pilot is not willing to try a landing, I will—unless it would mean the deaths of all aboard. Yes.” And he looked at his watch. “We won’t be over northeastern Georgia for better than forty minutes. Then we will know. So sleep, now. I can get a blanket for you.”
“Thank you,” she nodded, her eyes very tired. “Where are we now—about, I mean?”
“We passed over the St. Lawrence River not long ago. I imagine we are somewhere near where your New York City once was.” She looked into the darkness, imagining they were flying over New York City. Her New York City. That made her smile. But there would have been lights, beautiful lights. She was sure she could have seen them through the snow she knew was falling below them. She was sure.<
br />
But now, there was just darkness.
She turned her face more toward the window so he wouldn’t see her cry, her fingers massaging at the life in her abdomen. A little boy. Another John? Another Michael? More fodder for a history likely no one would ever survive to read?
The tears flowed freely now and she hadn’t thought that Wolfgang Mann was still watching her, but he whispered, “May I?” As he placed his arm around her
shoulders, held her tightly enough to be reassuring, comforting, not tightly enough that it would be misinterpreted. Sarah Rourke realized what she was. A widow with a living husband. And she was very lonely.
When she closed her eyes tightly against the tears, ! she could see the lights.
Chapter Thirty-One
Vassily Prokopiev knew the Underground City. He was born there, raised there in the communal center for boys who had shown aptitude for military service. At age fourteen, he was transferred from the general military studies program to the special program, which of course was for the KGB. With the special program came a special school.
The curriculum was very demanding, from code-breaking skills to marksmanship to interrogation improvisations to chemical composition of poisons and explosives. And always, physical training. But, if studies went well and discipline was maintained, each boy had his day.
Prokopiev always applied himself to his studies, whether he perceived the specific subject matter as boring or exciting, useful or absurd; and one afternoon and early evening each weekend was his.
Sharp looking in his gray uniform, black boots, and black belt and his cap, he would move about the Underground City, watching of course for pretty girls, hoping they were watching back. The prettiest girls seemed to be those from the musical studies or dancing, but sometimes a surprisingly pretty girl would be found
in the oddest place—loading sacks of grain, learning how to artificially inseminate one of the precious farm animals, driving a delivery truck.
