Survivalist - 18 - The Struggle

by Ahern, Jerry

  Some of the boys at the academy where he studied were not at all interested in girls. At school, at night, it was sometimes necessary to watch out for them. He had studied hand-to-hand combat ever since he’d first shown military aptitude, but it was one night when he was still fifteen that he was in his first real fight. Some of those boys who did not like girls had decided that they were interested in him. He was not interested in them. Four of them. Only him and his boyhood friend Ivan against them. Ivan died years later during a training exercise when he was still very young. Ivan had never been strong, really, but that night, Ivan fought well.

  He and Ivan had taken their afternoon off and gotten chocolate with money both of them had saved, then strolled about the streets of the Underground City. Everything always looked the same, but it was something to do, of course. And there were always the girls to look at, who never looked the same, like beautiful flowers somehow growing out of a slab of concrete.

  But then Boris and his three friends came upon Prokopiev and his friend Ivan in the service alley behind the Cultural Arts Center. He and Ivan always cut through the service alley because it was quicker to the Youth Hall where there were always girls. Apparently, Boris had calculated their path and decided to lay in wait there with his three friends, all of them like Boris, all of them.

  The attack came so quickly. Poor Ivan was struck in the throat with a paving stone and fell to the street, gasping for breath. Prokopiev himself was hit, but only in the arm, not so badly as Ivan certainly.

  And Boris and his three friends swarmed over them, metal truncheons in their hands, really verticals pried out of the fence surrounding the Youth Hall. Prokopiev struck Boris twice in the face with his fists and Boris began to shriek with pain. Two of Boris’s friends brought Prokopiev down. Boris was holding his bleeding nose and screaming at Prokopiev, calling Prokopiev every obscenity a fifteen-year-old could possibly know, waving the steel truncheon.

  But suddenly, there was Ivan. Ivan kicked Boris in the groin and Boris fell to his knees. Prokopiev finished the job by kicking Boris in the face. And then Ivan fell on one of the two who held Prokopiev down, Prokopiev hammering his fists on the other boy. The fourth boy, face bloodied by Ivan, hit Ivan across the kidneys with his truncheon. Prokopiev grabbed the arm with the truncheon and broke it at the elbow.

  And then he grabbed Ivan and ran.

  It was the first time he had ever entered the city’s sewer system.

  To call it a sewer system implied something medieval. It was so spotlessly clean, one could have eaten off the tunnel floors except for the fact that maintenance personnel walked there. The tunnels only served as access to the sewer pipes, interconnected throughout the entire area of the Underground City’s primary level.

  With Ivan, he had worked his way nearer to the school, escaped the tunnels, gotten inside the school without the headmaster seeing them and without a further encounter with Boris and his friends.

  Ivan had blood in his urine for the next three days, but neither of them was visibly bruised. The collar of Ivan’s uniform covered the discoloration on his neck from where the paving block had struck him and, during physical training, Ivan was able to evade

  suspicious looks or cover the area with a towel.

  Boris and his three friends were not so lucky.

  Of course, to have told the headmaster would have been worse than anything.

  So, they remained silent.

  During a training exercise, not long after Ivan’s death, Boris attempted to cut the rapelling rope of one of his men, a very good-looking young corporal who had apparently resisted the advances of his unit leader. But Boris only partially severed the rope and the young Corporal did not die. Everyone among the Officer Corps—junior officers at least—knew about it. Someone apparently decided that Boris was more a liability than an asset to the Elite Corps and when his rapelling rope was cut, it was cut all the way through.

  There had been an inquiry and the death was officially listed as accidental. Walking quickly through the sewer system now, memories were Vassily Prokopiev’s only companions. What would Ivan have thought? Prokopiev carried film given him by Marshal Antonovitch which could be used by enemies of the State, but for the good of the Soviet people. Would Ivan have called this treason? He didn’t think so. Would Ivan have done the same thing? He thought so.

  The pack he wore was heavy, but he had carried heavier. The weapons left for him were of the best quality. A vintage CZ-75 pistol, one of those which Antonovitch himself had likely ordered preserved in the gummy petroleum-based preservative known as cosmolene. Since these guns were still carried as prized possessions by many of the Officer Corps, handed down from father to son, their 9mm X 19 cased ammunition was still manufactured in limited quantities. Why had Antonovitch given him such a pistol? Was it some sort of symbol? If it were, Prokopiev could not quite fathom its meaning. The knife was one of the

  handmade fighting knives usually carried by officers who had never fought and never would, but finely crafted in the American Bowie pattern. The assault rifle was standard issue. For both the rifle and pistol, he was provided extra magazines and what almost seemed like too much ammunition. Perhaps the Comrade Marshal had assumed that he—Prokopiev—would have to fight his way out of the Underground City. And such a scenario was certainly possible because the sewer system only went so far and then he would have to exit the system and attempt to leave by one of the lesser-used entrances.

  There would be guards. He outranked them, but they would wonder why he was in battle uniform and wearing field equipment and all alone. He would attempt to bluff his way through, that he was on some special mission. If that worked, he would be out without blood being shed. If it did not work, they would ask for his papers. Comrade Marshal Antonovitch had provided no such papers, could not have without implicating himself. Then it would come to a fight.

  As he walked on, listening to the sounds of his breathing, the clicking of his bootheels on the flooring beneath him, he wondered if he could shed Soviet blood.

  He knew he might have to find out.

  I

  i

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Akiro Kurinami opened his eyes. “Welcome back to us, Lieutenant,” Damien Rausch said, smiling. “You had us all very worried.” “What—what happened?”

  “You were apparently followed by Russian personnel. When you attempted to gain entrance to Doctor Rourke’s mountain retreat here, you were struck a blow to the head.- Colonel Mann sent us here, anticipating that you might come here. He sent us so that we could help you. It was very fortunate for you indeed that we arrived when we did.”

  “Where—ahh—were they?”

  “The Russians? One of them escaped, the other going over the edge of the roadway and falling to his death at the base of the mountain. Can you sit up? We need you to open the inner doors to Doctor Rourke’s Retreat so that we can utilize his radio and send for help. Our helicopter was forced down in the blizzard and our radio was destroyed. The Russian who got away has most probably already called for assistance. There is little time to lose.” Rausch leaned over Kurinami, gently putting his hands to Kurinami’s upper arms. “Let me help you to sit up.”

  “Thank you. Elaine—how is she?”

  “Doctor Halversen, at last report, was perfectly fine. You have nothing to worry about on that score, Herr Lieutenant. Can you stand?”

  “I—I think so.”

  “Excellent. But remember, should you feel faint because of that blow to the head, just sit down again. We will help you. You can easily tell me the combination to the doors and we can open them.”

  “All right. But I think I can do it.”

  “Good, Herr Lieutenant. I was told to expect a man of singular courage; and, indeed, you are that,” Rausch told him. He helped Kurinami gradually to his feet* two other of Rausch’s eight men supporting the young Japanese naval aviator, still wobbly on his legs.

  Kurinami started toward the doors, Rausch’s m
en helping him. The Japanese moved very slowly. At last, he stopped before the doors, nodded and smiled to the two men and they stepped back a pace. He began to work the combination lock on the left. “Two combinations?” Rausch asked, genuinely curious. “Was this the customary thing in your time, Herr Lieutenant?”

  “Doctor Rourke is a very cautious man—Mr. Rausch, was it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why isn’t it Captain Rausch or something?”

  Rausch smiled. “You are quite astute, Herr Lieutenant. I am a member of a top secret group of intelligence commandos recently formed by Colonel Mann. We carry no military rank,” and he smiled again, “although some of us did. I was, in fact, a—” Rausch hesitated, almost giving his SS rank designation.”—a Major. But we all serve the Fatherland in our own way.”

  “Colonel Mann is a fine officer. You are privileged to serve under him,” the Japanese said, apparently finished with the first combination lock, starting on

  1 the second.

  “He is an officer whose actions will always be remembered,” Rausch said, but not adding why.

  “Is your gunship disabled?”

  “No. It was forced down, as I said. At least I do not think it is permanently disabled.”

  “If we cannot raise your base on Doctor Rourke’s radio, perhaps I can get the helicopter airborne again. I have considerable experience.”

  “As I understand that you do, Lieutenant,” Rausch nodded. It seemed that the second combination dial had been turned enough. “Are we ready?”

  “Almost. Is Colonel Mann sending in reinforcements?”

  “Oh, yes. When the Soviets attack, they will get more than they planned for, assuredly. I would venture to say, if you are feeling up to it, you will be right there among the heaviest fighting at the controls of your own gunship again.” Kurinami would be dead as soon as he got the doors open and passed inside. Once it was clear that there were no passive defense systems within the Herr Doctor’s facility, the Japanese’s usefulness would come to its sudden, inevitable end.

  “There.”

  “Now, how do the doors open?”

  Kurinami looked over his shoulder, reached to the massive handles and jerked them, then pulled the right-hand side door open. “I’ll go through first and get the lights.”

  “Yes—a good idea. We will be just behind you, my friend. Just behind you.”

  The Japanese disappeared through the open doorway. Rausch reached to his belt for his pistol, nodded to his men. He stepped into the darkness beyond the doors.

  There were no lights. “Lieutenant?”

  “Move and you are dead!” Kurinami’s voice came from the darkness, somewhere ahead.

  “What is this? To repay our kindness?”

  “If you are who you say you are, step back outside and pull the doors closed and lock them. You will not freeze outside.” Rausch felt for a wall, somewhere where there might be a light switch. “I will radio for help, confirm your identity and admit you to wait until help arrives.”

  “But, Herr Lieutenant, we cannot do that I am afraid. I have specific orders to contact my base as soon as possible.” Rausch’s hand found a switch. As he hit the switch with the tips of his fingers, he shouted, “Kill him!” He flipped the switch and nothing happened, no lights. One of his own men fell against him. There was a gunshot, the sound of a ricochet, Rausch firing toward the flash of gunfire, one of his men screaming in pain. “Bastard!” Rausch threw himself down into the darkness, on what felt like stone, his left elbow impacting too hard, his left arm going numb with pain for an instant.

  “Herr Rausch!”

  “Stay outside. Cover the entrance so he cannot slip out.”

  Kurinami’s voice came out of the darkness, uncomfortably near. “I have visited Doctor Rourke’s Retreat on several occasions. I know the floorplan. You do not. I have shut off all the lights. You do not know where the circuit panel is. Your only chance is to leave here at once.”

  “No—” And Rausch rolled onto his back, then rolled again, groping in the almost total darkness with his left hand. The floor fell away. He panicked momentarily, edged forward, felt a step beneath it. “You are the one who has no options, Herr Lieutenant. My eight men—”

  “Seven—I hit one, Rausch.”

  “Very good!Seven. They have the doorway covered. You cannot leave. If you turn on the lights to get to the radio, to use it, you will be shot. Perhaps, as we exchange shots, the radio will be destroyed. I already have what I want. I have captured you and gained access to Doctor Rourke’s mountain retreat and whatever secrets it may possess.”

  “Who are your

  Rausch smiled. There was no purpose any longer served by lying. “My name is Rausch. I am still a military officer, but of the SS. My men and I are loyal members of the Party—”

  “Nazis?’

  “Yes, Kurinami.Nazis. And you and your friends and eventually all our enemies will be crushed. Surrender and I promise you a quick and honorable death. You have my oath.”

  “The oath of a Nazi? You must be crazy.”

  Rausch was tiring of the little verbal battle.

  Rausch was ready to move, inched forward, aimed his pistol into the darkness where Kurinami’s voice seemed to originate. “Lieutenant?”

  “Yes?”

  Rausch fired, again and again and again, the sounds of glass shattering, bullets ricocheting. Then Rausch threw himself over the edge of the steps, wriggling down them on his belly, the base surprisingly near.

  Kurinami did not fire back.

  “Lieutenant?”

  There was no answer.

  “Kurinami?”

  Still no answer, but Rausch moved just in case. The only rational thing now was to wait.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  She felt embarrassed because his body was so close to hers. “Forgive me, Sarah,” Wolfgang Mann hissed. “In these mountains, I was momentarily uncertain of the origin of the gunfire.”

  She nodded, still trying to catch her breath. He had pushed her against the rocks, sheltering her with his body, the three men with them falling into firing positions around them. “No—I’m all right, Wolf.”

  The pressure against her already eased.

  They looked up the road. “I could almost swear those sounds came from the Retreat. Where else could they have come from?”

  Wolfgang Mann’s eyes narrowed behind his snow goggles. In German, he issued rapid-fire orders to his three men, then spoke into his radio. When he concluded, he translated. “I alerted my pilot to be ready for whatever might arise. I also instructed him to order back one of the J7-Vs from my squadron, again to be safe. I would like you to wait here.” Two of his men moved along the trail ahead of them, keeping to either side of it, their assault rifles ready. The third man waited with them. She looked at the third man. “You have not only yourself but the child you carry to

  consider, Sarah.”

  She didn’t need him reminding her of that. “What if whatever caused those shots requires knowledge of the Retreat to set things right? Even just how to get inside it?” And she reached into the pocket of her parka as she removed her right glove, then extracted the Trapper Scorpion .45 the Mulliner boy had given her five centuries ago. She worked the slide, chambering the top round out of the six-round magazine.

  “As you wish, Sarah. But, you must stay beside me.”

  She raised the little handmade .45’s safety, clutching the pistol tightly in her hand.

  “All right.”

  She walked beside him, toward the Retreat…

  Akiro Kurinami’s right hand opened and closed on the butt of the Colt. His own weapon had been missing when he awakened, the first clue making him suspicious of his benefactors. But Doctor Rourke had begun to leave a chamber-loaded stainless steel Government Model Series 80 .45 automatic and two spare magazines in a niche just inside the door, Doctor Rourke telling him of this when he—Kurinami—and Elaine had sought refuge there. Doctor Rourke explained how
he had removed the magazine springs from all three of the Colt magazines, then baked them in the kitchen oven to properly heat-treat them so they would retain their resiliency fully loaded over protracted periods of time. He had mentioned as an aside that, of course, he had welded the magazine floorplates because .45 ACP magazines were habitually only spot-welded and could come loose from the magazine body at the most tactically embarrassing moments, spilling floorplate, spring, follower, and cartridges and leaving the shooter with an empty gun.

  urinami remembered all of that.

  The two spare loaded magazines were in his pocket. The .45 was still in his fist. And Damien Rausch, this self-proclaimed Nazi, was still inside Doctor Rourke’s Retreat. He would have to fix that.

  Slowly, not even an inch at a time, he crawled toward the kitchen counter. Between the counter and the couch was the narrowest portion of walking space. The kitchen was up three steps from the great room floor, and Rausch would most certainly have come down the steps—Kurinami hoped. Keeping the steps as a guide, he would move ahead. When he came in line with the couch, that would be the killing ground, Kurinami determined.

  He kept moving…

  The light that could be activated from within the foyer was on. It was red, and as it washed over the blowing and drifting snow outside the open main entrance at her husband’s retreat, it gave everything it touched the color of blood.

  She crouched beside Wolfgang Mann, his three men now even with them, the two point men alerting the Colonel that the Retreat’s entrance was open, that there were an undisclosed number of men inside just beyond the open door.

  “What do you suggest, Sarah?”

  She licked her hps beneath the toque she wore to protect her face from the wind, her tongue inadvertently touching the fabric. “If you could have one of your men get up on either side of the door to cover us, then you and I and your third man—the Corporal here—could come up on the blind side—from the right?” And she gestured toward near the large boulder, rolled away now. “The boulder would give us