by Jerry Ahern
Rourke stood, reaching to his sides for the ScoreMasters.
He thumbed back the hammers, raising the safeties, keeping the edges of his thumbs just beneath the safeties as an added precaution.
He reached the far side of the building. There was already movement, men running from their machines, sentries appearing from hiding places taken against the elements, the video probes doing their work.
Rourke glanced around the corner of the building, seeing the main entrance. He turned the corner, approaching the entrance, then taking the kick-boardless steps two at a time. There was a small porch at their height and Rourke stopped there, inhaled, placed one of the ScoreMasters beneath his left armpit. He pulled his snow goggles down to his throat; they would fog over instantly when he entered the warmth inside. Then, Rourke turned his right hand on the knob. The door flew open with the pressure of the wind in the same instant that Rourke retrieved the second handgun.
John Rourke stepped through the door.
There was a radioman seated on the far side of the room.
Rourke shot him in the mouth as the fellow turned to shout a warning. An officer to Rourke’s left was dressing, picking up his rifle. As the man thrust the rifle toward Rourke, Rourke fired, putting him down with a single 185-grain jacketed hollow point into the chest.
Another man on the left side of the single, large room, was securing the hood of his parka. Rourke shot him in the chest as well.
A man to Rourke’s right shouted something that was inaudible in the still-echoing reverberations from the shots. Rourke shot him in the throat.
There was movement everywhere in the room now. Rourke was firing his guns into the Nazi personnel, mostly officers. A double tap into the chest and throat of a man leveling an energy rifle toward him, another into the throat and left cheek of a man racing for the door. He leveled both pistols toward a man courageously charging at him with only a folding camp chair as a weapon, firing a round from each pistol. With only standard seven-round magazines in place, plus a round each in the pistols’ chambers, exactly three rounds remained in each pistol.
Rourke fired out the ScoreMaster in his left hand, putting down two more men. As he worked his way counterclockwise into the room and away from the door, Rourke thrust the pistol, slide locked back over the empty magazine, into his pistol belt, in the same motion sweeping his left hand back to the Professional Gear holster at his left side beneath the sweater. He popped the thumb break, freeing one of the two SIG-Sauer P-228 9mms, stabbing the pistol toward a young officer trying to escape through the still-open door. Rourke fired a double tap, putting him down, pitching the body through the open doorway and onto the snow-covered porch.
The wind tore through the room, maps and other documents scattering about in cyclonic patterns.
Rourke fired the last three rounds from the ScoreMaster in his right hand, one into the chest, the next into the throat, the third and last into the head of a man charging toward him with an energy rifle in each hand. One of the energy rifles discharged, blowing out a chunk of the wall behind Rourke.
The wind instantly entered.
John Rourke belted the emptied ScoreMaster and drew the second SIG, firing into the far corner of the room where a senior noncom was shouldering a conventional caseless projectile rifle.
Rourke stood there, everyone in the room other than himself dead.
He moved quickly toward the doorway, thumbing down the hammer for the pistol in his right hand, with the trigger finger of his left hand doing the same.
Gunfire was everywhere on the helipad, a video probe exploding in midair, whether from enemy gunfire or by remote detonation he could not be certain. Across the helipad, near to one of the Nazi gunships, he could barely make out in the momentary glow a small battle raging. Rourke stepped out onto the porch, killing two Nazi commandos who were racing toward the shelter, then moving down the steps, onto the fringe of the expansive helipad.
Rourke took cover beside the steps, then slipped one of the SIGs beneath his armpit, drawing one of the twenty-round spares from beneath his sweater and making a tactical magazine change, pocketing the partially spent magazine in his BDU pants. He did the same for the second pistol. Twenty-one rounds in each handgun, Rourke waited for a break in movement on the helipad, then darted from cover, toward the helicopter on the far side of the pad.
He could see Schmidt, firing a captured Nazi weapon from the cover of a concrete-block bunker.
Rourke kept moving, running as quickly as he dared across the ice. Another remote video probe exploded, shards of white-hot metal and burning insulation showering the helipad, in the glow of the explosion the battle beside the helicopter once again visible. Michael and Paul, he thought, locked in close-quarters combat with perhaps a half dozen men or more, Michael trading shots with four of the men, Paul fighting hand-to-hand.
John Rourke quickened his pace beyond common-sense restriction, nearly slipping twice, keeping his balance and moving toward the helicopter.
Energy weapons were being fired now, their blue-white bolts flashing over the ground like chain lightning. Moore went down, legs blown from under him, but the man still moving, firing his weapon.
Rourke wheeled toward the source of energy fire which had brought the SEAL down, found two men firing the energy-weapon equivalent of a machine-gun from the wrong, open side of a bunker.
Rourke changed direction, running toward the enemy personnel at an oblique angle. As soon as they spotted him, wheeling the weapon toward him, Rourke stabbed both pistols toward the Nazi commandos and fired, spraying the target area in order to bring the men down. The man operating the gun fell away, dead or injured, his assistant trying to shove the body aside in order to operate the gun. Rourke fired as he closed, putting a half dozen shots into the second man.
Rourke dropped to cover beside the energy weapon, looking for Moore. Jones had him, the two men firing as they moved to cover.
Rourke stabbed both pistols into their holsters, securing the thumb breaks, then twisting the energy machine gun free from its tripod.
The weapon was heavy, a good twenty pounds or more as he judged it. But, it would be likely to have a full charge and, despite the cold, most of that charge should remain. Enough, at least, for the work he had to do.
Rourke peered over the lip of the bunker, toward the center of the field, then looked toward the helicopter where Paul and Michael were embattled. Rourke scrambled out of the bunker, firing a burst of the energy weapon toward a knot of Nazi commandos who were, in turn, firing on the position to which Jones had taken the downed SEAL, Moore. Rourke fired again, then again.
Energy weapons were very similar in “mission” to conventional small arms, the hand-held models firing lower-power charges, the shoulder weapons higher-power charges, and the crew served small arms such as the machine gun he now operated, firing heavier charges at longer duration and capable of more sustained fire before a recharge.
Rourke fired again toward the men firing on Moore and Jones, killing or wounding another three.
He turned his attention once again toward the helicopter where Michael and Paul were still fighting what seemed to be a growing number of Nazi personnel, judging from the flashes of energy weapons.
Rourke was moving again, the energy weapon in his hands held at hip level. He fired indiscriminately toward enemy personnel, bringing down as many as he could. The helicopter beside which Paul and Michael had taken cover was all but surrounded by enemy personnel. John Rourke decided to correct that condition, circling widely across the helipad, encountering a pocket of resistance near a service vehicle. Rourke fired at the two men huddled there, one of the energy bolts striking the vehicle’s synth-fuel tank, the tank exploding, a black-and-orange fireball belching upward into the night, everything below it red tinged, glowing.
Another video probe detonated overhead, brilliantly illuminating the field for a few seconds. He could see clearly now, Paul and Michael surrounded on three sides, their only m
eans of withdrawal the slope itself.
Rourke glanced back across the field. The wounded SEAL, Moore, was firing an energy weapon from cover, while Jones and Schmidt, with captured heavy-capacity energy weapons in hand, advanced across the field.
Rourke neared the closest of the enemy personnel who were firing on Michael and Paul.
Rourke fired on them, spraying long bluish-white trailers of plasma energy in a zigzag pattern over five of the Nazi commandos, bringing the men down, as their bodies tossed as if they were discarded toys of some gigantic and malevolent child, clothing and flesh smoldering. Enemy fire came toward him, Rourke diving for cover behind another service vehicle. But, remembering what had happened to the last one when its fuel tank was struck, Rourke paused there only briefly, scrambling away toward a concrete bunker.
Energy bolts and conventional caseless small-arms fire poured toward him, peppering the ice-slicked tarmac surface of the helipad as he ran. He jumped, landing in the bunker beside two dead men.
Rourke pried the fingers of one of them from the pistol grip of his energy rifle. Without looking up over the lip of the bunker, Rourke stabbed the weapon over the top and turreted it from side to side, firing as fast as he could pull the trigger, spraying anything that might be moving toward him.
Discarding the weapon, Rourke shoved the energy machine gun over the lip of the bunker and fired a long charge, cutting down three enemy personnel who were storming toward the bunker. Rourke tucked down, enemy small-arms fire impacting the lip of the bunker, chunks of ice and concrete spraying everywhere. Energy bolts rippled over the bunker in wispy, blue-white clouds.
Energy weapons had no recoil, of course. And, an idea instantly came to mind. He flicked the energy machinegun’s selector switch into the “safe” position.
Rourke reached into a pocket of his BDU pants, finding the shoulder harness from the dismounted Professional Gear holsters for the SIGs. The harness was made from 2500-pound test nylon webbing. He twisted one tail of the four, first removing the buckle at the end. Working several inches of the webbing into cord shape, then sliding this through the energy machinegun’s trigger guard, he utilized a triglide slider from the harness to secure the loop he had made.
Rourke drew the shoulder harness toward the rear of the bunker, then dropped the loose ends. One of the dead men in the bunker had another energy rifle. Rourke used this as a wedge against the buttstock of the energy machinegun. Despite the fact there was no true recoil as such, there was vibration.
Hurriedly, Rourke reloaded the two SIGs with the remaining two twenty-round magazines, then holstered them. He grabbed one of the dead men under the armpits and dragged him forward, propping the body up behind the energy weapon, so only a little bit of the torso would show and part of the helmet. Then Rourke moved toward the rear of the bunker once again. His eyes scanned across the bunker floor. Nothing that would be of use.
He went to the other dead man, found the man’s still-sheathed bayonet and looped one of the loose ends of the harness around the hilt, tightening the triglide on the loop.
Rourke gauged the distance, put the selector into the burst-control position, then hammered the knife into the floor of the bunker.
Immediately, the energy weapon began firing. On burst control, it would fire three bolts, pause, then fire three bolts again.
As the weapon began firing, he couldn’t help but smile. Here, at last, was the small arm that all of the pitifully naive antigunners of the twentieth century would have pointed to with glee—with a little help, it could shoot by itself.
Chapter Twelve
As the energy machine gun began firing its second burst, Rourke was already moving, the Score-Masters reloaded and holstered, the two SIG-Sauer P-228 9mms with their twenty-round magazines in his fists.
He squinted against the swirling snow.
Another remote video probe exploded, but this time impacting near the center of the helipad, claiming at least three of the enemy force that he could see, perhaps more.
Gunfire from the battle within a battle near the helicopter was intense, and he was close to it. The portion of the enveloping enemy force which he had neutralized had not yet been replaced, but Rourke did not run through the hole. Instead, he ran behind the line of enemy personnel, determined to cut another hole in that line.
Rourke encountered enemy personnel sooner than he anticipated, two men rising up from behind a rank of crates, the men themselves about to storm forward to another position of cover in the same direction as Rourke ran. Rourke wheeled half right, both pistols at chest height, both pistols double-tapping, one of the two men down dead. As the second man spun toward him, firing his conventional caseless assault rifle, Rourke dropped to his right, hitting the icy ground and sliding, gunfire tearing into the helipad surface near him.
Rourke spread-eagled, slowing, stopping, firing both pistols again, catching the enemy commando in center of mass, the man’s body jackknifing into itself, then falling back into a fetal postition.
Rourke was to his knees, to his feet.
Seventeen rounds left in each pistol, a tactical reload—had freshly loaded spares been available—would not yet have been necessary. He ran forward, thumbing down the hammer-drop on the pistol in his right hand, belting it under his pistol belt, then grabbing up the nearer assault rifle of the two dead men.
The Nazi assault rifle in his right fist, the other SIG in his left, Rourke ran forward as fast as he dared, considering the footing.
Michael’s and Paul’s position was about to be overrun, Rourke’s son and his friend outnumbered at least four to one. Rourke veered at a right angle toward the strongest portion of the enemy line, the attention of the eight Nazi commandos concentrated on Michael and Paul.
That was their mistake.
Rourke dropped to cover in the position the eight commandos had just vacated, two dead men there, another one displaying several gunshot wounds.
Only barbarians made war on the wounded. Rourke relieved the wounded man of his weapons, taking the assault rifle and bandolier of spare magazines for himself, then telling the injured man in German, “You will not be harmed unless you interfere.”
The man nodded his head, eyes filled with hate and anger, but reason getting the better of both emotions. Rourke had two assault rifles now, dropping to cover, behind the crates which had served the Nazis. Belting the second SIG after working the hammer drop, he brought one of the assault rifles to his shoulder and opened fire into the backs of the eight advancing commandos. Two down, then a third, the remaining five wheeled toward him as he tucked down.
There was the familiar sound of Paul’s German MP-40 submachine gun, pistol shots as well, even the roar of Michael’s .44 Magnum revolver. Bullets and energy bolts tore into the crates behind which Rourke stayed crouched. He stabbed the second assault rifle around the corner of the crates and sprayed it.
As answering fire came, he raised up, firing long, ragged bursts from the other rifle, this one to his shoulder. He brought down two more of the enemy personnel.
The remaining three fled, Paul standing now, firing his submachine gun from the shoulder, stock extended. Michael held his dully gleaming Smith & Wesson in both fists, tongues of flame licking from the muzzle of the .44.
Rourke didn’t waste time or ammunition, changing magazines in both captured assault rifles, slinging the bandolier to his shoulder, then shouting over the roar of gunfire, “There’s a wounded man here, disarmed. Make sure he’s cared for!” And Rourke was up and running, toward the center of the helipad and the last vestiges of battle.
For six men, they had done well, taking the enemy with a decent measure of surprise, so far at least none of the Nazi gunships visibly having suffered any substantial damage.
Natalia’s helicopter slipped over the field, closing.
John Rourke shouted to Paul and to Michael, “Follow me!”
Chapter Thirteen
A half dozen or more Nazi commandos had taken refuge on th
e far side of the helipad, armed with energy weapons, conventional caseless small arms and some explosive ordnance. Rourke, Paul Rubenstein, Michael Rourke and Schmidt huddled near the control building, Jones and Moore with them as well. Aside from the heavily armed holdouts, the helipad was secured—for the moment. Commander Washington and his men would be fighting their way up through the two top levels of the mountain’s interior and it was likely in the extreme that the Nazi defenders there would retreat toward the helipad when pressed. It was also very likely that the Nazi commandos were aware of what had already transpired on the mountaintop helipad and would be ready for a wide range of contingencies. Without the element of surprise, six men, one of whom was seriously wounded, would have no chance at all.
Natalia would have detected the tactical situation by now and be preparing to respond, to neutralize the still-fighting Nazi personnel, thus enabling a better defense for the mountaintop against the inevitable backwash of Nazi personnel.
“Incoming!” Jones shouted, Rourke throwing his body over Moore’s body in order to protect the injured man from the grenade or whatever it was.
It was a grenade, as Rourke looked back Michael taking an energy rifle, swinging it to his shoulder and firing, the grenade exploding while still airborne.
“Good trick-shooting,” Rourke remarked, less than pleased that his son had exposed himself to enemy fire, happy at his son’s success.
Rourke returned to what had occupied his attention before the grenade had been fired toward them—and it was a rifle grenade, of that Rourke was certain. Moore, both legs injured by an energy blast, was very badly burned and already into shock. The small medical kit in Rourke’s musette bag carried an adrenalin shot, and Rourke administered that now because of the man’s heart rate, along with a B-Complex shot. But, without the opportunity for stablizing him under more complete medical facilities, Moore might well die, at the very least lose his legs.
