by Jerry Ahern
Rourke looked skyward.
Natalia’s gunship was strafing the enemy position, but the position was well fortified, energy machine guns, rifle grenades, even a mortar. The energy machine guns could reach up for Natalia’s helicopter without great difficulty. But, if she utilized a missile in order to neutralize their position, she would risk destroying two of the Nazi helicopters which were on the ground. The enemy position’s proximity to the helicopters was the rationale behind Rourke and the men of his strike force not assaulting the Nazis on the ground.
But, it was time for that rationale to be reappraised. “Schmidt!”
“Yes, Herr Generaloberst!”
“You have medic training, correct?”
“Yes, Herr Generaloberst!”
“We have to do something about our friends over there. Try to keep Moore here stablized while we do. I’m worried about shock.”
“Yes, Generaloberst.”
“Carry on.” And Rourke looked to Jones, Michael and Paul. “Jones, I want you to keep the men over by the helicopters occupied; a little gunfire, that sort of thing, just so that their attention is kept on you rather than us.”
“Aye, sir.”
Rourke looked to Michael and Paul. “So, what do you have in mind, Dad?” Michael asked him, smiling.
Paul, a wicked grin crossing his lips, said, “Yeah, Dad, what?”
Rourke nodded, forcing a smile. After all, he was Paul’s father-in-law. “Natalia can keep them occupied. Jones can make them think we’re interested in trading shots with them. That leaves the three of us the opportunity for action.” Rourke gestured toward the control building. “We can get inside and out again, without them seeing us. There’s a hole in the wall on the far side from us, but they won’t know that. If we’re lucky, the enemy personnel know our numbers, will figure that we’re all accounted for. We get out through the hole in the wall, then work our way down to the ropes we webbed along the slope. We move across, getting up on their right flank. We wait for Natalia to make another strafing run, and when she does we close with their position and end this thing. Any questions?”
“Just run up and kill them,” Michael said, then shrugged his shoulders. “Sounds straight-forward enough. If they don’t spot us out in the open.”
“Details, details,” Paul said, grinning.
“No explosive ordnance, because we can’t risk those two helicopters,” Rourke added.
Paul nodded, starting a weapons check. Michael was already picking up a Nazi assault rifle—he was out of ammunition for his M-16.
Rourke crouched beside Moore, checking the man once again, telling Schmidt, “As soon as Major Tiemerovna is able to land, get Moore aboard her machine and out of here to medical assistance. Have her ferry up personnel who are helicopter qualified to get these machines to safety below, and bring along any reenforcing personnel she can muster. Meanwhile, you and Jones cover us. If we’re successful, we’ll take up positions near the entrances to the elevator shafts.” Those were on the far north side of the helipad, near another control structure. “Got it?”
“Yes, Herr Generaloberst.”
“John’ll do just fine, really,” Rourke told the German Long Range Mountain Patrol commando, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Yes, Herr Generaloberst.”
Rourke merely shook his head, then made a quick check of his own weapons. Incoming enemy fire was of moderate volume, which meant they were waiting to see what would happen next. The magazines for Rourke’s personal weapons were all reloaded. He had acquired two Nazi assault rifles, and he took up a bandolier of magazines as well, the bandolier nearly full.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” Paul answered. Michael merely nodded.
Rourke rasped, “Jones, cover us.” And Rourke started for the steps in a dead run.
Chapter Fourteen
This was some of the most intense fighting Annie had ever experienced, firefights starting, ending, starting again only seconds later as, foot-by-foot it seemed, Commander Washington’s combined force of SEAL Team personnel and German Long Range Mountain Patrol commandos took the second-highest level of the Nazi command complex. The fierceness with which the Nazis fought was doubly understandable. They were SS, as were all of Deitrich Zimmer’s elite forces, and they were conditioned to believe that, if captured, they would be subjected to hideous, mutilating tortures in order to extract intelligence data from them, then be summarily executed. Trans-Global Alliance prisoners were not tortured for any reason, nor killed, but instead given food, shelter and medical treatment equivalent to that afforded Trans-Global Alliance fighting personnel. If it proved necessary to extract intelligence data from prisoners reluctant to give it, this was accomplished by means of state-of-the-art drug therapy, and such prisoners, when the war would eventually end, by direction of a joint resolution of all Trans-Global Alliance leaders, would be provided certification that the obtaining of any and all data from them was involuntary.
The fighting ceased for the moment, the enemy personnel regrouping on the top level of the facility. Annie Rourke Rubenstein crouched beside Washington, the black SEAL Team commander. He was holding a caseless assault rifle in both fists. Annie’s Detonics ScoreMaster was in her right hand, the Beretta 92F in her left.
There were dead bodies lying strewn along the stairs and over the railings as she peered upward toward the top level. She ducked back. “How’ll we get them out of there? If we assault from the stairwells, we’ll be cut to pieces.”
“Agreed, Mrs. Rubenstein. But, we don’t have much choice. Since we don’t know exactly what’s on the top floor, using explosives might cause more problems than it would solve. Even if we had lethal gas, which we don’t, it’s a violation of General Orders to use it. And remember, they don’t operate under restrictions like that. Conventional chemical weapons wouldn’t do any good against their gas equipment. And, we can’t wait around for their exposure to encephalitis lethargica, if they’ve been exposed, to catch up with them and put them out of commission. So, it has to be a frontal assault. And yes, we’ll take heavy casualties. If your father’s tactical genius is hereditary and you’ve got an idea, now’s the time to share it, ma’am.”
Annie leaned back against the wall, setting her pistols in her lap, running her hands back over her hair. It had been French-braided, a technique she had learned from Natalia, and by now probably looked a mess, she thought. “What about a coordinated attack from above and below? That would minimize casualties, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am, and if your father, your husband and your brother have been successful, it might just be the solution. If not, we have no choice. Either way, there isn’t a lot of time. The men we’re fighting aren’t going to wait forever. They’ll try something, even if it means sacrificing their own lives en masse. But, we can give it a shot.” He called out to one of his SEAL Team personnel, “Collins.”
“Aye, sir!”
“Get in touch with Major Tiemerovna’s gunship. Get a status report on what’s going on at the helipad. I need information, fast.”
“Aye, sir!”
Annie hoped it would be fast enough.
Chapter Fifteen
John Rourke, with Michael and Paul just behind him, was well past the midway point along the ropes. In another comparatively few yards, they would, quite literally, Rourke thought, “have reached the end of their rope.” There would be a distance of some one hundred yards which they would need to navigate without the benefit of a safety line to assist them, the rock there just as slick and just as steeply inclined as the surface they traversed now.
They were roped each man to the other, so that in the event that one man began to slide away to his death, the other two would have a chance to save him. Conversely, should two men get in trouble, they would seal the third man’s doom.
But, John Rourke had planned ahead. One of the many martial-arts disciplines with which he had become familiar Before the Night of the War dealt with the art of the
Ninja. To master and perfect such arts required the devotion of a lifetime. But, he had learned the use of climbing claws.
When Wolverton crafted the pitons and the ice-creepers, Rourke also had him make three sets of crude, but effective—he hoped—claws similar to those of which Rourke had learned the use long years ago. Nearing the end of the rope, Rourke paused, soundlessly signaling to his son and his friend that it was time to don the claws.
Rourke buckled one claw set to his right palm, another to his left. He buckled on the claws for his right knee and his left. There was a danger to using the claws, that being that they would slip on the ice. But, without the use of the claws, he and his son and his friend would surely perish.
Rourke reached out with his clawed left hand, found purchase and applied pressure, then pulled. The claw held and he was able to move, spiderlike, his right knee next, then his right hand, then his left knee.
As he looked back, Paul and Michael—neither man had ever tried the use of the climbing claws—seemed to be doing reasonably well, not nearly so bad as Rourke himself had done the first time he had tried them so long ago.
Rourke kept moving …
From above, despite the darkness and the swirling snow, she could see it all, through the gunship’s chin bubble. She watched, but not dispassionately, what was taking place, as if it were an adventure film unfolding before her on some unimaginably vast movie screen; she was rooting for the good guys to win, and when the film ended, if they won, she would be the woman who swooned in the arms of her couragous lover. She wasn’t a swooner of course, but she was thinking figuratively.
Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna (she had many times tried the name Natalia Rourke just to see how it sounded, how it felt) could do nothing to truly assist her lover and his father and his friend, except make periodic forays against the enemy position toward which they moved now in stealth, hoping to keep the attention of that position’s defenders as a cover for movement.
To have launched a missile against the Nazi defenders would have precipitated the destruction of two helicopters, and, these would be needed in order to get friendly forces evacuated, should that be possible.
It was time to make another run, but as she was about to begin, a signal came in on the field communicator, its strength very weak because it was not designed for use between ground and air. “This is Major Tiemerovna. Your signal is weak. Say slowly. Over.”
“Ground to Tiemerovna. Status required on Operation Madness. Over.”
Operation Madness was the codename Paul had picked for the assault up the mountainside against the summit.
“Operation Madness approximately ninety percent completed. Cannot accurately predict conclusion. Over.”
“Ground to Tiemerovna. Can you stand by for further communications? Over.”
“Negative, Ground. I am commencing a run. Over.”
“Ground to Tiemerovna. Can you reestablish contact after your run? Over.”
“Affirmative, Ground. Wilco. Tiemerovna out.”
She started the run …
Their rate of travel was maddeningly tedious, and the wind lashed at their bodies. Rourke looked back from checking on Paul and Michael and began again to move; but, each time he did so, wind gusts assaulted him as if they were human enemies, intent somehow on tearing him away from the slope to fall to his death below.
The safety line, by means of which he and Paul and Michael were tied together, would have little effect except to damn Paul and Michael as well should the wind literally hurl him over the side. He kept moving, at least another twenty yards to crawl with the aid of the climbing claws. And, should the defenders of the Nazi position look his way during some ephemeral cessation of the wind, when the blowing snow did not mask his body, he would be seen, shot from his precarious position without even the hope of returning fire. To operate a firearm of any sort while wearing the climbing claws would be impossible.
Above him, John Rourke could just discern that Natalia was making another strafing run on the enemy position.
Rourke kept going …
Annie Rubenstein made a final check of her M-16.
With Natalia’s report that the final Nazi position still remained to be taken, Commander Washington no longer had the option of waiting for a simultaneous attack from above and below.
With each moment that passed, chances increased that a more sizable Nazi force would reach the headquarters complex and crush them.
Like her father, John Rourke (she hoped), Annie Rubenstein had planned ahead. “If you don’t mind my input, I have an idea, Commander.”
“All ideas welcome, Mrs. Rubenstein.”
“What if we make an explosion down here, something which sounds really loud but isn’t really big at all? Well, what we could do then is convince the Nazis that we’ve had some sort of catastrophe and we’re withdrawing, but a bunch of us stay behind, wearing gasmasks and everything, and armed to the teeth. When the Nazis probe the floor, we don’t do a thing, but wait for them to come back in force. Then we hit them. Do you think that would work?”
Annie had learned from Natalia that when a woman was making a statement to a man, she was often better off phrasing it as a question, as if she were asking his approval for the idea rather than telling him it was a good idea. That way, when he agreed, and supplied some sort of detail—as Commander Washington did now … “We could use smoke grenades, really confuse the hell out of them when we attacked, then our guys could storm back up here to back us up” … he could credit himself with the idea, or at the least its refinement to practicality.
“That would really do it, wouldn’t it?”
“It just might, Mrs. Rubenstein. It just might,” Commander Washington told her.
She merely folded her hands in her lap and said nothing else …
At last, John Rourke reached safety; but, that was relative. He would be able to stand, be able to feel confident that he would not be swept over the edge of the escarpment to his death, but he was fewer than twenty-five yards from the enemy position and had just noticed that, contrary to what he had thought, in addition to the defenders of the actual position, there were at least two men posted well away from the main body, perhaps for potential use as snipers.
One of these men was so close to him now that the slightest sound might alert the fellow to his presence. Rourke signaled to Michael and Paul to remain where they were.
While Rourke quickly debated his next move, as silently as he could he began to undo the knotted rope from his body. The claws would have to come off, but the buckles and hook and pile fasteners with which they were secured might make a betraying noise. Because the wind had suddenly died.
Snow was falling in greater quantity now than before. Had the circumstances been different, the mere size and texture of the flakes would have been exquisitely beautiful, the lazy rhythm with which they tumbled downward almost mesmerizingly soothing. It was as if he were inside one of those tiny glass globes which were so popular as Christmas decorations in his youth, the globe containing a holiday scene, snow falling when the globe was picked up, turned over, and then set down again.
But, instead, he found himself in immediate peril.
The nearer of the two Nazi outer guards was starting to turn around. In an instant, he would see that he was not alone, would open fire, thus sounding an alarm as well.
There was nothing for it, no other choice.
John Rourke drew himself up into a crouch. If he attacked the fellow, all of the attention the noise would bring would be focused on him alone, allowing Paul and Michael to get to safe ground, free themselves of the climbing claws and utilize their weapons.
Rourke sprang at the man in the same instant that the Nazi raised his rifle to fire.
Chapter Sixteen
John Rourke hurled his body weight against his foe with full force, his hands held palm outward, to make use of the climbing claws as weapons. His right knee, claw-fitted as well, rammed into the Nazi commando’s chest in t
he same instant. The technique of utilizing three of the four limbs as simultaneously striking weapons with the full force of the body behind it was something he had learned Before the Night of the War from his old friend Ron Mahovsky. When done properly, defense against the maneuver was impossible.
There was more than a shout of pain or surprise from the man as their bodies impacted; it was a scream, primal and final, Rourke’s left claw slashing open the carotid artery, the right stabbing downward toward the heart, the claw attached to Rourke’s knee gouging toward the sternum.
Rourke rolled away as the second outer guard shouted, then brought his rifle to bear, firing toward Rourke’s position. But John Rourke had the body of the dead man, using it as a shield, letting go of it only as he was able to take better cover. Bullets ripped into the dead man’s upper body. Rourke drew back deeper into cover, tearing away the bloodied climbing claws from his hands, swinging one of the Nazi assault rifles forward on its sling, stabbing it over the crates behind which he’d taken cover, then returning fire.
There was no thought of aiming, only making noise, and hence perpetuating the diversion in order to give Paul and Michael time to find cover and bring their weapons into play. Rourke ducked down for an instant, removing the climbing claws from his knees as well.
Harassing fire poured toward the Nazi position from beside the control building, Jones and Schmidt firing alternately, in random rotation.
Rourke looked back, Paul and Michael in motion, safe from the treacherous slope, closing from behind on the Nazi position into which Schmidt and Jones fired.
Rourke snatched a fully loaded magazine for the Nazi assault rifle from the bandolier he’d slung crossbody, rammed it in place. The second rifle in his left fist, Rourke eyeballed the terrain, selecting his next spot of cover. It was a dicey choice, a service vehicle with forklift attachment, dicey because it would have a synth-fuel tank which, if struck properly by a bullet or an energy blast, would explode. But, there was no choice.
