Countdown

by Jerry Ahern

  “We have a choice now,” John Rourke said, after a long moment, his eyes studying the glowing tip of his cigar. “We can either summon up the courage we need as a species in order to meet the crisis at hand, or die. Therefore, if Dr. Rolvaag’s solution seems only to be the lesser of two evils, that’ll be nothing new. That’s how we elected presidents for years, after all, and not always choosing the lesser of two evils at all. We have a clear-cut choice presented to us. Either take a wild gamble which may result in our death as a species or our survival as a species, or don’t gamble, just wait and die. What real choice is there if we are to call ourselves human beings?”

  And, John Rourke was suddenly embarrassed, because everyone at the table stood and began to applaud his words.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Wolfgang Mann sat down with a drink in his hand, his complexion pale and his carriage a little wobbly, but he had been ill and was still, it seemed, not fully recovered from his ordeal.

  But John Rourke was still confident that this man was, indeed, Wolfgang Mann.

  The Paladin’s officers’ mess was essentially deserted, the ship on a modifed alert status and few personnel having the luxury of not needing to be present at a duty station or sleeping.

  Emma was sleeping. Their cabins had adjoining doors and he could come to her, she had told him, asked him.

  The meeting had ended for the day, to be resumed in the morning. John Rourke, too, was tired, needing sleep. But some things took precedence over sleep. Nothing had yet been resolved at the meeting concerning the war strategy and the strategy for fighting the growing volcanic vent beneath the Pacific.

  But something would be resolved at the meeting scheduled for early the next morning or John Rourke would stop wasting time with meetings.

  The thing which had to be resolved now could not wait even until tomorrow. He had seen Sarah; she slept soundly, sedated slightly. By tomorrow, she would be fully awake, fully restored—and their marriage, which had lasted more than six centuries, would be ended.

  That was certain.

  And so was the answer to the question which he was about to ask Generaloberst Wolfgang Mann.

  “Are you in love with Sarah?”

  “John, it is not—”

  Any doubt which John Rourke might have retained concerning Wolfgang Mann’s true identity vanished. The man was cut from the same cloth as he. “Please speak frankly, Wolf.”

  “I cannot, because you are my friend, and friendship is something too precious—”

  “But you have no choice but to be honest with me, because you are my friend,” John Rourke countered.

  “Yes—to both. I am sorry, John. I did not mean for it to happen.”

  “I know that, old friend,” Rourke said honestly. “Nor did Sarah. I would assume you agree, that she is in love with you, as well.”

  “She has never—”

  “I would never have thought any different, of either of you, Wolf. I, on the other hand, realized some time ago that Sarah’s and my marriage was ended. It was when I caused the death of Martin, or Martin’s clone—he was still our flesh, hers and mine, whether clone or the original. Before the Night of the War, our marriage was collapsing from its own weight. The War itself merely postponed what was inevitable. Had everything worked out after the defeat of our old enemy, after she and I set up the hospital clinic at what’s now Eden City, well, perhaps we could have immersed ourselves in the rebuilding of the world to the point where we could have coexisted and stayed married, happiness be damned. I still love her, and I know she loves me. But, we were never friends. Do you know what I mean, Wolf?”

  “Yes. And I feel for you. My late wife was my best friend, and I had thought I could never have such feelings again with a woman, both love and friendship. But, I found them in Sarah, God help me. God help us all.”

  “Yes,” John Rourke said, “God help us all. I’ll give her a divorce, uncontested. And God bless you both.”

  “John?”

  “Yes?”

  “What will you—”

  John Rourke exhaled, slowly, his eyes leaving Wolfgang Mann’s eyes, settling on his own hands. “The events in which we are embroiled may well cost me my life, Wolf. I decided that what little time I may have left should at least in part be spent in happiness. That’s understandable, I think. I, too, have found a woman who is both lover and friend to me.”

  “The female pilot—”

  “Emma Shaw, yes. I’ll ask you a favor, if I may. Should I die, do what you can for Michael and Annie, and Natalia and Paul, of course.”

  “And Emma Shaw?”

  John Rourke smiled, saying, “As with the others, I’d expect no less of you for her.”

  They shook hands and John Rourke stood, leaving his drink untouched. He had made love to Emma Shaw for two reasons: he had wanted to very badly and known that she wanted him to and he loved her; and, the self-knowledge that he had done such a thing while Sarah still lived would force him to do what had to be done and set Sarah free of him. Forever.

  He turned his thoughts elsewhere as he left the lounge behind, entering one of the main companionways which would take him to his quarters, on the same level.

  Something which had not been discussed at the meeting was the reality of the rift within the Nazi Party. According to James Darkwood’s reports, Croenberg (whom Michael had met and fought with while attempting to carry off an impersonation of Martin Zimmer) had aspirations to his own power base and was working to unseat Martin Zimmer in Eden as well as Deitrich Zimmer in the Nazi hierarchy, as its leader.

  John Rourke recalled the remarks of Sir Winston Churchill concerning an alliance with Stalin, that to defeat Hitler he would, in fact, make a pact with the devil. Making a pact with Croenberg might well be possible, and certainly politically expedient. It was morally wrong, however, and to win at the cost of one’s integrity was not to win at all.

  John Rourke stopped in his tracks, stood, shook his head, said nearly aloud, “My God, John Rourke, you’re an anachronism!”

  Laughing a little, he continued on along the corridor. He would bring up the matter of Croenberg, as a possible means of exploiting a rift within the Nazi infrastructure, but if anyone suggested an alliance, secret or otherwise, he would pick up his ball and go home.

  He would not make a pact with any devil.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  It was the best of good luck, having John Thomas Rourke himself aboard the USS Paladin. Not only would Dr. Rourke be vulnerable, but Dr. Rourke’s death (if he survived to take the credit for it) would doubtlessly advance him.

  The Paladin was one of the few United States warships whose on-board scientific work demanded the ongoing employment of civilian employee professionals. As a Nazi sympathizer on land in Hawaii, he was able to attend clandestine meetings, deface synogogue walls, contribute occasionally to the propaganda effort and do little else except wait for the glorious day of liberation when troops of the New Fatherland would march unmolested up from the beaches and those who had been loyal to the party these many years would be rewarded with positions of power and influence.

  As a Nazi sympathizer here aboard the Paladin, he had been able to smuggle out a steady stream of Naval secrets to Nazi intelligence personnel located in various ports of call around the world. But now, it was as if the old gods had selected him, chosen him because he had been loyal, rewarded his all-but-infinite patience.

  The ultimate target awaited him.

  And, even should he die in the process of killing John Thomas Rourke, he, Elwood Brooks, would be immortalized. Like the Horst Wessel song, named after a courageous young party member in the Third Reich who had given his life for his beliefs, so would songs be sung to his memory as well.

  Elwood Brooks had whipped together a plan in a matter of hours which other, lesser men would have required months in order to prepare.

  To that end, he knocked on the door of the cabin belonging to Commander Emma Shaw.

  When
she opened the door, he fired the gun.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  John Rourke stripped away his sweater and turned on the television set. The Paladin’s cable system had several channels and he selected the one which carried nostalgia television.

  These were electronically remastered programs from the mid-twentieth century, televison’s so-called golden age, and films from the post-World War II period up until a short while Before the Night of the War.

  One of his favorite Westerns was playing, and while John Rourke began to clean his guns, he watched it. It was an adaptation of one of Louis L’Amour’s most famous novels, starring John Wayne. There was Indian trouble, but John Wayne was ready to the task, of course. John Rourke had always liked the story, because aside from being a rousing tale, well-acted and well-photographed, the characters, Indian and white, functioned within the framework of their own personal honor.

  His mind on the film (or, at least he tried to keep it there), John Rourke attacked the Lancer reproductions of the SIG-Sauer P-228s. He liked these guns quite a bit, identical in every way to the originals, the original 228s among the few 9mm Parabellum pistols that he ever liked Before the Night of the War. In that small group of 9mm Parabellums, he also included the SIG-Sauer P-226, the Taurus PT-92, the Browning High Power (although the older ones frequently needed polishing for proper feeding of hollow points), the Interarms/Star Firestar, the somewhat old but nevertheless outstanding Walther P-38 and Heckler & Koch’s unconventional SP-89 pistol, this latter the same size as one of the HK submachine guns, but minus a buttstock of course.

  As fond as he was of the SIG 228s, however, and as much as he realized how these new additions to his battery of fighting handguns would be a tremendous asset to him, nothing would ever take the place of the twin stainless Detonics Combat-Masters. He had carried the little .45s, usually in their double Alessi shoulder rig, ever since the guns first became available, his first Detonics a blued gun that he’d had Metalifed by his old pal Ron Mahovsky.

  The little Detonics pistols had never failed him.

  The array of handguns John Rourke relyed upon, although rarely all at once, was considerable. He had been asked often why he utilized so many guns instead of just one or possibly two. Indeed, in the days prior to the Night of the War, when circumstances permitted his being armed with conventional firearms, he carried only the two Detonics Combat-Master .45s, and occasionally a revolver as a spare gun, either the little Colt Lawman MkIII snubby .357 Magnum, one of the most rugged compact revolvers ever built, or when a gun could be carried openly, as in the field, his Metalifed and Mag-na-Ported Colt Python.

  For all the hype other calibers received, .357 Magnum was perhaps the most effective manstopping handgun caliber there was. .44 Magnum, in proper loadings, might essentially equal it, but didn’t really surpass it. He had switched over to a .44 Magnum revolver in recent times for one reason only: personnel he encountered these days might well be wearing bullet-resistant clothing. Full-charge 180-grain, .44 Magnums could penetrate that, as well as armorless sheet metal of the type used in conventional vehicles.

  Rourke finished cleaning both the SIG 228s, the Detonics CombatMasters and the full-sized Score-Masters, setting to work on the two revolvers he now regularly carried, the Metalife Custom Model 629 .44 Magnum and the little .38 Special Smith & Wesson Centennial.

  The trick to properly cleaning a Smith & Wesson revolver if one desired smoothness of operation was to take the extra time and trouble to remove the crane screw, then slip the crane and the cylinder out of the frame, cleaning in the area where the cylinder rotated around the crane. With ammunition leaving behind it substantial powder residue, this was extremely important. A gross accumulation of debris in this area could bind a cylinder to the point where the advancing hand was forced to work unduly hard. This, of course, could lead to mechanical difficulties.

  Meanwhile on television, John Wayne had just given away his prized Winchester rifle with the bowed lever.

  The film was ending and John Rourke was tired. He finished seeing to his guns, then washed his hands quite vigorously in the basin. The Germans produced the lubricant Rourke used, chemically identical to the Break-Free CLP he’d always stocked at the Retreat.

  He stripped, making certain there were weapons properly in reach in the event that he needed them, sitting down naked on the edge of the bed. He called the sick bay, inquiring about Sarah for the night. She was sleeping peacefully and naturally, he was told.

  Rourke told the computer which monitored the ship’s systems, “Lights out, please.” The lights went out.

  He lay back beneath the covers and stared into the total darkness. He felt, oddly, at peace. And tonight’s sleep promised to be a good night’s rest.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Over the course of real time—not centuries spent in cryogenic Sleep—in which Annie Rourke Rubenstein had known her husband, Paul, she had noticed that some of her father’s and Paul’s best friend’s tastes were beginning to rub off on Paul.

  While they’d watched a John Wayne Western together, which Annie had almost memorized word for word (the film was one of the tapes her father had at the Retreat and she had watched it dozens of times), Paul cleaned his guns. Since it was difficult to touch anything, either electronic or in book form, when one’s hands were covered with oil, unless one wished to ruin the object touched, television (either a video or broadcast programming) was the obvious answer in lieu of conversation.

  She’d opted for a bath, a luxury she enjoyed and in which she rarely indulged. While sitting in the tub, a facial mask drying, she could hear the film and the occasional comment from Paul as he cleaned not only his guns, but hers. Her mind was generally elsewhere.

  She was about to become the child of a broken home. Her father’s and mother’s marriage was doomed. If she were inclined to take sides in the thing, Annie would have been at a total loss as to which side she should take. Living with someone who was as nearly perfect as a human being could be would be frustrating beyond belief or endurance. Yet, her mother’s inflexibility Before the Night of the War had been the major contributing factor to the discord which would soon culminate in divorce. Sarah Rourke had refused to even consider her husband’s point of view concerning geopolitics. And, as he strove to be the embodiment of the philosophical objectivist (the only endeavor in which John Rourke was vastly less than perfect), Sarah Rourke was a liberal.

  Her father, Annie knew, try as he might, was too soft-hearted, an admittedly odd way of looking at a man who had fought his way across more than six centuries. But, instead of realizing that the oil and water of his world view and his wife’s would never mix, he had tortured himself by trying and trying and trying some more.

  Philosophically, Annie Rubenstein was more aligned to her father, and over the course of time since the Night of the War, her mother’s liberalism had taken some cruel blows. Sarah Rourke discovered that guns weren’t evil, because they were only inanimate objects. Guns could be used for good or ill, and without guns and other weapons available to them, the good people would be the victims of the bad people, having no recourse for self-defense. Sarah Rourke had learned that liberalism in its common interpretation (as opposed to true, classic liberalism), of the type which ushered the United States government and other nations of the world into high-priced chaos, was the antithesis of what it truly meant to be human. Altruism, even when it was sincere, was self-destructive. Kindness, Judeo-Christian charity, concern for the welfare of others—all of these were best accomplished by men and women who practiced these undeniable virtues out of the sheer love of practicing them, not out of some warped sense of obligation. To preach weakness and passivity was tantamount to preaching suicide, if not physical (which was sometimes the result at the governmental level), then certainly intellectual.

  Her mother had learned, Annie knew, that what her father had believed in all of those years had withstood a philosophical acid test in the aftermath of the Night of the
War that her philosophy could not. He had been right; she had been wrong. If blame were to be shouldered—but she ascribed blame to neither of them in any real sense—it was Sarah Rourke’s. But, in a larger sense, Annie’s mother’s guilt rested only in buying the popular lie as some sort of moral and intellectual superiority, when in fact it was neither moral nor intellectual at all to deny reality and then refuse to realistically try to change reality’s nature.

  She stood up, the drain plug out, the water from her tub running down the drain—into the bilges?—as she turned up the shower. A bath was relaxing, luxuriously sensual, but a terribly inefficient way to get clean, stewing in one’s own dirt. She showered vigorously, washing her hair twice, conditioning it, soaking her body under the warm water while the conditioner did its work.

  The Western was long since over and Paul had come into the bathroom, washed his hands and, by now, was probably reading.

  Annie shut off the water, toweled herself dry, wrapping a towel around her head for a time as she slipped into her nightgown and brushed and flossed her teeth. The towel had done as much as it could. With a blow dryer, she finished the job, finally brushing out her hair. Her hair was almost to her waist when she left it completely down. Natalia had trimmed away a few inches of split ends for her a short while ago and Annie had decided that this current length was as long as she would let it grow. Shorter might be nice, but she liked the things she could do with her hair at this length and Paul liked her hair long.

  She thought about Paul as, again, she brushed her hair. In this modern age, Paul could have taken a series of injections which would have restored his well-thinned hair completely. He elected not to, self-conscious about the idea. Paul was sweet. He genuinely considered himself totally unattractive. He wasn’t, certainly, the sort of man who would be some entertainment idol. But, through her admittedly jaundiced eyes, he looked handsome beyond description, with thinning hair or otherwise.