by Jerry Ahern
Some six miles beyond this point lay the north face of Mt. Wolseley, named after the courageously controversial Victorian-era British soldier, Field Marshall Sir Garnett Joseph Wolseley. The mountain would most assuredly have been renamed by the Nazis, whose headquarters redoubt lay both within and atop it.
Rourke’s eyes still alternated between his physical surroundings and his monitoring of his chest pack. The readouts, in red diodes, were brilliantly bright, but not harmfully so, when viewed through vision intensification. And soon it would be time for chute activation.
Rourke switched from vision intensification to standard, then back again, trying to fix the terrain features as firmly as he could, through normal vision. After several tries, he had these with his own night vision.
Altimeter readings were nearing the magic number. Coordinates as played from the global positioning satellite signal were as perfect as they could be, judging from the computer scenario for the jump.
Rourke slowly reached up, pulling the rip cord for his primary chute.
There was a sudden loss of aerodynamic stability, the rustle of fabric in the wind, then a jerk as his body was caught up, torn upward, his shoulders and back feeling the snap. Immediately, his eyes glancing once to the chest pack, Rourke’s hands moved to the shroud lines, playing them as he alternately watched the dark shapes below him and the coordinate readouts. As he looked around him, the other chutes were open as well. He sought out Paul, located him, breathed a figurative sigh of relief that his friend’s chute had opened properly. Therein lay the true danger for the novice: jumping out of an airplane wasn’t difficult under satisfactory conditions, nor landing that dangerous (provided one knew how to fall); but panic, should something malfunction, could kill.
There was no equipment chute, because it would have to be opened via a static line or radio activation. And, a manless chute could not navigate.
Therefore, all the equipment they would utilize was carried on their bodies.
The ground seemed to be rising quite rapidly now, Rourke fighting his shroud lines as wind gusts tore at his chute. The objective was to land near the noselike feature on the lakeshore, not to be blown miles off course. There was no time to look for Paul or anyone else, and the altimeter and coordinate readouts were superfluous now. By manipulating the shroud lines, however, he slightly altered the vector of his descent, the chute sweeping him over the shoreline, almost too far.
And suddenly the ground was racing toward him and Rourke flexed his legs for impact, the wind gusting into his chute in the very last second he was airborne, starting to drag him. For an instant, Rourke thought that Captain Ernst Klein’s gift of the switchblade knife would somehow prove prophetic, but Rourke was able to roll, capturing the shroud lines as the wind and the snow it drove whipped almost cyclonically around him. For a few seconds, Rourke fought the shroud lines, but at last he had the chute itself, crushing it with his body weight.
Quickly, he began bundling the parachute into his arms, his eyes darting from side to side as he scanned the night, both for the others of his unit and for any sign of enemy personnel. Of the latter, there was none.
Rourke turned his gaze skyward. Four of the chutes were just coming down, all to the north, but not far. Rourke looked to the mission clock set into his chest pack. Eleven miles of hard travel lay ahead, and every second lost might be critical. He attacked the crushed parachute as if it were an enemy he had to subdue . . .
It was like a roller-coaster ride at an amusement park when he was a teenager. Paul Rubenstein had never liked amusement-park rides, except the tamer ones, simply because he’d always reasoned that if someone were that desperate to feel like vomiting, it was cheaper and easier just to stick a finger down the throat. But, when a girl or some of the other guys would nag at him to try the ride and, on rare occasions, he would, he almost invariably enjoyed himself.
The airdrop was just like that. There were rational arguments galore against even considering it, but he knew he had to be with John for this mission, so he did it, made the jump. And, despite a few microseconds here and there of unadulterated terror, in restrospect now, Paul Rubenstein realized he’d enjoyed it. At the back of his mind, there was already the growing desire to do it again, to willfully addict himself to the adrenaline rush of jumping out of an airplane into darkness as deep as shadow, then glide through the air like a soaring bird, have time dilate where seconds seemed like an eternity, where commitment was total.
He could write about the experience in his journal, if they made it through this one and got back.
The odds, of course, were stacking up against them, him and John Rourke. Over the course of six hundred and twenty-five years, they had been in battle after battle, met danger after danger, survived when by all logic they should have perished. Yet, they were still here, on their way to the next brush with death.
Like a gambler on a winning run at blackjack or roulette, the odds were with the house, and if the house won, they perished.
In the midst of the Navy SEALs and German Long Range Mountain Patrol personnel, it was hard to imagine failure and its price; and, if he had ever dwelt on that price, he would not have survived in the immediate aftermath of the Night of the War, nor since.
The idea was to keep going, hoping to cheat the odds, but dismissing the possibilities for doing so. Most people who knew John Rourke would have said that John’s motto was, “Plan ahead.” Indeed, John lived by that dictum. However, even more apt would be, “Give it your best and never give up.” He had learned that from John Rourke and he would do that, until or unless the odds did catch up with one or both of them.
Paul Rubenstein shrugged his shoulders under his pack and checked the digital readout on his compass—a passive receptor for global positioning satellite transmissions, virtually identical to the instrumentation on the chest pack he’d worn during the jump. If it read correctly, they were on their way toward the very heart of Deitrich Zimmer’s Nazi threat.
Annie, Natalia and Michael were the primary objective, the main objective the headquarters itself, wherein they would find the real Wolfgang Mann and Sarah, John’s wife. And John might find horror.
Chapter Eighteen
Buckling on the last of his weapons, Michael Rourke looked at Natalia and at his sister, Annie, asking, “Since this was your idea, ladies, what now?”
“We should wait,” Natalia told him, “and observe. Come aft with me and we will see.”
He’d already been aft once, taking only a pistol, freezing cold (because of his then still-depressed metabolism) and feeling both exhausted and slightly silly at the same time, a blanket wrapped around him over his coat. He saw nothing for his trouble beyond what the two women had told him to expect. But Michael Rourke agreed with their assessment of the situation. Something had already gone or was in the process of going off the graph of the plan, which altered the conditions under which they could expect to operate.
They lay on their stomachs atop stacked cargo mats, looking out with night-vision binoculars through the open rear cargo doors, his sister to his left, Natalia to his right. “One of us should go out there and reconnoiter.”
Michael recognized the pilot’s voice from the darkness behind them. “That’s a good way to get killed, Mr. Rourke.”
“Agreed, Lieutenant, but it’s just as easy—perhaps even easier—to get killed because we don’t know what’s going on. And don’t use my name in the open like that. If they have long-range sound equipment trained on us—parabolic microphones or simitar—you could have blown the whole operation.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I just wasn’t—”
“Hopefully there’s no harm done,” Annie supplied.
“Perhaps you are right about fresh data being required,” Natalia said. “I’m the most experienced, so—”
“No way,” Michael told her. “I won’t let you.”
“You won’t let me?”
“Look, guys, we could be getting listened to right now,” An
nie implored.
Michael jerked on both their arms, then started back, keeping low to avoid getting into the line of sight of any sensing equipment, then slipping through the doorway leading to the main compartment, standing as he did so, stepping aside and waiting while the others followed. “That’s the last of us,” the navigator whispered hoarsely. They closed the door leading aft and Michael sat down. “Shouldn’t we—?” the navigator started.
“One of you go forward, two of you go aft, and be ready for anything,” Natalia ordered.
Michael inwardly laughed, realizing how close to near dismemberment the crew had come; if anyone had questioned Natalia’s orders after what he had said to her and she had answered back, it would have been a huge mistake.
The three crewmen took up their stations, the compartment was empty again save for Annie, Natalia and himself. Michael looked at Annie, saying, “Sis? How’s about keeping the pilot company in the cockpit?”
Annie looked at him for a moment, shaking her head as she shrugged out of her parka. “Fine,” was all she said, leaving the compartment.
Natalia was out of her coat, pacing the aisle. Michael still wore his, a bit cold. “So, what’s on your mind?”
“Why are you ordering me to do something? I’ll do what I feel is best, just as I always have, Michael!”
“I figure it this way, all right? We run the defroster system on the engines, which will get the interest of anybody watching the aircraft. If they don’t have a full sensor array on us, they will then. I slip out just before that. You and Annie and the crew make yourselves a little noticeable. You restarted the cryogenic chamber, so they’ll be getting a readout on that. That means everybody’s accounted for, so they won’t suspect someone skulking around. That’s basically it.”
“It could work, unless they already have what we’re doing, which is possible. Annie and I discussed things before we revived you. I wasn’t thinking.”
“So, you’re angry at me because you’re angry at yourself.”
“That is not—”
“And there’s another reason I won’t let you go out there,” Michael said, knowing he was pushing things hard.
Natalia wheeled toward him, lit a cigarette, her surrealistically blue eyes hard pinpoints of light, aimed into his soul. “There’s a lot of stuff you can do better than I can; and, I’m very well aware of that. But a man thinks differently than a woman, sometimes. Even if the woman is better at something, and it’s dangerous, even a little—”
“Oh, don’t be silly!”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Not that!”
“Fine, then! I’ll lay my cards on the table. I want you to have my children, and I’m old-fashioned enough to figure we should get started on that after we’re married. So, be my wife, marry me, okay?”
“Michael?”
“Fine,” Michael told her, shaking his head in mock disgust. He stood up, walked over to where she stood, legs spread, feet squared as if she were going to fight someone. He took her right hand in his, dropped to one knee and asked, “Will you marry me, Natalia?”
“I—”
“Well, will you?”
Natalia’s hand went rigid. “I—yes.”
“Good.” Michael took the cigarette from her hand, stubbed it out, then pulled her down to her knees, in front of him, his arms enfolding her, the fingers of his right hand entwining in her almost-black hair, cocking her head back. Her lips parted. Michael kissed her, then stopped. “You really mean it? You’ll marry me, Natalia?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you, Michael. Yes. Yes. Yes. I will marry you. I will be Mrs. Michael Rourke and I will have your babies, as many of them as you want. Is that what you want to hear?”
Michael drew Natalia close to him, kissed her hard on the mouth, feeling her hands touching at his neck, his face. It was what he had wanted to hear.
Chapter Nineteen
Michael Rourke heard the crunch of snow under his boots and stopped in his tracks. If he could hear it, so could the enemy. He dropped to a prone position, edging forward on knees and elbows through the swirling windswept snow, the visibility so poor that, unaided as his eyes were, he could see little more than a few yards ahead.
As if in a radio play (there was an entire collection of fully soundscaped radio drama from the Atlanta Radio Theater in the library at the Retreat), like the slamming of a door or the tapping of a boot heel on a staircase, perfectly on cue, the noise of the aircraft engine deicers began and, once again, Michael Rourke could rise to his full height and move more quickly through the night.
All ears and all audio-sensing would be on the aircraft, all eyes and video-sensing as well.
Natalia was going to marry him. It wasn’t as if her agreement was a big surprise, but it just felt better somehow knowing that she’d said yes and that it was as official as it could be under the circumstances.
Annie would know by now, probably be crying her eyes out with happiness, and certainly planning what she’d wear to the wedding. But, Annie was like that, one of the toughest and most intelligent and competent persons he knew, but on the other hand classically, almost stereotypically female in her fascination with clothing and the like.
He would tell his father that he and Natalia were at last going to get married. That would not be easy, even though his father expected it. It still would not be easy, because his father had loved Natalia, in many ways still did. At first, when Michael had realized what he felt for her, the situation which preexisted between her and his father bothered him greatly. Afterward, after their first time together, he realized that he’d really never had any choice at all; what his father had once planned for, counted on taking place between them—Michael and Natalia—was right all along.
Michael reached the nearest rock outcropping and dropped behind it. There would be perimeter defense systems set up. Under normal conditions, Michael Rourke could have worn special infiltration goggles designed to detect electronic countermeasures, by both visual and auditory means. But the keening of the wind and the blowing snow would obviate the usefulness of any such device now. So, it was back to good old stealth and a little luck.
Michael Rourke started moving agam . . .
The ground abruptly dropped off before them and John Rourke signaled a halt. He flipped his goggles to vision intensification, perusing the sprawling terrain in greater detail. There were no land pirates in these parts, the climate too inhospitable except for persons possessing state-of-the-art equipment. Rourke himself wished that they had the snowmobiles, but these would be air-dropped only after the attack on the Nazi headquarters was well under way and no element of surprise would be sacrificed. They would be the means of escape from the Nazi facility with the rescued prisoners, two of the snowmobiles specially outfitted to two small trailers that were portable life-support chambers, in the event that Sarah and/or Wolfgang Mann required these.
For now, however, it was foot travel, and six miles more of hard terrain lay ahead. John Rourke turned to the man behind him, rasping through the toque which covered his face. “We’re heading for the high ground. Pass it on and get moving.”
“Right, sir!”
John Rourke shrugged his shoulders beneath his pack and kept moving through the numbing cold . . .
Hawaii had been noted for its tropical warmth, the closest place to paradise on Earth, Before the Night of the War. Tim Shaw was glad he hadn’t lived in those days. Warm weather was something he’d always disliked, but he was never exactly fond of bitter cold, either. To him, the current Hawaiian climate was paradise-like. There was frequent rain, often there was dense cloud cover and, when the sun shone (as it still did quite a bit over the islands), there was usually a cool breeze off the Pacific and a light jacket or sweater was the order of the day.
But he was in shirtsleeves now, his knit tie down to half-mast, his sleeves rolled up, an open bag of pretzels beside him. He’d kept his shoes on, despite his predilection for removing them, because if
the Nazi saboteurs came after him tonight for their revenge, he didn’t want to be caught barefoot.
Half stuffed between the sofa cushions was his .45, the hammer down over an empty chamber. The little Centennial was tucked in his trouser waistband. He lit a cigarette and hit the play button on the remote control unit for the vidscreen.
Despite his profession, Tim Shaw was not overly fond of cop movies. And, despite the period in which he lived, he wasn’t particularly fond of modern movies. The morality was too complex for his tastes. For entertainment to be genuinely entertaining, at least in most cases, he felt it should be basic. And, there was nothing more basic than the Western.
The Western was a uniquely American art form, and rarely practiced in this day and age. He doubted seriously that a really good, authentic Western could still be made, certainly not as good as the old ones.
The video he watched was old indeed. The cast included a young John Wayne, a beautiful Claire Trevor, a brilliantly debauched Thomas Mitchell, in the heroic saga of a stagecoach traveling west.
When he was a young man, Tim Shaw had actually gone down to Lancers and bought a reproduction of the Winchester Model 1892, had the barrel cut back to sixteen inches, had a hoop lever fitted to it and, almost religiously, practiced roll-cocking the rifle, just as John Wayne had done with such quiet authority. Eventually, Tim Shaw got it right.
At about the same time that he mastered the art, he matured to the point where he could no longer fantasize that such a skill would ever be useful to a twenty-fifth century cop in Hawaii. And he hung the rifle on the wall. Tim Shaw’s eyes drifted from the screen to the rifle—it only came down from the wall for an occasional range session or a cleaning.
And, he laughed at himself as he grabbed a handful of pretzels. It wasn’t the gun, or the epoch in history, but the spirit. Maybe none of his cowboy heroes carried a Lancer reproduction of a stainless steel Colt Government Model .45 automatic, but that didn’t matter. The idea of standing for justice was what was important, not the tools which aided the man or woman who stood.
