by Ahern, Jerry
“Cheap construction,” Rourke thought, a six-or seven-inch piece of the cement bead chipping under the impact of his blow. It took both men some ten minutes to get a sufficient amount of the cement chipped away to try pushing at the grating. It budged, but didn’t give way. They resumed chiseling at the cement, then when the cement was nearly gone from both sides, threw their weight against the grating a second time. This time it moved and slipped too easily. Rourke and Reed frantically caught at it to avoid letting it fall and clang against the cement of the V-shaped channel in the culvert outside. They edged the grating along the side of the storm drain, conscious of every clang and scrape. Rourke sent Reed back to get Fulsom and the others, Rourke himself moving out of the storm drain, up the side of the channel and peered over the edge of the culvert and across. The parking lot was comparatively huge for a largely rural area, the yellow lines drawn for orderly parking meaningless now. A few rusted wrecks sat in the lot at the far side, but that was all. Closer in, toward the shopping center itself, Rourke could see Soviet-marked trucks—the Red Stars seeming to burn in the night, somehow, psychological he imagined.
“What’s up?”
Rourke turned toward the voice: it was Reed.
“You’ve been around,” Rourke rasped, slipping down from the edge of the culvert, leaning back against the steeply sloping cement behind him. “This whole deal smells. We’re not going in the rest of the way through the storm drain; we’re cutting across this lot and into the buildings. There’s a trap out there. Only thing we can do is try and work around it.” “Fulsom’s not gonna like that,” Reed cautioned.
“Yeah, well—that’s too damned bad,” Rourke said. “I’ll let him lead the war when he lets me sell hardware. Come on.” Slipping back toward the mouth of the storm drain, Rourke put his left hand on Fulsom’s shoulder and drew the man aside, telling him, “There’s some kind of trap in the wind. I can feel it. We’re going through the parking area, to the buildings. Couple of us go up on the roofs after sentries, then everybody piles after us. If it looks possible, some of us can go into the complex through the roof.” “But why not the drain, the way we had—”
“You want to go that route, count me out,” Rourke rasped.
Fulsom, the corners of his mouth set down hard, nodded—grim-looking, Rourke thought.
“All right, you keep a handle on things here,” Rourke said. “I’ll take Reed and his two Army Intelligence guys with me.” Edging back toward the lip of the culvert up the V-shaped channel, he waved toward Reed, the Intelligence captain moving diagonally along the rough concrete surface toward him.
“Get your two boys, then stay with me,” Rourke told him emotionlessly. “First shot or anything from us or them, get the hell out. Pass that back along to Fulsom.” Rourke snatched the Bushnell Armored binoculars from their case and scanned the parking area, then the roof tops. He assumed there would naturally be sentries though he saw none. Shaking his head as he replaced the glasses, he zipped his jacket against the night air, but the cold feeling in his stomach wouldn’t go.
Chapter 31
“These are the complete details of your architectural survey, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” the ruddy cheeked young man said, still standing at attention beside the open door leading to the back seat of Colonel Korcinski’s staff car.
“Excellent. This storm drain, it appears here.” He showed the page of the plans through the open door. The lieutenant bent over formally, studying them by the beam from the flashlight Korcinski held in his gloved left hand.
“Yes, Comrade Colonel?”
“You will be commander for this portion of the operation. Do not fail. Take a platoon of men to the outlet of this storm drain, approach with caution, apprehend any persons near or inside the outlet of the drain, then proceed up the drain pipe toward the parking square. Any questions?” “All is clear, Comrade Colonel!”
“Excellent. Get moving,” Korcinski snapped, tempering his tone of authority with one he thought of encouragement.
Korcinski turned to the captain, who had been standing beside the young lieutenant. “I understand this man Rourke that we seek is highly experienced. He will no doubt become alarmed that there is no visible presence in the parking square or on the roof tops. I doubt he will proceed along the storm drain past this point.” The captain bent toward the page of the survey Korcinski held under the flashlight. “This is some sort of opening. You will position men at the far boundary of the parking square in case Rourke and these others decide to withdraw. Otherwise, if you make contact, keep them under direct observation, but do nothing. Maintain radio silence in the event they are tuned to our usual frequencies. The jaws of the trap will close when they enter the complex or if they try to escape. Remember, Captain. Take this one Rourke alive. Preserve his weapons. He is not to be harmed.” “Comrade Colonel?” the captain asked.
Anticipating the captain, Korcinski said,” I cannot confide this reasoning to you. It is at the highest levels of security.” As the captain started to go, Korcinski added, “Has the plane arrived yet from Chicago?” “Yes, Comrade Colonel, moments ago.”
“Very good. The young woman aboard is to be brought here and kept safely away from any of the fighting; she is not to be questioned.” “Yes, Comrade Colonel.”
Lazily—a studied movement—Korcinski returned the salute. He could not tell the captain why this man Rourke was to be taken unharmed, his weapons kept. He had not been told himself. He studied his reflection in the glass as his driver closed the open rear passenger door and the light from one of the motorcycles in the escort hit the tinted glass just right.
Chapter 32
Rourke pushed himself up and raced from the lip of the culvert and across the parking lot toward the grassy knoll some two hundred yards away, the CAR-15 in his right fist, the safety off, the freshness of the air exhilarating to his lungs, his hair blowing across his face and then back from his forehead in the cool night wind. He hit the grassy knoll and threw himself to the ground, hugging the green as he waited for Reed, then the two men after him. Sighting through the Colt’s three-power scope, he tried spotting the roof line. Again he saw nothing, then edged along the grass closer toward the building, Reed was nearly across the parking area now, one of the other men already starting out from the culvert.
Rourke stopped, rolling onto his back on the grass, catching his breath, staring up at the night sky and the stars. The haze was still around the moon and it wasn’t the moon, Rourke knew, but something in the atmosphere. He snatched a tuft of grass from beside him—it was green and healthy—he could feel a mist starting to fall. Was the rain radioactive yet? he wondered. There was so little time for him to find Sarah and the children, if there were any time at all. There was safety in the retreat. He stared up as the stars began fading above a thin layer of clouds. What then, he asked himself, what after he found Sarah, Michael, Ann? Life in the retreat forever, go outside specially suited-up because the air was foul? What if radiation seeped through the ground into the water source for the retreat somewhere hundreds of miles away? He monitored and tested the water periodically—but what if? The ifs were gnawing at him; he had no choice but to find his family, and after that somehow keep them all alive. And what if between the time from when he had found the tracks and now they had died? What if they thought he were dead?
Doubt, he thought, doubt . . .
“See anything?”
He glanced to his left, a part of his consciousness noticing Reed edging up along side him.
“No—nothing,” Rourke muttered, watching across the parking area as the last man began his headlong lunge across the open area—a target, but Rourke doubted anyone would shoot. He was convinced now that the Communists were setting a trap, and what drew him on, he supposed, was the reason behind it. If they wanted the attackers in the commando team dead, they would have opened up already, sealed the storm drain, potshotted them through the other side or gassed them; there were an infi
nite number of ways to kill.
Whatever the trap, it was important enough to risk the supply depot and the helicopter landing field on the other side of the shopping center. Whatever the trap, the mass death of the commando team was not its objective. Rourke’s stomach turned and his palms began to sweat under the gloves he wore.
The last of Reed’s two men hit the grassy area and Rourke waited a moment for the corporal to catch his breath, then signaled Reed and the two men to move out, edging along the ground on his hands and knees toward the rise at the top of the knoll, keeping his head below it and peering beyond. There was more of the parking area, where he finally saw some signs of life—but not enough, he told himself. There were two fixed-wing aircraft of the single-engine variety, apparently used for observation flights, and with a short enough takeoff that they could use the lot. Trucks were parked alongside the buildings and there were lights from inside through what had once been the windows of the stores when it had still been a shopping center.
Rourke dropped below the edge and turned toward Reed, close behind him. “I make it about six feet to the nearest part of that lower level roof line, six feet from the grass. Let’s get everybody up and over except that corporal. Have him wait five minutes in case some shooting starts. No sense getting more people killed than we have to.” Rourke didn’t wait for a reply, but started moving, running in a low crouch toward the nearest roof line, setting his safety on and letting the rifle sling back behind his shoulder, upping his speed, raising to his full height as he ran the last few yards, his hands going out ahead of him, his feet coming together as he forced himself up, his hands clawing for the roof line, then getting a grip and pulling his body up and over. On his hands and knees, pushing himself up to a crouch, he swung the rifle forward, edging off the safety, making a quick visual inspection of the scope, ascertaining there was no damage and moving off toward what apparently was a roof-mounted air conditioner. Going flat against it, he surveyed the roof line: it was a trap. He was certain now there were no guards. He could see men on the next higher roof level, but only a fool of a commander would have left an entire section of the roof line unguarded.
He glanced behind him, seeing Reed coming over the roof line and almost immediately after him one of the two men with him. Rourke signaled Reed and the other man to follow him, then ducked from behind the air-conditioning unit to the edge of the higher roof line, going into a crouch. Reed joined him.
“There—that’s why it’s a trap,” Rourke rasped, jabbing his thumb toward the guards on the next roof line. “Wait a minute, take this.” Rourke slipped the safety on his CAR-15 and pushed himself up the six feet to the next roof line, scrambling over it and dropping flat against the tarred surface. He studied the guard nearest him, one man, standing in the open—an obvious setup, he thought.
Rourke crawled on his stomach along the roof surface toward the side overlooking the knoll.
Peering over the edge, he saw something that, though he expected it, made his blood run cold—a large concentration of troops waiting in the wooded areas beyond the far side of the upper-level parking area. He ducked down, then, running in a low crouch, crossed the roof line to the far parking areas in front of the shopping center. Rourke dropped low beside the roof edge and looked over the side—Soviet armor surrounded the several dozen military helicopters on the ground, motorcycle-mounted troops ringing what looked to be a staff car.
“Shit!” Rourke muttered, then started back toward Reed and reached the roof edge and flipping over the side, dropping and flexing his knees to break the fall.
“Well?”
“Well, kiss your fanny goodbye,” Rourke snapped, starting toward the roof line fronting the knoll.
The corporal was just coming over the roof line. Rourke caught the man in his arms against his chest, breaking his fall and turning him around. “Back down, Corporal,” Rourke snapped, hitting the roof edge and flipping down on the grass, rolling and tumbling down the knoll, coming up on his knees, the CAR-15 at his hip.
“Come on!” he snapped, breaking into a deadrun across the parking lot. The trap was about to spring, he thought, and there was too much of it to wait it out. There wasn’t even time to run.
Rourke saw someone coming up over the lip of the culvert. Fulsom? The man’s arms were waving. He was choking, it looked like, his body doubling over, the knees buckling, then the man pushed himself up and ran toward them again. Rourke glanced behind him. First was the corporal, then Reed, then the other soldier.
Fulsom was shouting something and Rourke tried waving him down, signaling him to be still. But Fulsom was still shouting. Rourke couldn’t make out the words, but heard the spasms of coughing. Rourke glanced behind him again; the lower roof was swarming now with Soviet troops, and the upper-level parking area was no longer nearly deserted. He could see the canvas roof lines of Soviet military trucks there. In the distance, from the other side of the shopping center, he could make out the revving of motorcycle engines. Rourke could hear Fulsom now, the words still cluttered sounding from the coughing, “Gas! They got all of—” Then Fulsom dropped, a single rifle shot echoing in the night.
Rourke stopped running, looked up at the roof, saw a Soviet trooper, an officer beside him jerking him around, slapping him in the face.
There was a bullhorn—the English very good—the words; “Lay down your weapons and you will be unharmed!” Rourke snatched the CAR-15 to his shoulder, telescoping the stock, his eye picking up the rifleman who’d triggered the shot from the roof, the crosshairs of the three-power scope settling across the helmeted head, Rourke’s trigger finger twitching once, the single 5.56mm rifle bullet’s noise as it crossed the air to its target like a thunderclap in the otherwise total silence.
The soldier stumbled back, then fell forward over the roof line to the loading dock below.
Rourke stood, motionless, the rifle still shouldered, waiting. He might be done, he knew, there were too many of them. He settled the crosshairs on the officer who only a second earlier had stood beside the now-dead Russian soldier.
The bullhorn sounded again, “Lay down your arms and you will not be harmed!”
Rourke scanned the roof line for the bullhorn, spotted it, and fired. The bullhorn shattered from the hand of the man, the white metal thing falling from sight.
At the top of his voice, the rifle in front of his chest at high port, Rourke shouted, “Bite my ass!” Then he started to run.
Chapter 33
Colonel Korcinski shouted to his driver, “Stop! There he is!” And before the car had settled, he was opening the rear passenger door, then stepped out into the parking lot.
He could see the man he wanted. It had to be Rourke, tall, lean, a brown leather jacket, a rifle in his hands, his hair blowing in the wind as he ran. The light mist that Korcinski had noted earlier on the windshield was turning into a steady slow rain and, ignoring it, he started walking forward, shouting to the leader of the motorcycle detachment, “Get that man—alive—the others be damned! Get that man Rourke!” Then, turning to the driver standing beside him now, he snapped, “Field glasses!” In a moment his chauffeur had returned and Korcinski had the glasses up to his eyes and was adjusting them. He watched Rourke running and shooting, the troopers swarming toward him not returning fire as they closed in, crumpling under the withering accuracy of his bullets.
Rourke made to fire the rifle; it was apparently empty. Three of Korcinski’s soldiers were closing on him, then suddenly one went down, and there was a rumbling sound from a heavy-caliber weapon. There was a pistol in Rourke’s right hand, dully gleaming in the spotlights from the trucks, belching fire against the darkness behind him, then firing again. Two more of Korcinski’s men went down. And Rourke was running again.
“Get him! That man must be stopped.” He was tempted, sorely tempted, he realized, to disobey his direct orders, and order his men to shoot rather than get cut down by this American who was somehow so important to General Varakov. Mentally, he
bit his tongue, shouting, “Get that man—but do not under any circumstances harm him. Get him!”
Chapter 34
A motorcyclist was closing in on him. Rourke sidestepped and, as the cyclist missed him by a good two feet, Rourke swung the CAR-15 from the muzzle like a baseball bat, notching the Soviet motorcyclist on the chin and knocking him from the bike. The bike rolled ahead a few yards and spun out.
Rourke snatched a fresh thirty-round magazine for the CAR-15 and rammed it home, shoving the empty in his belt, holstering the Colt .45 Automatic as he ran for the bike, wrestling the bike up and kick-starting it, still settling himself across it as the wheels were already beginning to move.
The CAR-15 slung from his right shoulder and out of the way, Rourke revved the bike, taking it in a wide circle as other Soviet motorcycle troopers started toward him, closing in.
He caught a glimpse of a man standing by the staff car he’d seen earlier, but now on this side of the parking lot, field glasses in front of his face.
“I’ll give you a good show, pal,” Rourke muttered to himself, getting the RPMs up on the Soviet motorcycle and turning off sharply left, heading toward the green of the grassy knoll on the far side of the lot. He hadn’t done the hell-for-leather kind of hill climbing for years, he thought, his hands like vises on the bike, getting every ounce from the gears that he could as he bent low over the machine for the run toward the knoll, then reaching up as he hit the incline, swaying his balance from side to side, his feet going out, supporting him, then pulling up, skittering along over the grass as he jumped the lip of concrete onto the upper-level parking lot. More of the motorcycle troopers were there, and trucks loaded with troops, the men spilling from them and swarming toward him. Rourke curved the bike, slowing it, firing the CAR-15 across his body at them, then letting the rifle hang at his side, revving the bike, going low over the handlebars. He started toward the knoll again. There were as many as a dozen of the Soviet motorcycle troopers starting up the knoll toward him, and Rourke cut his wheel left, veering away from the knoll, exited from the parking lot blocked by trucks at the far end. A cloud of orange rolled toward him, and he glanced from side to side. Most of the Soviet troopers were wearing gas masks.
