The Quest s-3

by Ahern, Jerry

  He veered the bike left, a line of six Soviet cyclists coming toward him, the CAR-15 in his hand, firing, like knights he thought, jousting, but with guns rather than lances.

  Two of the Soviet troopers went down and he fired again, cutting his power, grinding the bike to a halt, bending low over one of the dead soldiers, snatching the gas mask from the dead man’s face, pulling it in place over his own face, then he jumped back on the motorcycle and started back toward the knoll.

  The orange cloud was rolling toward him, obscuring his view. He angled the bike away from it and across the parking lot, a dozen bikers coming in single rank at speed toward him. He veered the bike left again and toward the knoll.

  Flattening himself, low over the handlebars, the wind whistling across the gas mask making a howling sound in his ears, the throb of the motor between his legs shuddered through his frame.

  Six of the Soviet motorcycle troopers, just below the lip of the knoll—Rourke couldn’t stop, revved the bike and jumped it, soaring out over their heads, the bike landing hard, shuddering under him, the front wheel not reacting to his hands, the bike skidding away from him, Rourke spilling from it, slithering across the parking lot surface, his face numbed on the left side. His left arm pained him, the CAR-15 was gone from his shoulder.

  Rourke tried to push himself up as he ripped away the gas mask. He couldn’t get past his knees, a dozen of the Soviet foot soldiers now rushed him, the Colt Government .45 coming into his right hand, spitting all the death he could muster, his left hand snatching the Detonics under his right arm, the hammer jerking back under his thumb, the stainless .45 bucking in his hand as he pumped the trigger.

  The Colt fell from his right fist, empty. And he snatched the second Detonics, firing it point blank into the first wave of the Soviet soldiers.

  They were falling, but the gun in his left hand was empty. He fired the last round from the Detonics in his right hand, then spun the pistol on the trigger guard, hammering the butt down on the face of the nearest of the Soviet troopers, his left hand snatching the M-16 bayonet from his belt, driving it forward into one of the Russians, catching it into the throat and ripping, then drawing it out, the blood-tinged Parkerized blade ramming forward into another of the soldier’s midsection. The Detonics gone from his right hand, Rourke staggered to his feet, the A.G. Russell Sting IA in his right hand, slashing.

  There was a ring of men around him now and a knife in each of his hands. “You want me alive,” Rourke snapped, “then pay for it!” The soldiers closed on him, Rourke’s hands and arms working like pistons, driving the knife blades, slashing. Men fell, stumbling and dying around him. The bayonet was gone, stuck in somebody’s chest, and he swung the Sting IA in a wide arc, the Soviet soldiers edging away as Rourke spun in a circle with the knife outstretched, the men closing again. He rammed the knife into somebody’s stomach and tried getting it out. His right arm went numb as a rifle butt crashed down on it. He snatched at the nearest man, his left hand going for the throat, his fist tightening on the front of it and crushing the windpipe, his right knee driving upward into another man’s groin, his right arm, still numb, swinging in front of him.

  Someone had him around the knees, and Rourke hammered his left fist down in what, as a kid, he’d thought was a dirty rabbit punch. The pressure around his knees relaxed and Rourke threw his left fist forward, his knuckles splitting as he smashed out somebody’s teeth, his numb right arm pushing away a snarling face inches from his, his left knee ramming into another man’s groin.

  Rourke started to fall back, kicking now as his feet went out from under him. A foot kicked into the side of his head; unconsciousness started to wash over him. He spotted the Sting IA on the ground, snatched at it and rammed it straight up, the blade hammering into the mouth of the man nearest him, blood spraying across Rourke’s face, angry shouts from the men around him. Rourke started pushing himself up as the knot of soldiers pulled back for an instant, then he turned. There was a rifle butt coming at him and he ducked, throwing his head into the stomach of the man to his left, knocking the Soviet trooper to the ground, then feeling the pressure of bodies on top of him. The soldier beneath Rourke was screaming, Rourke’s left hand knotted on the man’s face, twisting at it, gouging.

  Rourke rolled, several of the soldiers still clinging to him. He tried to push himself up. A tall man hurtled at Rourke and Rourke sprawled back.

  Suddenly, it was Rourke and the tall soldier, everyone else backed away in a tight circle. The man’s face was bloodied, his voice taut with emotion, his English bad, but intelligible. “I cannot kill you. I beat you though.” Rourke edged back a step, the soldier coming at him in a rush, Rourke sidestepping, his right foot coming up, the toe smashing into the soldier’s groin, then the knee hammering upward into the soldier’s jaw, missing the mouth. Rourke stumbled back. Someone behind him threw him forward.

  The big Russian was up, his mouth bleeding heavily, his fists raised almost like a nineteenth-century pugilist. Rourke started for him, but the Russian’s left fist smashed forward, catching Rourke on the right side of the head, the blow stunning him. The Russian dropped his guard and moved in. Rourke thought the Russian shouldn’t have done that.

  Rourke’s left foot smashed upward, the upper part of his foot connecting square into the Russian’s groin. The big man’s black eyes bulged, his body stumbling forward as he doubled over. Both Rourke’s fists doubled together and swung down across the man’s exposed neck. The Russian fell. The soldiers ringed around Rourke, closing in, then suddenly parting in a wave to his right.

  Fulsom’s face, his shoulder a mass of blood, but he was alive. Beside him was the man Rourke had seen with the binoculars, the officer holding a pistol in his gloved right hand, the binoculars swinging almost lazily from his neck like a tourist. The muzzle of the pistol was flush against Fulsom’s right temple.

  “Rourke, stop or I fire. You understand?”

  Rourke glared at the man, then saw the hammer drawn back under the officer’s thumb.

  “Your round,” Rourke almost whispered, shaking his aching head to clear it.

  Chapter 35

  “You didn’t have to do that, Rourke. Maybe you could have—”

  “Would it do any good,” Rourke said, “if I told you a hardware store owner once saved my life?”

  Fulsom forced a smile, and Rourke clapped the man on the back, then tried looking through the crack in the canvas covering the back of the truck. They were heading into the woods on the far side of the city. Rourke anticipated the reason, but failed to see the logic. If they were planning a mass execution, why the harmless gas that had merely knocked out the men in the storm drain, why the kid-glove treatment of the men guarding the boats at the entrance to the storm drain, why the careful bandaging of Fulsom’s shoulder and the antiseptic swabbing of the skinned left side of Rourke’s face?

  Why?

  The truck stopped and, after a second Korcinski’s face appeared at the rear of the truck, a smile on his lips. He had even introduced himself to Rourke.

  “Mr. Rourke, you only please, the others will be unharmed. And please, no more messy fist fights, hmm?” Rourke shrugged, climbed past Fulsom, then over the tailgate at the rear of the truck and dropped down to the ground. Reed had been silent during the long ride, like Rourke, he assumed, mystified.

  It was raining more heavily now.

  Rourke, walking beside Korcinski, said, “Your English is good for a military man.”

  Korcinski doffed a salute, saying, “Thank you. I understand you have been a writer. I appreciate such a compliment. You are a trained physician too, are you not?” “Yeah—although lately I’ve been doing less healing and more wounding.”

  Korcinski laughed, then outstretched his gloved right hand to Rourke’s left forearm.

  “Ivon,” Korcinski snapped and a young soldier came forward, his arms laden with Rourke’s guns.

  “What the hell is—”

  “Please, Mr. Rourke—pl
ease,” Korcinski said. “Your weapons have been reloaded for you, checked for their functional reliability. I understand you may need them.” “You setting me up?” Rourke whispered.

  “Hardly, just watching for your interests. The assault rifle was uninjured when it dropped. American guns I have always found to be sturdily built. Take them please.” Rourke took the twin Detonics pistols, shoving them into his belt, then taking the Colt Government .45. The finish was unscratched despite the drop. He checked the Metalifed pistol: it was loaded, the chamber empty. He looked at Korcinski then at the gun. The man nodded and Rourke worked the slide, chambering a round, then lowering the hammer and holstering it. He’d looked by the glare of the headlights and the firing pin seemed in place as he held the gun awkwardly low while working the slide.

  He did the same with each of the Detonics pistols and reinserted them in the shoulder holsters under his arms. The bayonet and the A.G. Russell knife were cleaned and oiled. He holstered them. “We took the liberty of reloading your spent magazine for the rifle. I’m afraid we had no American pistol ammunition available for your handgun.” “I’ll let it slide,” Rourke whispered.

  He took the CAR-15. It was unscratched, the scope intact. He watched two guards standing off at a distance twitch as he telescoped the stock and shouldered the rife to check the scope, then replaced the scope covers, recollapsing the stock.

  “We found your motorcycle not far from the drive-in theater, Mr. Rourke. We assumed at least it was yours. It is waiting here for you.” “How did you know about the drive-in?” Rourke asked.

  “Very simple, really, we threatened Fulsom with killing you. He obliged by telling us. He felt obligated. We now have all of your men.” “Hell,” Rourke said, his voice low, “they aren’t my men.”

  “Whoever they are, if you cooperate, they will go free. If you don’t, they will be executed. And if they are freed, of course, their weapons will not be returned as yours have been. Come, I have a woman you might like to meet. Don’t worry.” “I won’t,” Rourke said, slinging the CAR-15 from his right shoulder, hooking his right thumb in the carry handle.

  “Good,” Korcinski said and smiled.

  Rourke followed the Soviet colonel out of the clearing and down a rough dirt path into the deeper part of the woods. He resettled the binoculars and the musette bag on his left shoulder as he walked, uncertain what Korcinski planned.

  In another, smaller clearing, a staff car waited, its headlights burning and drawing swarms of night flies and moths. In the edge of the light beams stood a woman, slender, wearing a Soviet uniform, the skirt seemingly too long, Rourke observed.

  Korcinski walked toward her, Rourke beside him. Korcinski stopped, saying, “This young woman has a personal message for you, Mr. Rourke.” As Korcinski started to turn away, Rourke looked at him, whispering, “What’s to stop me from killing both of you?” Korcinski, half-turned away, looked at Rourke across his left shoulder, “You are not a murderer or an assassin—and, were you to do such a rash thing, or attempt to take one or the other of us hostage, all your men—or whose men they are—would be executed.” “I’m not a murderer, but you are?”

  “Something like that, if you chose to think of it that way,” Korcinski said, turning the rest of the way around and walking away.

  Rourke looked at the woman. She was tall and young, as he had thought. “Who are—”

  “I am instructed to tell you only this. I am General Ishmael Varakov’s personal secretary. He asked that I give you this note, then you return the note to me after you have read it.” Rourke took the square envelope, broke the red wax seal on the flap, removed and unfolded the note. He bent toward the light from the headlights to read it: “Rourke—You have impressed me with your singular competence and daring. The contents of this note are to be held in the strictest confidence. I will assume that I have your word as a gentleman on that. And it is an affair of gentlemen I discuss here. My niece, Natalia, the wife of Vladmir Karamatsov, is quite fond of you, and I understand though nothing actually transpired between you, that you both became close as friends. Her husband has quite recently beaten her severely, almost killing her toward the end, compelling her to defend herself. She is a faithful wife in her fashion, and would likely return to Karamatsov sooner or later. I fear, as her uncle, that Karamatsov will attack her again, this time permanently injuring her or perhaps killing her. Because of political problems, I cannot kill Karamatsov with my bare hands as I would like.

  “I ask that you do this for me, however you wish—I have enclosed his projected itinerary for tomorrow. If you do this thing, all your comrades will be freed, the head of the American KGB will have been liquidated—surely something you can count as a benefit—and, more important to both of us, Natalia’s future safety will be secured. I ask this as one man of honor to another—despite our political differences. I will not consider myself indebted to you for this other than personally.

  “Karamatsov is a madman and for all our sakes must be destroyed.”

  The letter was signed with a large letter V.

  Rourke folded the letter, then handed it back to the woman, squinting at her eyes in the harsh illumination of the headlights.

  She asked in the good enough English, “I am instructed to ask you for a yes or no answer.”

  “Why me?”

  “I know nothing about the letter. The General speaks excellent English and wrote it personally.” “Yes,” Rourke said slowly.

  “Here,” she said, handing Rourke a small envelope. He opened it: it was an agenda for the next day, detailing Karamatsov’s movements.

  “All right,” Rourke said. He folded the paper again, and placed it in the breast pocket of his shirt. “Anything else?” “The General said if you said ‘yes’ I was to say, ‘good luck’.”

  Rourke looked at her a moment. “You’re wearing your skirt too long. And thanks for the good wishes.”

  Chapter 36

  Vladmir Karamatsov opened his eyes and looked through the motel balcony door—the motel was now the transient and bachelor officers quarters. It was light, but rising from the bed and going toward the floor to ceiling glass, he opened the curtains wider and saw the fog. He slipped the window open to his left and smelled at it: the fog seemed rank and foul and was cool—cold almost.

  He closed the window, leaving the top-floor drapes open, staring in the gray light at the woman on the bed. She was moving slightly, turning into the covers, cold apparently.

  He stared at her, walking across the room. He didn’t exactly know why, but he had slapped her several times; there was a bruise on her left cheek as she rolled toward the window, then back away from it. Unlike Natalia, she had liked the brutality. It was a side of himself to which he was yet unaccustomed; he liked the brutality almost more than the sex afterward.

  Karamatsov walked into the bathroom, urinated, then looked at his face in the mirror. There were still bruises from where Natalia had struck him when she had so suddenly decided to defend herself. He walked back into the bedroom and looked at the blond-haired woman sleeping there. He wondered, almost absently, what it would be like to kill Natalia. He shook his head to clear the thought away.

  Returning to the bathroom, he lathered his face and began to shave. He had picked up the Hoffritz razor at an exclusive shop in Rio. His face hurt where the bruises were as he grimaced in order to smooth the skin to shave closer. He made a mental note to inquire about the noise of explosions that previous morning. He had been out of the city, interrogating some of the former university personnel at the detention center, trying to learn the whereabouts of the former astronaut, Jim Colfax. He had thought, too, that faintly in the distance the previous night he had heard gunfire. There was a time he would have run to the sound, he thought. But he had been busy, playing the games with the woman on the bed, making her feel pain, which she seemed so to delight in.

  He brushed his teeth, carefully visually inspecting them in the bathroom mirror, the four stainless-steel teeth
that made a permanent bridge in the lower right side of his mouth. They were new and still uncomfortable. Before the war, when his primary duties had been to pose as anyone but a Russian, he would never have allowed the stainless-steel teeth—only Soviet dentists used them. Buttons stitched in a cross shape showed you had a European tailor, keeping your fork in your left hand when you ate showed you were not American. There had been so many little things under which to submerge one’s own personality, Karamatsov thought.

  He started the water in the shower; he liked American plumbing. He washed his body, washed his hair, then rinsed under cold water for several minutes, thinking. After stepping out of the water and toweling himself dry, he began to dress. Civilian clothes again today, he thought: American blue jeans and a knit shirt, dark blue. He slipped on the shoulder holster for the Smith & Wesson Model 59. Since Natalia had taken his little revolver he had found a replacement, slipping that into its belt holster and sliding the holster in place. He liked the revolver best, but the double-column 9mm Model 59 had firepower, and that was sometimes needed.

  He pulled a lined windbreaker from the closet and slipped it over the shirt and shoulder holster, then a baseball cap that read “Cat” on the front and advertised some sort of tractor. There was still the desire to look like the enemy, he thought, smiling at his American image in the mirror.

  He looked at the woman on the bed, decided not to wake her; she would likely come back again tonight. After it became known she had slept with one of the Russian conquerors, she would likely have no place else to go.

  He walked downstairs to the restaurant, now run by orderlies from the officers’ mess. American food was served because it was easier to obtain—he ordered steak and eggs with hash browned potatoes. They served grits; he didn’t like grits because they stuck sometimes in the new stainless-steel bridgework. Americans were forced to work in the kitchen, too, and grits would be too easy in which to disguise ground glass.