by Ahern, Jerry
He had begun a power dive. She’d seen William Holden or somebody do this in a movie once and— “Look out!”
“Not to worry, Frau Rourke!” Machine guns from both port and starboard weapons pods were firing; a Soviet gunship exploded less than two hundred yards from them. The J-7 V was climbing again. Colonel Mann had warned her, after all, tried to reason with her that she shouldn’t be his tactical guide, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time! “We are almost out of this, Frau Rourke. Alert me should there be any difficulty, please.” She thought it was called a barrel roll. He was into and out of it before she could speak. All she had had time to do was suck in her breath. But now the aircraft vibrated once, then quickly again, two missile contrails arcing away from beneath each wing, two Soviet gunships exploding almost simultaneously, one on either side of them.
The J-7V banked sharply left and they were flying on their side. She thought she’d be sick. They were into level flight again.
More Soviet gunships were moving toward them like metal filings toward a magnet. “Colonel!”
“I see them, Frau Rourke. This was an excellent area to select. You are to be congratulated.”
He banked right—starboard. “Colonel!”
“I see them, Frau Rourke.” Two Soviet gunships coming down out of a cloud bank. “Jahns—cover me!”
“Yes, Herr Colonel!”
The J-7V banked to port, went through something that felt
like a half roll, then began to climb. Before she could speak, they were level again. She thought she might throw up! “Colonel—I don’t mean to—”
“Yes—he fired a missile. Hold on, Frau Rourke, please!” The J-7V was rolling, an explosion just off their starboard wingtip.
A dive. Her nails—she’d been trying to grow them again— gouged the armrests. They were level again. Tracer patterns to right and left. The chin bubble of one of the Soviet gunships exploded and in the next instant the main rotor spun off and the gunship dropped from sight.
“One more for the moment, Frau Rourke.”
One more—one more! “Colonel Mann!”
The black shape of the gunship seemed mere feet from the nose of the J-7V and suddenly the J-7V shuddered, there,was a split second of contrail and they banked sharply to port. The gunship, visible now through her side window, vaporized in a ball of flames.
The J-7V leveled off. “Jahns—take Iron Cross element and clean up. Iron Cross Leader out.”
They were going for altitude. “I should not have so indulged myself, Frau Rourke. We shall observe for now.”
“Thank you, Colonel.” She looked at her hands—they were white except for under her nails, where they were purple.
Chapter Five
Akiro Kurinami stepped down from the German helicopter gunship, snow swirling almost lazily beneath the slowly spinning main rotor.
He wiped his bare palms down along the sides of his flight suit. It was cold and the sweat on his hands made him suddenly colder.
Beside him stood the drafted doorgunner. He looked at the young German. “You did well. You can fly with me anytime.” “Thank you, Herr Lieutenant.”
Kurinami extended his hand to the man and they shook.
All around them there was devastation. The landing pads were pitted and blackened with shell holes, some seeming deep enough that a man might well have been able to stand in the bottom of one and not have been able to see over the edge. He remembered the tales told of World War One—the War to End All Wars—of how men had sometimes fallen into such shell holes and drowned.
At least a half dozen gunships had never made it off the ground, their structural bones still smoldering in grotesque death postures. At least five more gunships had been shot out of the air.
Had not Colonel Wolfgang Mann more than twenty-four hours earlier more than doubled the size of the force here, victory for the Soviet attackers would have been a certainty. Much of the new construction for Eden Base, as it was, lay in
ruins. One of the shuttle craft was heavily damaged and another had sustained what appeared from the air at least to have been only minor damage.
He had no idea of casualties and, deep inside himself, didn’t want to know. Despite the friction between himself and Christopher Dodd, Eden commander, there was a kinship with his fellow astronauts, a kinship grown out of having survived the five centuries since the Night of the War, having survived together. Losing one of them was like the loss of a brother or sister.
Kurinami’s own wife and family had died during the flaming aftermath of the Night of the War, when the very atmosphere itself had ionized and the sky caught fire and nearly all life on earth vanished. Or before, perhaps, on the Night of the War itself. He would never know. And he desperately wanted the killing to stop. Now and forever.
The Soviet gunships had fallen back; some pockets of fighting were still in the environs of Eden Base where Soviet commandoes had rappeled in from the cargo bays of the gunships, but the back of the attack had been broken. The presence of Soviet land forces, even in such token numbers, augured a major offensive. Would Eden Base be able to withstand it? Would German supplies of ordnance and spare parts and synth fuel be able to support a protracted defense?
He kept walking, past the potholes, toward the command center, the near edge of the forward side fire-blackened but otherwise seeming undamaged.
The new German commandant, Captain Horst Bremen, stood before it, his curly blond hair wind-tousled, his left cheek dark-smudged, his uniform collar open, an assault rifle in his right hand.
“Kurinami! Over here!”
Kurinami quickened his pace; the German officer strode purposefully toward him. They met beside the remains of one of the helicopters, the acrid smell of still-smoldering synth-fuel residue assailing his nostrils as the wind, bitterly cold,
suddenly shifted. “You agree they will return?”
“Yes, Captain. It seems inevitable from the pattern of their attack.”
“Yes—inevitable. But we must forestall the inevitable. I have instructed that headquarters in New Germany be concerned and emergency reinforcements and supplies be dispatched to us at once. But at the very least, we are looking at eighteen precious hours, perhaps as long as thirty-six hours until reinforcements arrive. New Germany itself has been attacked, but the Soviet force was easily repelled. More a harassing action, it appears. Soviet forces are attacking the First Chinese City, the Herr Colonel personally supervising the counterattack. A significant concentration of ground forces is attacking our base outside the Hekla Community in Lydveldid Island. It seems, however, that this area is critical to the Russians. Therefore, we cannot allow it to be overrun. Another attack like this one might be more than we can sustain. Certainly not a third. I need you to volunteer.”
“Volunteer?” Kurinami echoed.
“I believe it advisable to dispatch a small force of gunships and ground troops to the north. If possible, locate the Soviet staging area and counterattack, something logic dictates they will not suspect us capable of. As they advance, fight holding actions designed to delay them as much as possible. If you choose not to volunteer, I will not think any the less of you. But, logic again—I am told you are the best pilot available and you have some significant experience versus our adversaries which my other officers lack. It may prove a mission from which you will not return.”
“When was there any other kind of mission?” Akiro Kurinami almost whispered.
“Then you will do it?”
“Will I have time—” Kurinami began.
“Your Fraulein Doctor is helping with the wounded, Lieutenant. The appropriate machines should be ready within
the next fifteen minutes.” And Bremen glanced at his chronometer.
“The man who was my doorgunner—he’s just a technician, but I’d like him along as doorgunner again. He’s a good man.”
“Consider it done, although I must go through the formality of asking. By its very nature, this is a force of vo
lunteers you will lead.”
“I understand,” Akiro Kurinami nodded …
“I don’t understand!” Tears flowed from her pretty eyes as she spoke. Kurinami took Elaine Halversen into his arms, holding her close against him, trying to blot out the moans of the injured just beyond the gray curtain that separated the tiny alcove in the main hangar building’s annex from the hastily set up field hospital. “I don’t—why do you—”
“Why are you here, helping the wounded? Why aren’t you doing something easier?”
“I—damn your logic!” And she buried her head against his chest. “Don’t die—please?”
He wanted very much to promise her that he wouldn’t. Instead, he only held her and touched his lips to her forehead, rocking her in his arms.
Chapter Six
Paul Rubenstein braked the Super, Otto Hammerschmidt, beside him, doing the same. Paul spoke into his helmet headset. “John—do you read me? This is Paul. Come in, John. Over.”
Paul Rubenstein looked at Otto Hammerschmidt, the German commando captain’s face shield pushed up, his light-colored eyes clearly visible, the worry that was etched on Hammerschmidt’s face evident there in his eyes as well.
There was no answer to the radio call.
Rubenstein repeated it, then again. And, then, again.
They had left Annie and Michael and Maria and Han Lu Chen and the Russian officer in the overhang of the cave, Michael still not coming around. They had ridden the Supers some fifteen miles closer to the Second Chinese City, dangerously near the battle lines, nearer, Rubenstein hoped, to wherever it was John and Natalia were in hiding, within their radio range.
He tried the signal again, Hammerschmidt monitoring on his own helmet set.
There was no response.
The wind blew cold and there was the smell of synth fuel heavy on the air—the origin of the odor perhaps some modern equivalent of napalm in use by the Russians against the Second City.
“What if they are dead?”
The voice didn’t come through his headset radio. And it was Hammerschmidt’s voice. Paul Rubenstein removed his own helmet, as Hammerschmidt had done, ran his fingers through his thinning black hair, settled the helmet over his console. “They aren’t dead.”
“You mean that you refuse to accept the concept that they might be dead.”
“I mean they aren’t dead. We’ll head north, maybe come on some sign of them, maybe get into their radio range.”
“Perhaps encounter some Soviet gunships along the way. What about your wife? What about Michael? Let me go on alone. There’s no one waiting for me. That’s the best way for a soldier, I think.”
“Maybe it is. But no. I’m going on. I’d be glad for your company. But I’m going on anyway.”
And Otto Hammerschmidt laughed. Paul Rubenstein looked at him quizzically. “We are strange creatures, I think. As men, I mean. You will search until you find John Rourke and if you do find this man who is your best friend, you will shake his hand, and if you embrace him, you will feel self-conscious and then you will laugh and he will laugh. I had a close friend named Fritz when I was a boy. We used to like to climb in the mountains near the Complex although heights were never my favorite thing. But of course I would not admit that. The rope became snagged and in trying to clear it, the rope frayed and with both our weights, snapped. Fritz fell from sight. I clung to the ledge, eventually got myself to safety and tried roping down to Fritz. I could not. I called to him and there was no answer. I began to cry and I sniffed back the tears and I ran for help. I found a patrol on some sort of compass course, brought them to the scene and they roped down for Fritz. He was unconscious. He revived in the hospital and eventually was fully restored. Fritz was like my brother then. And when I went to visit him in the hospital, we shook hands very briefly. I told him a dirty joke I had heard, something about a Jew, oddly enough.” And Hammerschmidt looked at Rubenstein embar
rassedly. “But we were taught to think that way and only some of us learned otherwise in those days. But I never told Fritz how frightened I was that he had died, that we might never climb together again, or share secrets with one another. I never even told my father that I cried when I thought Fritz might be dead. No wonder women think we are crazy. They are right. We are.” Otto Hammerschmidt pulled his helmet on over his close-cropped blond hair.
Paul Rubenstein put his helmet on as well. “John—do you read me? This is Paul. Over.” There was no answer …
The shivering was stopped and once he was certain of it, he wrapped Natalia in everything warm there was available to them. Clad only in his still damp light blue cotton shirt and his underpants, John Rourke crouched in the rocks beside her, the small fire between them, his hands busy at disassembling the radio set in his helmet. His jeans and his bootsocks, along with her clothing and her underwear, were drying beside the fire. He had risked it because the need for dry clothing outweighed the potential hazards of such a small fire being detected.
Shelter and food were the next concerns, but the radio might solve much of that. Night would be coming quickly here in the high mountains, and with it bitter cold.
He felt her arctic gear. Nearly dry. His then. It was nearly dry as well. Soon, very soon, dry enough that body warmth would do the rest.
Light would be critical to evaluate and possibly diagnose, then repair one of the radios if repair were in order. But perhaps it was only a problem of range, or some Russian jamming. He couldn’t be sure. The differences between these helmet radios and any radios he had extensively worked with five centuries before was analogous to the differences between a personal computer unit and one of the giant defense department mainframes he had seen, the complication and sophistication so vastly greater. Given time, he was confident
he could deduce the nature of the problem and, if it were correctable, correct it. It had to be something related to the helmets taking the dousing they had. It was the only commonality that might explain why both helmet radios would not function. If not that, then a problem of range or Soviet jamming. The former he might correct. The latter was beyond his control.
He looked around him. Rocky. Barren of vegetation. No caves evident and no depressions of suitable size for a protracted stay.
It was clear that their first order of business was to move on to a more suitable location.
“Damn the thing,” John Rourke almost whispered, replacing the guts of the radio in the helmet in reverse order to his removal of it.
From his musette bag, Rourke removed a small tool, unfolding the screwdriver blade of closest appropriate size. He had already cleaned the twin stainless Detonics .45s, leaving the more difficult job of cleaning the N-Frame Smith & Wesson revolver until last. Carefully, after verifying its empty condition, he removed the crane screw, forwardmost of the sideplate screws, setting it down on a smooth rock near him, then opening the cylinder and sliding cylinder and crane off the frame. He set them aside, then using the same screwdriver bit removed the two remaining screws in the sideplate. Using the haft of the Life Support System X knife, wrapped in his bandanna handkerchief, he tapped the frame and dislodged the sideplate, lifting it free of the frame.
The lockwork showed accumulated moisture. Meticulously, he began to disassemble it, setting out the small parts in the order in which he removed them.
There was no time to make a proper bellows, nor were there appropriate materials readily at hand. He removed the face shield from his riding helmet and used the shield as a fan to force hot air to the interior of the frame after first using the bandanna to dry out obvious moisture.
His thighs were covered with gooseflesh, but his Levi’s weren’t yet dry. He kept working, his hands shaking a little with the cold.
The German replication of the Break-Free CLP lubricant he applied to the inner surface of the frame, to the small parts. He reassembled the lockwork, then carefully replaced the sideplate, replacing two of the screws as well.
He removed the cylinder from the cran
e, unscrewed the tip of the base pin/ejector rod, and removed the star ejector.
If Natalia could be made to walk, he judged they could make it perhaps as far as three miles down before she would be exhausted. Within another mile or so, there would be trees. That meant easily fabricated shelter. He reassembled the parts, slid the crane back into the frame and closed the cylinder, then turned in the third and final screw. He began replacing the Pachmayr grips.
The ammunition he had he would have to trust until proven otherwise. If the specifications derived from analysis of the federal 185-grain JHP .45s and 180-grain JHP .44 Magnums were followed to the letter when the Germans had fabricated these lots, he would assume the ammunition reliable despite the dousing in the river. He hoped.
He returned to the river, still trouserless, washed his hands of the oil and powder residues with sand and water. Across the river, war raged. Somewhere across the river, Michael and Annie and Paul and the others had to have survived.
To take Natalia back into the river was unthinkable. And at any event, there was no likely place to cross safely. Downriver, perhaps a natural crossing point existed or a bridge of some sort could be fabricated.
And, once across the river, they would only be nearer to the battle between the Russians and the Chinese of the Second Qty.
Rourke stood to his full height, as he continued planning commencing a light routine of calisthenics to heighten muscle tone and circulation. He was beginning to feel warmer, and his
clothes would be adequately dried soon.
Han Lu Chen spoke of wolves set loose by the Chinese of the Second City, but Rourke considered them more likely to be large feral dogs. And, if such a population survived, the Chinese had to have released other animals upon which these wolflike canines could feed. Rabbits and other small game, perhaps game as large as deer, might be found. The thing to do, of course, was find the tracks of the feral dogs and assume that their range took them near the most abundant game population. In the lower elevations there would be edible plants until he could find meat, if this lasted that long.
