Survivalist - 17 - The Ordeal

by Ahern, Jerry

  He walked back from the river’s edge, squatted on the end of the arctic parkas he had thrown over Natalia and took his socks from near the fire. Stiff, but warm and dry. He rubbed them in his hands to relax the fiber content and wiped the soles of his feet clean, then put them on.

  The jeans were slightly damp near the seams, but otherwise satisfactorily dry. He skinned into them. His boots and belts and holsters he had attended to earlier, utilizing the leather dressing compound from his musette bag. He got into his boots, feeling warmer already.

  He threaded on his belt, a one and three-quarter-inch 11-12 ounce cowhide strap, like his gunbelt and holster originally produced for him before the Night of the War by Milt Sparks. He secured the Sparks Six-Pack and the sheath for the Crain LS-X and finished threading, closing the solid brass Garrison-style buckle.

  He looked at Natalia. She was sleeping, but had to be awakened.

  Rourke holstered the Model 629 Smith & Wesson, securing the six-inch in the full flap holster. It was a fine revolver, but would never have the feel of the Python which had been mutilated on the rocks beneath the Retreat. Someday, Rourke promised himself, he would restore the Python, carry it once again.

  He picked up his parka and pulled it on over the double

  Alessi rig in which Rourke habitually carried the little Detonics .45s.

  Rourke dropped to his knees beside her. “Natalia—wake up, now.”

  Her eyes opened, so suddenly, with so startled a look in them that for an instant she reminded him more of a wild animal. She said nothing, only stared at him. “You’ll have to get dressed. We have to walk on a little while and then you can rest again. All of your clothes are dry.”

  He reached beside the fire and took her underwear for her, putting it under the covers for her. She made no move to put anything on. “Natalia? Please?”

  But she wasn’t even looking at him, was looking through him as though he weren’t there. And, Rourke thought, perhaps to her he wasn’t. “You must get dressed. You have to. I left you my nice gray woolen sweater. Remember you said it always looked so warm? Well, it’s just for you now. You can wear it and be warm. I’ve had it very close to the fire for a long time. It’ll keep you warm, Natalia.”

  She only stared.

  Slowly—but she offered no resistance—he drew back her parka, draped over her, and the emergency thermal blanket that was beneath it.

  He had seen her naked body several times, held her body beside him to warm her, undressed her to dry her clothing. But he realized he was staring at her. She made no natural movement to cover her bare breasts, to conceal the triangle of hair below the firm concavity of her abdomen. He wondered suddenly how she had looked in the days before she had grown too tall for the ballet, how she had looked perhaps performing something like Swan Lake. The long, slender legs, so beautifully shaped— John Rourke closed his eyes tightly, his hands on her bare shoulders. “Natalia,” he whispered.

  But as he opened his eyes, her gaze remained unchanged.

  John Rourke picked up the silk undergarment Natalia had worn. He searched his mind for what it was called—a “teddy”?

  It was trimmed subtly with lace and seemed more fragile than logic dictated it really was. He supposed, almost mechanically, that if he had gotten her out of it, he could get her back into it somehow. His fingers felt ten times too large for his hands as he began to try …

  Michael Rourke opened his eyes and instantly regretted it for the pain it caused in his head, but reopened his eyes because of the happiness he felt. That he was alive was obvious, unless the afterlife had a cold climate as well. The source of his happiness was in the face that looked so lovingly down on his: Maria Leuden’s face, her auburn hair tossed over the lowered hood of her parka, her gray-green eyes (the color of his mother’s eyes) soft and beautiful behind the lenses of her wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Michael?”

  “Hi.”

  “Michael!”

  “Shh—my head hurts. Just kiss me.”

  She leaned over him, her lips coming against his mouth, and his hands grasped her shoulders.

  “Michael—” As he held her, he thought she might be crying.

  Chapter Seven

  She had awakened in the middle of the night. Her nightgown was damp. By the light of a candle, she saw the color and knew the reason for the wetness. The rest of the night, she could not sleep. One life was ending.

  In the morning, she quietly whispered the secret to her mother. Her mother began to cry. Her father was told to take her brother and leave their domiciliary unit. Her mother bathed her, fondled her lovingly, cried more.

  It was the day when her first menstrual cycle began and when new life began; pledged from birth to fulfill a sacred destiny as a Maiden of the Sun, she was taken, wearing her clean dress, to the temple. Her mother, slump-shouldered, merely walked away.

  Never after three days prior to her eleventh birthday did she see mother or father or sister or brother. Sisters were her family, the high priestess most important among them, the Perfect One her mother, the god her father and life-giver.

  There was ritual to learn, and much of ritual was obedience, to the god, of course, but through his Perfect One and then through the high priestess, distilled through the elder of her new sisters.

  She would cook, she would clean, she would, after fear and screaming proved to no avail, submit to the beatings which were to build her character. And each morning and each evening, she would cast off the gray dress of her labors and

  clothe her body in the white robe of the Maidens and serve her god. It was only after some years that she realized that the menial tasks through which she worked, the brutalization administered by those senior to her—that all of this too served her god.

  Some of the other girls would giggle as they spoke about the god, that his earthly appearance dictated that they be virgins. It was some time before she apprehended this, and only because she remembered her younger brothers from the family she had belonged to before but belonged to no longer. Was this why they worshipped the god and no man of any kind could come near to them? Would, someday, his mystic power in all its greatness enter her?

  In matters religious, hers was now the ultimate authority and publicly recognized as being supreme to that of Mao. Privately, her word was supreme in all matters, Mao worshipping at her body as she once had worshipped before her god. Her god had never entered her, but Mao had. And Mao had proven much less than a god.

  Now her chief priestess bowed before her. A cloud of mortar particles, fine and tan and dusty-smelling, drifted down from the ceiling above them as one of the explosions rumbled from without the confines of the temple.

  The Maidens of the Sun, long black hair cascading past narrow waists and virginally rounded hips, stood, eyes lowered, hands folded in prayer, in a semi-circle arced behind the priestess. As one, they fell to their knees and extended their supple young bodies over the cold stones of the floor, arms outstretched at their sides, legs locked as tightly together as if they were bound, warm, cherry red lips caressing cold gray stone. How many times had she formed her body into the shape of a cross and kissed the stone? And when the cross had been asymmetrical, her legs had been bound and she had been forced to spend the period between the lowering and rising there on the floor to practice her humility. How many times?

  And, at last, she had been called before the Perfect One,

  shown her dexterity at the altar, recited the Sacred Names, been anointed the high priestess. She would practice at the altar’s keyboard for hours each day, reciting the Sacred Names as she tapped out the Holy Symbols which so wondrously formed them. The Sun gave them this power and in the darkness this power was taken from them.

  How many times had she prostrated herself before her god? She had never counted, although she had counted the days which had become months and the months which had become years until that one blissful moment when the Perfect One had been vulnerable. It was wrong, but it was so terri
bly right. The Perfect One was not perfect. The very vulnerability of the Perfect One revealed that and was, perhaps, truly a sign.

  Vulnerable.

  And alone.

  Dead.

  And, ever after, she was the Perfect One.

  She stood. “That which we worship which is one with our god must be readied that our holy city and the wrath of our god may be immortalized and whosoever does not believe in his power will forever be vanquished.”

  She had worshipped in the service of the Sun for more than an entire decade, had attained the age of nineteen before she had realized the nature of the deity she served. In the forbidden books known only to the Perfect One, hers to read when she became the Perfect One.

  Her god was, indeed, the Sun. In all his fiery majesty.

  Fallen on their faces, prostrate before him, the Maidens began their mantra, and with a sincerity she had felt not at all throughout the third decade of her life which, like all life, was now coming to a close, she turned, dropped to her knees, prostrated herself before her god and began the recitation, the Sacred Names which the high priestess, second among mortals only to her, would draw out in the Holy Symbols with the altar keys.

  Click … click … click …

  The fingers of the high priestess tapped out the Holy Symbols which so intricately, so precisely formed the Sacred Names.

  And then the god spoke, his voice vibrating through her very soul. His words were like none other in their majesty. And he revealed to them a Sacred Name of power. “Thermonuclear Warhead System Fourteen, Type Three, Battery Twenty-Nine is armed. Countdown commences.”

  The rapture of union with her god would soon be upon them.

  Chapter Eight

  Michael Rourke heard the voice of his friend Han Lu Chen and opened his eyes. The headache instantly returned. But he squinted his eyes tight against it so he could still see. His sister, Annie, was standing over him, and he found himself starting to laugh at her. It was so odd seeing his always femininely attired sister in trousers. Han was saying, ‘The battle is spreading outward and nearing us. The forces of the Second Gty are hurtling themselves at the Soviet ground forces. It will do no good, of course.”

  Annie started to speak, but then Michael heard another voice. It was that of Vassily Prokopiev, the KGB major, new commander of the KGB Elite Corps. “I would say that the wisest and best thing for all of you would be to place yourselves voluntarily in the hands of my forces. I could guarantee safe conduct in return for the way all of you have cared for me, risked your lives for me, your brother most of all, Mrs. Rubenstein. But as what we have come to call ‘The Rourke Family,’ you are all marked for death, or worse. I cannot guarantee safe conduct, no matter how much, personally, I would like to do so.”

  “I know that, Major,” Annie responded. “When we move on, we can aim you in the right direction, perhaps—”

  “You would be fools to do so. I might make a valuable hostage—and certainly a willing one. That is the least I can offer. And should we encounter the Chinese of this Second

  City, I can fight—well.”

  Michael Rourke turned his head with some difficulty—the pain. “You’re an honest man, Vassily.”

  “Michael!” Annie’s voice. She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands cradling his face.

  “I’m fine—I think. But God, have I got a headache.”

  In the next moment, Maria Leuden knelt beside him, leaning over him, her hair touching his cheek, her lips touching his forehead. “Ohh, Michael—”

  He held her hand, his other arm enfolding Annie against him.

  “You are a resilient man, Michael Rourke,” the Russian said, almost laughing.

  “Part of being a Rourke.” Michael smiled. “What’s happening—”

  “Welcome back to the living. I must resume my post,” Han Lu Chen—he was dressed like a Mongol—offered, making a soft salute and disappearing out of Michael’s peripheral vision.

  “Where’s—”

  “Paul and Otto are out looking for Daddy and Natalia,” Annie said abruptly, sitting up, putting her hands to her hair, just holding them there at her neck. “They’ve been out of radio contact ever since we all split up—”

  “What—”

  “You were hit with a sword,” Annie volunteered.

  Michael released Maria’s hand and touched at the bandage on the side of his head. “Wonderful. My guns—did—”

  “Han got all your weapons for you when he agreed to be your executioner, remember?”

  Michael started to nod, realized the mistake too late and winced at the pain in his head, closing his eyes tight against it. “Right— Dad and Natalia— What, ahh—”

  “Doctor Rourke and Major Tiemerovna,” Prokopiev began, “were separated from the rest of us. They were pursued. They have not been seen or heard from since. That is my understanding.”

  “Paul and Otto are looking for them,” Annie concluded. “I can contact them—Paul and Otto—by radio.”

  “I need to sit up—and where are my guns?” Michael sat up and felt as if he would die. The next step would be standing, so he told himself that would probably be worse …

  Natalia could not walk unaided. She walked, but she walked without purpose, wandered, and here, in the high rocks down through which they climbed, to take a false step might be fatal. Rourke alternated holding her hand or her elbow as they moved, Natalia from time to time, mantra-like, chanting his name, at times a haunting smile crossing her lips, as if she were dreaming of something pleasant yet totally awake.

  The grazing wound he’d sustained to his right arm made the arm feel stiff at times, but there was no real pain. The weight of his weapons combined with hers—he no longer trusted her with anything with which she might do herself harm—was considerable. Added to his twin Detonics mini-guns and the two Scoremasters and the 629, her L-Frame Smith .357s and her suppressor-fitted Walther PPK/S, his knives and hers was the weight of the helmets which he could not abandon because of their integral radio sets which might be the only means of extraction for them.

  They kept moving.

  “John…John …John …”

  “I’m here. How could I leave you?”

  “John… John …”

  “You’ll only make yourself hoarse. Please—let’s be quiet together. It’s beautiful here.” Gunfire and explosions rumbled in the distance. “We’re just going for a walk. Hold on to my hand.”

  “John…”

  “I’m here, Natalia.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Report coming in now from Hekla, Comrade Colonel.” “Read it back to me, Corporal.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel—‘Headquarters Command Code Orange. Operation Storm, Sigma Sector. Advancing against Hekla Cone. Heavy fighting at enemy base outside Cone. Aggregate loss of personnel and equipment thirteen percent over estimate. Continuing advance. Need more air support. —

  “All right—try to get him his air support,” Antonovitch hissed, passing through the communications control center as quickly as he could now before another message arrived. It was going as he had expected, the casualty rates higher than anticipated but as yet not unacceptable.

  He passed through the air lock of the hermetically sealed tent and into the cold late afternoon air, no.coat, only his uniform blouse and the shirt beneath it. He ran his fingers back through his hair.

  The one he wanted to hear from he had not heard from— Nikita Achinski. Once Achinski had attained his objective, then all the madness would stop and victory would be at hand.

  He felt more than heard anything from behind him, turned abruptly toward the communications tent and saw the usually somber face of his adjutant. “Comrade Colonel! Achinski reports a major element of the enemy land forces destroyed, their lines of reinforcement and supply broken—he is

  advancing on the Second Chinese City, Comrade Colonel!” “The missiles? Any word of these?” “No mention, Comrade Colonel—I can recontact—” “No—not yet. Let h
im go on.” If only, Antonovitch almost

  verbalized, Prokopiev had not been lost …

  The muscles around the reduced shoulder dislocation hurt far more than the flesh around the gunshot wound to his other shoulder.

  Why had Michael Rourke saved his life, Prokopiev asked himself for the hundredth time, perhaps the thousandth time?

  The name of Rourke was one used to frighten the small children of the Underground City, a terrorist and murderer. Was Michael the son of such a man? Was the very beautiful, very sensitive-seeming Annie the daughter of such a man? And the Jew, Rubenstein, husband of Rourke’s daughter—why would such a man of obvious bravery and goodness be so devoted to a man such as John Rourke?

  The facts seemed evident. Rourke was an enemy, but a noble one. All Rourkes were enemies, but noble enemies. The rest of what he had been taught to believe was a convenient lie. Lies, of course, were the bulwark of statecraft. And official lies such as this were policy. Policy was to be unquestioned. He would not question the lie, just realize from now until his life ended—which would not be very long, he surmised—that the lie was not to be believed.

  This clear in his mind, Vassily Prokopiev began the complex process of sorting out his options.

  John Rourke was a war criminal, but as a commando of the Elite Corps, his job was not to seek out war criminals. Yet, as its commander (unless his death was assumed and he was replaced, also likely), his directive was the welfare of the State, which dictated, of course, that John Rourke and all the Rourke family must die. Yet John Rourke was, in all likelihood, dead. As to the rest, circumstance had made them comrades. And all

  his life he had been taught that loyalty to one’s comrade was second only to one’s loyalty to the State. At the moment, the State was an abstraction, his comrades were real.

  He had read many suppressed books, in one finding a curious reference to a man named Sartre and a concept labeled “situation ethics.” Prokopiev realized that he was, after all, the living proof that such books were dangerous to the unwitting reader.