by Jerry Ahern
The Prophet
( The Survivalist - 7 )
Jerry Ahern
World War III was just practice for what's coming. And even those who survived the original firestorm—like John Thomas Rourke—won’t have a chance when the next round of carnage begins. But Rourke, the ex-CIA Covert Operations Officer, weapons specialist and survival expert didn't struggle to stay alive in this brutal world only to die in a final holocaust of fire and blood. As six nuclear missiles are poised to start the ultimate conflagration, Rourke's constant quest for his wife and son becomes a desperate mission to save both his family and all humanity from being blasted into extinction. If he should fail, no man will ever walk the earth again—not even... THE SURVIVALIST.
The Prophet
The Survivalist #7
by Jerry Ahern
Copyright © 1984
by Jerry Ahern
All rights reserved.
The Prophet
A Peanut Press Book
For Jerry Kushnick— a good agent, a good friend...
Any resemblance to persons, governments, businesses, or governmental entities living, dead, or operating or having operated is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
The climb down from the rocks to their base had been hard— hard for Natalia whose skin color was still too pale, arduous for the wounded as well. Rourke again carried Natalia' s M-16, Rubenstein her pack. Cole and his two men had hung back, a rear guard against a further attack by the wildmen, but judging from the primitive quality of their actions, Rourke doubted the wildmen would come nearer the valley— at least not until it was realized that he and the others could travel the valley safely and not die from radiation— Rourke hoped.
Well ahead of them, Paul walked, the wand of the Geiger counter extended ahead of him, his voice occasionally singing back an all clear. The only danger would be a freak combining of isotopes during the small conventional blasts needed to trigger the neutron release— and if Paul Rubenstein did find a hot spot, by the time he had the reading on his Geiger counter it would be too late to save himself, given the lack of availability of any decontamination equipment.
Rourke walked on, Natalia beside him. "Go with Paul," she whispered, interrupting his thoughts.
"You want to be with Paul— in case. I know that. I would, too— go ahead."
He glanced at her, reaching out his right arm, his CAR-15 between their bodies— and he folded his arm about her waist to support her.
"I am all right," she nodded.
"Bullshit," he whispered quietly.
He craned his neck to look over his right shoulder, shouting to Lieutenant O'Neal and the others behind them, "Veer off toward that small canyon over on the left— we can rest there."
"I don't need to rest," she whispered.
"Yes, you do," he told her, then ignored her, calling out to Rubenstein ahead of them, the younger man turning around, "Paul— pull back— head toward that small canyon— get some rest!"
"Gotchya," the younger man called back, starting toward the canyon to intercept them, going at a jog-trot run.
"You want to reach Filmore Air Force Base—"
"I will," he told the Russian woman beside him. "We will— but we'll rest. A few hours off your feet and we should be able to move on. O'Neal can set up a defensive perimeter and stay here with the wounded."
"And Cole? He will come with us?"
"May as well," Rourke said through his teeth, his voice low, the canyon mouth looming closer now.
"I so much enjoy that man's company," she laughed, Rourke looking at her, feeling a smile cross his lips. "Why did you insist on defending me back there before the wildmen attacked— I could have taken care of Cole."
"I know that," Rourke nodded.
"You are the ultimate male chauvinist, John—", He looked at her, squinting against the sun through his dark-lensed glasses, but saying nothing.
He glanced back, to his right, their bodies making long shadows across the purple-tinged ground, the sun a massive red ball on the horizon. He squinted at it, wondering. A few hours' rest had turned into an exhausted night for all, Rourke anxious to reach the base, find the six eightymegaton warheads housed on the experimental missiles, anxious to return to the submarine that had transported them to the new west coast, then get the nuclear submarine's captain, Commander Gundersen, to take them back. He had lost now two weeks in the search for Sarah and the children. Rourke squinted at the rising sun again— how long would it continue to rise?
Natalia and Paul were silent as they walked, Paul only slightly ahead, using the Geiger counter just as a precaution. Captain Cole and his two surviving U.S. II troopers seemed to be talking to Rourke's left— but he couldn't hear the words. They wore navy issue arctic parkas, as did Natalia, only Rourke and Rubenstein wearing their own coats, the weather warmer now than it had been, all trace of snow gone. He judged the sunrise temperature at just below fifty.
They walked on.
Ahead of him, along the perfect road, no cracks in the pavement, no grass growing there yet, Rourke could see the entrance— the main entrance— to Filmore Air Force Base. The fences were wholly intact within the limits of his peripheral vision, and the base itself seemed untouched. There were bomb craters in the far distance beyond the base, craters he could not see now, but that he had seen the previous day with the Bushnell binoculars. As he walked, he theorized the bombing technique. An Air Force Base, it would likely have been hit early— they were not bombs, of course, but ICBMs with neutron warheads. No plane would have gotten this far in the early hours of the Night of The War. That the field itself was untouched was mere chance, no missile guidance system was that precise to drop just outside the base's perimeter and thus leave the base untouched— ready to use again.
"John—" It was Natalia.
"Yeah— I see it," and Rourke looked at her for an instant, then back toward the growing definition of the base itself— a reflection from a water tower not far inside the base fence line. Glass perhaps— glass from a scope. "When I give the word— fan out— fast," he said, loud enough that Cole and his troopers would hear, loud enough that Paul would hear as well. The younger man looked back over his shoulder then, nodded, and glanced toward the field. He had seen the reflection as well, Rourke thought. "Likely a sniper up in the water tower— that's a good sign. If it isn't the wildmen, then it's likely one of Armand Teal's people—"
"Bullets are bullets," Cole snapped without looking back.
Rourke answered nothing. He kept walking, his eyes squinted against the glare from the water tower. He was waiting for it to shift— just slightly— because the nearer they could get to the fence the better their chances would be. The sniper— if it were a sniper and he estimated that it was— would have predetermined fields of fire and ranges. There would be range markers.
As if she read his mind— he wondered if perhaps she could— Natalia rasped, "There is a small pile of rocks by the side of the road twenty yards ahead— the rocks are darker than most of the others here."
He only nodded. The sniper would attempt to hold his fire until they were near the marker. He would have used the Pythagorean Theory to calculate the range, the height of the water tower a known side of the triangle, then paced out distance to the marker, the second known leg. The third side of the triangle would simply be a basic computation then, the scope zeroed for that distance. A good man, under such fixed conditions, using a good rifle— like his own SteyrMannlicher SSG. he thought absently— could use an eyeball as a target and hit it. The bullet drop figures would be memorized, or more efficiently printed out and taped to the stock for instant consultation.
He wished he had the Steyr now— given its near unbelievable accuracy in a production
rifle designed specifically for counter-sniper utility, and given his familiarity with the weapon, he could use the glare of the scope in the tower as his target— "I saw it move," Natalia murmured.
"Yeah," he nodded. "So did I." He was counting to himself, trying to pace the man. If he could disperse the potential targets at the precise instant before the man would shoot, that would give them more time to run and seek cover before another aimed round could be fired. Snipers, by their very nature, had to be precise.
His palms sweated.
"Take cover!" He shouted the words, pushing Natalia with his right hand, running left. There was a loud crack— a nonmilitary rifle, he decided. The glare from the scope shifted as Rourke shouted, "Throw some fire up there!"
He could hear the lighter cracks of the M-16s Natalia, Cole, and the two U.S. II troopers carried. Rubenstein wasn't shooting— there wasn't the familiar 9mm burping of the German MP4O. It was a close-range weapon.
Rourke threw himself to the dirt, the CAR-15 snapping up to his right shoulder, his legs spread wide, his left hand ripping away the scope covers, dropping them as the hand settled to the foreend, the first finger of his right hand touching the Colt's trigger, the reticle settled on the glare of the scope. The rifle wasn't built for tack-driving accuracy at two hundred and fifty yards, nor was the scope.
He fired once, twice, a third time, then snatched up his scope covers from the dirt by the side of the road, pushed himself to his feet and started to run again, the heavy-caliber rifle from the water tower firing again.
The fence line was less than fifty yards and he ran toward it, glancing once behind him and to the right— Natalia and the others were running, firing, short bursts aimed at the general direction of the tower, to make the sniper hesitate before firing, to buy an extra second.
A rock near Rourke's right boot exploded, dust and rock chips flying up from it as the crack of the rifle came again. Rourke kept running, the fence now twenty-five yards.
He brought the CAR-15 up, pumping the trigger three more times, at once trying to draw fire toward himself and to pin down the sniper. The sniper rifle cracked again, Rourke feeling a searing pain in his left ear. "Shit!" he snarled, his stride breaking as he stumbled, but he caught his balance, kept running.
Natalia's voice— "John!"
"Okay," he shouted back, running, his breath coming hard now, the fence less than ten yards away. "Gotta go over the fence—"
"Electrified!" Cole was shouting now.
"Bullshit— not enough power— I hope!" He kept running, five yards remaining. "Cole— you and your men, keep that sniper tucked down— Paul and Natalia and I'll go over first."
"Barbed wire, John!" It was Paul.
Rourke didn't answer him, nearing the fence now, shifting his pack off to the ground, the rifle in his right hand shifting to his left so he could turn it around, the safety going on, his right hand grasping the assault rifle backwards, his left hand reaching out for the fence as he threw himself against it, his right boot finding a brace against the chain link, his right hand snapping the rifle up, the butt plate catching on the top line of barbed wire, Rourke hauling himself up, freeing the rifle, heavy assault rifle fire from behind him now, the sound of bullets ricocheting off the metal of the water tower, Rourke slipping his left arm from the leather bomber jacket, grasping the rifle with his left hand, hooking the pistol grip over the wire, holding now by the butt stock.
The sharp crack of the sniper's rifle— a loud pinging sound as he glanced right— the nearest vertical support for the chain link was dimpled and bright. He freed the bomber jacket from his right arm, throwing it inside out over the wire, the heavy leather of it over the barbs. "Paul!"
The younger man shouted something Rourke couldn't hear, but he could feel the fence shaking, hear the rattling sound of the chain links against one another, Rourke throwing his weight down and to the side, further compressing the barbed wire.
Rubenstein went past him, up, over, and dropping. "Shit—"
"Natalia!"
His right hand grasped at the chain links nearest him, his grip on the CAR-15's butt stock slipping a little. He could hear the fence rattle again, the woman going past him, up, over the fence. He followed her with his eyes— she landed as gracefully as a cat after the twelve-foot drop. She was already moving, her M-16 spitting fire, Rubenstein running, limping slightly.
"Cole!"
Rourke's left arm ached— the armpit burning as his muscles screamed at him. The fence shook and rattled again, then Cole was up, past him, dropping, the man after him stopping at the top of the fence, firing a burst from his M-16, more of the assault rifle fire coming from inside the compound now, but not all from Natalia and Cole. There was the lighter rattle of Rubenstein's subgun, a short burst, then another and another.
The second of the U.S. II troopers was coming, up, over the top of the fence.
Rourke threw his body weight left, his right arm reaching out, grasping at the chain links. The heavy crack of the sniper rifle, part of the chain link supporting him peeling back as the bullet sliced it.
Rourke released his grip with his right hand, throwing his hand up and out, catching again at the fence, hauling himself up, leaving the CAR-15, its sling entangled in the broken section of chain link, leaving his bomber jacket as well. He hauled himself to the top, throwing his weight over, sideways, his legs in clear air, his hands releasing their grips. He dropped, hitting the dirt hard, losing his balance, rolling.
He pushed himself up, snatching at the Detonics .45 under his left armpit and then the one under his right. He started to run. The heavy-caliber rifle discharged again, into the concrete near his feet as he hit the road again, more assault rifle fire coming from a squat bunker-like building a hundred yards distant, another heavy-caliber sniper shot, Cole cursing, "Damn— shattered my stock." Rourke didn't bother to look. There was a sentry house fifteen yards to his right and he aimed for it, Natalia and Paul Rubenstein there already, Paul firing up into the water tower with his pistol— seventy-five yards at least and useless— and Natalia pumping neat, three-round bursts from her M-16.
Rourke reached the sentry house, slamming himself against it, Natalia firing again, catching his breath. He looked at her, leaning down as he did, putting his head toward his knees.
"Are you all right— your— your ear—"
Rourke suddenly remembered it, touching at it. "Are you all right— how's your abdomen after going over that fence—"
"I can tell where your suture line from the operation was," she smiled. "But I'm all right— you're a good surgeon. Let me look at your ear—"
"No time— gotta—"
"Let me look at your ear," she ordered, stepping closer to him. "Paul!"
Rubenstein turned toward them, Rourke looking up, Natalia handing Paul her rifle.
"Try this—"
"Right," he nodded, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses back off the bridge of his nose, taking the assault rifle and leaning around the edge of the sentry house. The sniper rifle fired again, the report louder this time.
"Three fifty-seven H&H maybe," she said absently.
Rourke nodded, sucking in his breath hard as she touched at his ear. "Paul— you were limping."
"I'm fine— just gave myself a little twist— worked it out when I ran."
"Good," Rourke nodded, fighting the pain again, gritting his teeth as he felt her probe the wound.
"You should have a scar— you are very lucky. Like they say in your American movies—" her voice was soft, low— a perfect alto. "Just a crease. It really was— a lot of blood, small tear in your flesh on the upper portion of the outer ear."
"The helix," Rourke corrected.
"As a doctor, you call it the helix— as a KGB major with only some first aid training, I'll call it the upper portion of the outer ear, thank you."
"Right," Rourke groaned.
"It's bled enough, I don't think there's risk of infection— medical kit is in your pack?"
"I think the bleeding is stopping—"
"Probably start up again when Paul and I head for that water tower," he told her mechanically, then raised his voice, moving away from her, toward the edge of the sentry house. "Cole?"
"Here!" The U.S. II captain's voice came from behind a truck— a two-and-one-half ton— parked just beyond the second gate, the gate swung closed now but nothing locking it as Rourke glanced down the road. "Maybe three or four guys— that low building!"
"Keep 'em pinned down— assume they've got a lot of ammo— so don't worry about burning up yours," Rourke called back.
He looked behind him to Rubenstein. "Give Natalia back the M-16— we both head through the gates, then you to the left and me to the right. Once you're inside twenty-five yards of the tower, find some cover and keep burning sticks into the tower. I'm climbing it—"
"Let me— get you bleedin' again."
"No," and Rourke turned toward Natalia. "You keep him pinned down— the sniper— keep him down while Paul and I make the run, then give Paul some fire support while I climb. We'll be okay— that scope won't help him at the distance."
"All right," she nodded, her blue eyes wide. "Be careful."
Rourke felt his face seam with a smile. "I always am," he whispered. The Detonics stainless .45s in his fists, he glanced to Rubenstein. "You ready?"
"Aww, sure," Rubenstein smiled. "Nothin' like a good running gun battle to start the day off right."
Natalia laughed. Rourke didn't. "Let's go," he rasped through his teeth.
He started to run.
He hit the gate a half-step ahead of Rubenstein, shoving against it, the gate swinging wide, Rubenstein shouting, "Race ya— I'm younger!"
Rourke laughed then, yelling, "Bullshit!" He bent into a run, his arms at his sides, his fists balled on the black checkered rubber Pachmayr grips, his feet hammering against the concrete road surface, the concussion of each step rattling through his frame, feeling the warm moisture of blood again by the upper portion of his left ear.
