The Prophet ts-7

by Jerry Ahern

  Cole turned and looked at Otis, the gleam in his light brown eyes. He did not look at Armand Teal.

  He closed his eyes, hearing a woman's voice, hearing Teal moaning— then hearing a scream after a very long time.

  There was something half a chant, half a cheer coming from the self-imposed darkness around him.

  Otis' voice sounded in a whisper at his ear. He could feel the man's breath— it smelled like marijuana. "It's over now, captain— you can open your eyes."

  Cole opened his eyes. Otis had lied. It wasn't over. And he heard Otis laugh.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Rourke hung back, his complement of the shore party boarded on his chopper, Natalia— her craft landed on the missile deck of the submarine— still loading. Gundersen spoke to him through his headset. "You get these men back, Rourke— otherwise I won't have enough manpower to run my little boat."

  Rourke laughed into the microphone. "Little boat?"

  "Well— you got me straight, though?"

  "I understand," Rourke said into his microphone. The sea was rough, a wind blowing in off the mainland now, a wind that would make headwinds he'd have to fight in returning to Paul and Lieutenant O'Neal. The sea itself was gray, whitecaps dotting it like freckles on a child's face.

  "You got any idea what the weather is looking like, commander?"

  "Negative on that— at least beyond the fact that it looks crappy from here."

  "You sound just like a professional meteorologist."

  "It's worse for me— I open up a window, I get my feet wet— submarines are like that."

  Rourke shook his head, saying, "Standup comic before you joined the navy?"

  "No— but thanks for the compliment."

  "I wasn't making a compliment," Rourke told him. Because of cross winds, it had been rough landing on the missile deck— rougher by the time Natalia had done it. And now— the winds visibly rising as the waves tossed higher and higher— it would be hazardous in the extreme to take off. This was why he waited— if the helicopter ran into problems he would be there to fish out survivors.

  "Natalia— you reading me?"

  "Yes, John. Over."

  "Don't be so formal— only you and me and Gundersen on the line here. How you reading those winds?"

  "Twenty-five knots and gusting higher."

  "Rourke?" It was Gundersen. "I'm gonna have to dive soon— these seas are getting rough. I've got some people in sick bay this is playin' hell with."

  "Got ya," Rourke answered. "Natalia? How long?"

  "Another minute— maybe two. The deck is slippery— we're using guidelines to get the men out to the helicopter."

  "Right," he told her, watching her craft now— tense. From his vantage point two hundred feet up and to the sub's starboard side, Rourke could see what seemed to be the last two men, struggling along the missile deck on the manila rope guidelines, wind lashing at the raingear the men wore against the salt spray that broke over the bow as the submarine lurched violently with each swell.

  The last of the two men disappeared inside the helicopter Natalia piloted. She was a good aviatrix, Rourke knew— but the best helicopter pilot in the world would have been hard-pressed to judge his controls right to get off the swaying, rolling missile deck against the wind.

  The helicopter— as if a living thing itself— began to move, rising slightly, edging forward and to the right side, then rising more, spinning several times then dipping slightly downward—

  Rourke's heart went to his mouth— then skimmed along the surface of the waves, then was airborne.

  "She flies good." Gundersen's voice echoed through his headset.

  Rourke chewed down harder on his unlit cigar. "Yeah," he murmured.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Paul Rubenstein sat cross-legged in the rocks, his head bothering him slightly. "The hell with it," he murmured, reaching into the pocket of his O.D. green field jacket, finding the container Rourke had given him and removing one of the painkillers Rourke had prescribed. The octagonsided tablet in his mouth, he splashed it down with a swallow of canteen water. "Lieutenant?"

  "Yes, Mr. Rubenstein?" And O'Neal turned toward him. O'Neal's M-16 was nearly to the level of the rocks, ready to come up to fire.

  "When John gave me these for pain, he told me to try and rest for a few minutes after I took one— do me a favor and keep a good eye out— I gotta close my eyes— my head's killing me."

  "Right, Mr. Rubenstein."

  Rubenstein nodded, then hunkered down in the rocks. The bolt was closed on the Schmeisser and his High Power was holstered. Rourke had often lectured on mixing firearms with any type of depressant or stimulant— with any foreign substance— and Rubenstein took the advice seriously. Having had, for all intents and purposes, no familiarity with firearms before the Night of The War, he now considered himself well-skilled— he'd had what he considered the best teacher. But firearms were not second nature to him as they were to Rourke. Almost subconsciously, he took advice literally and intended to until more familiarity deepened his judgment.

  He set the Schmeisser aside on the ground next to him, folding his hands in his lap. He stretched his legs, tired from the sleepless night. He saw a face— she had been his girl. He wondered if all the people who inhabited New York City had died quickly...

  "Mr. Rubenstein! Mr. Rubenstein— Paul!" She had been so pretty in a very soft way— he didn't want to lose— "Mr. Rubenstein! Wake up!"

  Rubenstein opened his eyes, feeling warm, sleepy still, then moved, suddenly feeling the cold and dampness, his eyes reacting to the bright grayness of the morning.

  "How— ahh— how long—"

  "About three-quarters of an hour maybe— look, Mr. Rubenstein."

  Paul shook his head, snatching up his Schmeisser, then getting to his knees— the headache was gone— and peering over the rocks. Across the small depression where the mounded-over bunker was on the far ridge he could see wildmen massing. And now, faintly, he could hear the rumbling of vehicles.

  He could see the first one— a battered Jeep— rolling up onto his far left on the ridge. Then, on his right, another Jeep.

  And then at the center— a massive pickup truck, the wheels high off the ground and suspended from the winch supports at the front of the vehicle was a body— burned black in spots, blood covered, the left arm missing, the eyes catching the glint of sunlight and reflecting it like glass—

  it was Armand Teal.

  "Look!"

  "I see him," Rubenstein murmured to O'Neal. "No— no— look!" Rubenstein turned his head right, toward O'Neal, then past him. Wildmen behind them, wildmen on either side, heavily armed with assault rifles, spears and machetes, some of the wildmen standing like toy figurines, almost frozen, their spears poised for flight.

  And at their head—"Cole— you son of a bitch!"

  "Mr. Rubenstein— you and Lieutenant O'Neal— lay down your arms," Cole shouted.

  "Bullshit!"

  "Lay down your arms and you'll be spared— at least for now. I came for the missiles— not to kill you!"

  Rubenstein worked back the bolt of the Schmeisser, pushing O'Neal aside, on his knees still, the submachine gun snaking forward. He saw it— the shadowy form in flight as he fired, Cole dodging, two of the wildmen with him going down.

  Something— the shadowy thing that flew— was in his line of vision, tearing into him now, dragging him back and off his knees. He felt himself spreadeagling, his subgun still firing, upward, his left arm unmoving. He stared at his arm— a massive stick seemed to be holding him to the ground.

  "The spear— my God, Mr. Rubenstein!" It was O'Neal.

  "Spear—" Rubenstein coughed the word, his subgun firing out. He tried to move his left arm, felt the tearing, the ripping at his flesh. "No!" He screamed the word.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Bill Mulliner squirmed on his knees beside the right front wheel of the van— it was his stomach. His father— the Russians had killed him
— had called it "butterflies," and Bill Mulliner had them every time before a raid. As soon as the raid would start, the butterflies left. He wondered if it was fear of death— or fear of what came afterward. In church on Sundays they used to talk about the glory that awaited you when you had been born again in Jesus Christ, the glory of Heaven when you never wanted, never needed, but were filled with the happiness of being in God's presence. He wondered sometimes how you could be happy with the life gone from you. Or was the life something that wasn't physical at all?

  He gripped his M-16 more tightly.

  He looked to his left and up. Just inside the slid-open door of the van he could see the heels of Pete Critchfleld's shoes— Pete would be hunkered down low, waiting, his M-16 with the collapsible butt stock— admittedly homemade— ready to kill Russians.

  Bill Mulliner looked to his far right and down. In the drainage ditch on the other side of the fence, already penetrated past Russian security, would be Curly and Jim, Jim with a Thompson submachine gun. He'd been a police officer before the Night of The War and the weapon had been legal and licensed.

  The others— fifteen additional men, making nineteen all told, were scattered along the base perimeter. All of them were waiting for the signal.

  The base had been, according to Pete Critchfield, a recording company warehouse. The security system in use when the facility had stored the latest country western albums was the security system in use today. Only the manpower composition and numbers had changed. Two older, retired policemen had been the security guards on the day shift— this according to Jim Hastings, the cop with the Thompson. Now, however, there were thirty-six Russian infantrymen with KGB

  supervision who patrolled the facility's fenced perimeter with guard dogs.

  It would be Jim who would give the signal— waiting until a truck marked as carrying explosives would enter the compound. Jim would throw a fragmentation grenade— between the nineteen men, there were only four grenades. The battle would start.

  Bill Mulliner watched now, a motorcycle escort rolling along the street ahead of a U.S. two-and one-half-ton truck, the truck over-painted with a red star on the door side, he could see. The motorcyclists were talking to each other, one of them gesturing to an abandoned Mercedes parked half across the sidewalk. The second cyclist laughed. A joke about capitalist Americans, Bill guessed.

  His palms sweated, as much as they had sweated when Jim Hastings and Curly had smuggled themselves into the compound inside a garbage truck, then jumped from the truck— he had seen one of them barely at the far corner of the warehouse.

  The deuce-and-half made a sharp, fast right— Bill Mulliner thought he would never drive that way carrying explosives— and turned into the driveway leading into the warehouse area, stopping in front of the fence, the guards there approaching the fence and opening it. The motorcyclists started through, the truck's transmission grinding audibly, black smoke belching from the muffler, the truck beginning to lumber forward.

  Automatically, Bill Mulliner moved his selector from safe to full auto, then glanced to his right. He could see Jim Hastings starting to get up in the ditch, his right arm hauling back, then snapping half-forward. There was a small dark object— Bill watched it fascinated as it arced toward the truck through the late morning air.

  The grenade fell— he could hear the noise it made hitting the concrete. It rolled, and he watched it, waiting for it to explode. Waiting.

  The explosions were something that made his ears ring and his head ache, the first tiny explosion of the grenade swallowed by the roar and blast of the truck itself, a black and orange fireball belching skyward. He started to run from behind the van, the heat of the fireball searingly hot against his face as a wind seemed to generate from the fireball above and surrounding the explosives truck.

  He was at the main gates— what was left of them, jumping from a fallen motorcycle, loosing a three-round burst from his M-16 into the already half dead cycle rider, the man's clothes and flesh burning as he rolled, screaming, on the ground. The tarred surface under Bill's feet stuck to his shoes, the tar melting from the heat of the fireball as he ran. He glanced behind him once—

  he could see Pete Critchfield coming with the van, the van's front end specially reinforced, the van jumping the curb, across the sidewalk now and ramming through the chain link fence, a seven-foot-wide section of the fencing pulling away from the support posts— these bent almost in half— and stuck to the reinforced bumper, pushing ahead of the van, sparks flying from the fencing as it swept the concrete.

  Bill kept running, seeing a sentry coming toward him, the sentry's guard dog bounding ahead. Bill pumped the M-16's trigger, the dog still coming. He pumped the trigger again, the dog going down. The sentry still firing, his AK47 hammering slugs into the warehouse wall beside which Bill ran, the concrete block powdering, chips of the concrete and a spray of fine dust powdering Bill's face.

  Bill fired the M-16, hearing the heavier rattle of the Thompson submachine gun, seeing Jim Hastings running to intersect him. The Soviet guard went down.

  Bill ran forward, jumping the dead guard, firing his M-16, two guards coming around the far corner of the warehouse wall, one guard going down, a long burst of automatic weapons fire hammering into the wall again, the second guard tucking back. Bill heard the scraping of the chain link fence section, the roar of the van's eight-cylinder engine, saw the blur of grayish white as the van cut past him and toward the corner of the building. There was a scream, the sound of tires screeching and a power steering unit being pushed too hard, then the blur of gray-white again, the van backing up. The fence was still stuck to the bumper, and hanging from it now was a body— the Soviet trooper, his hands flailing, his legs twisted at odd angles.

  Jim Hastings— less than a yard from Bill now, raised his Thompson to his shoulder, firing a short burst, the Soviet guard's body stopping its thrashing— he was dead.

  There was assault rifle fire all around him now as he reached the corner of the warehouse, the van already by the loading dock, some of the Resistance fighters there too, M-16s, pistols, riot shotguns— gunfire.

  Bill threw himself against the loading dock, ramming a fresh magazine into his assault rifle, then looked up, across the loading dock, throwing his body up, rolling, coming to his knees and firing as two Soviet soldiers started across. Both Soviets went down.

  He pushed himself to his feet, Jim Hastings and Curly already opening the sliding door into the warehouse itself.

  Hastings and Curly disappeared inside, Bill running to the truck, Pete Critchfield jumping out, his bastardized M-16 in his fists.

  "So far so good, Bill."

  Bill Mulliner looked at his leader. "Yeah— so far so good."

  The butterflies were gone from his stomach and he was still alive— so far, so good.

  Chapter Thirty

  The airfield in the shadow of Mount Thunder was busy— as busy, he supposed, as airfields had appeared during the Berlin airlift the Allies had conducted when his own government had shut off West Berlin from West Germany years ago. Planes of any description that could carry cargo were landing, being off-loaded and refueled simultaneously and taking off again as quickly as possible.

  Rozhdestvenskiy walked the field now, an aide running to his side, the aide falling in step, shouting to him over the roar of the engines. "Comrade Colonel— a communiqué from the southeast."

  "Read it to me," Rozhdestvenskiy nodded. Probably another complaint that some item of supply could not be found, he thought.

  "Central southeastern supply depot, reference Womb, penetrated by heavily armed, numerically superior Resistance force. Heavy casualties and theft of strategic material and supplies—

  preliminary casualty report and loss report to follow— signed—"

  "Never mind— I know the fool's name!" He took the note, crumpled it, started to throw it down to the runway surface— he stopped himself. His temper— he was losing it, and thus showing a weakness before a sub
ordinate. "He is a fool," he sighed, by way of explanation, "in that he allows himself such a situation to come to pass— to—"

  "Yes, Comrade Colonel!"

  He studied the subordinate's face. There was little apparent differences in their ages— yet this man was a captain and he was a colonel. The face, however, showed the difference. Moonshaped, fleshy, ingratiating— weak.

  He was not weak.

  "You will radio immediately to the commander of the supply depot in Nashville— he is to place himself under arrest and surrender command to his senior ranking subordinate. You will radio Chicago that I am to be met at the airport and there must be a helicopter to fly me to headquarters on the Lake. You will also radio to General Varakov, supreme commander, that it is a matter of the utmost urgency that I should have an interview with him immediately. Make all necessary travel arrangements, contact my valet here and have my things packed for a short stay. Move out."

  "Yes, Comrade Colonel."

  The man ran off, across the field— like a dog more than a man, Rozhdestvenskiy decided. There was the difference.

  He would go to Chicago, request that General Varakov commit his military forces to crush the Resistance so the stocking of the Womb could continue. He would request Varakov's help in resolving the matter of the American Eden Project— He felt himself smile. If Varakov did not cooperate— Colonel Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy watched the planes as they landed, as they took off again— for at least a few moments.

  The efficient, orderly use of power. It would calm him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Rourke calculated his fuel use to be adequate to make the return trip to the submarine— beyond that perhaps enough to make it back to where he had camouflaged the prototype FB-111 HX for the return trip to Georgia— if his luck held. He flew the 0H58C Kiowas now at maximum speed, not the speed for fuel conservation, but the speed required by the situation. He had been gone from the missile control bunker and the underground silos vastly longer than he had anticipated. He glanced to his right— the dull green of the second helicopter was there, Natalia almost visible at its controls.