The Prophet ts-7

by Jerry Ahern

  Rourke took one of the Detonics pistols, firing point blank as a wildman jumped for the hood of the truck, the face exploding, blood caught on the truck's slipstream spattering the windshield.

  The truck lumbered ahead. "Have to shift," Rubenstein shouted.

  Rourke's left hand reached to the stick, his concentration focused on hearing, feeling the clutch pedal activate. He upshifted into second, the vehicle starting to weave, then back under control, no firing from Rubenstein with the CAR.

  Rourke— through the partially shattered windshield— could see the bunker now— and there was a man near to it, near the doors, the doors opening— "Cole!"

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Natalia glanced at her altimeter and banked the helicopter to port, checking her degrees against the level horizon, correcting slightly and banking again, homing the machine toward the greatest concentration of wildmen, around the massive, oversize-wheeled pickup truck that she could see Rubenstein driving, Rourke beside him. At the far end of the flat expanse along the ridge she could see Lieutenant O'Neal as well— the rifle in his hands a familiar shape— an AK-47.

  "Gunner— start firing when you're ready— leveling off," she shouted back.

  "Yes, ma'am," the blond seaman shouted.

  And she could hear it— the rattling of the M-60 machine gun mounted in the door— for his sake she wished there had been flak gear to protect his legs. There was heavy fire coming again from the ground as he strafed the wildmen attacking the truck.

  Her heart froze— a man was entering the missile control bunker— Cole.

  She pulled up on the controls, gaining altitude so she could maneuver, banking the helicopter steeply, "Hold on, gunner!"

  "Yes, ma'am— holdin' on!"

  The helicopter spun a full one hundred eighty degrees and she had the nose lined up on the bunker, throttling out toward it, arcing hard to starboard. "Gunner— kill that man entering the bunker!"

  There was no answer in words, just the rattle of the M-60 machine gun, Natalia watching as the gun walked on target, the ground plowing up under the impact of the slugs, Cole disappearing inside the bunker doors as bullets hammered against the concrete surrounding the doors and into the doors themselves, Cole gone.

  "Damnit!" she snapped. She pulled up on the controls, banking steeply to starboard again, climbing, then nosing down toward the ground— she would have to get the wildmen on the ground blocking Rourke and Rubenstein in the truck— and Rourke and Paul would have to get Cole. "Damnit!"

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Rourke rammed a fresh magazine into each of the Detonics pistols, shoving both out the window simultaneously as a wildman carrying a machete threw himself across the hood of the truck, Rubenstein screaming, "John!"

  Rourke fired both pistols, the slugs impacting against the blond, burly wildman's curly-haired chest, the body rolling off the front of the hood, Rourke bouncing in his seat, his head hitting the roof of the truck cab as the vehicle rolled over the body and there was a hideous-sounding scream.

  The bunker was less than a hundred yards away now, Rourke firing at targets of opportunity, occasionally the truck lurching under him as Rubenstein would free his right hand to pump the CAR-15 through the driver's side window.

  And Cole had disappeared.

  Natalia's chopper buzzed overhead, gunfire pouring from it into the surrounding wildmen attempting to stop the truck through sheer force of body numbers, a solid wall forming in front of Rourke and Rubenstein, gunfire everywhere now, from the wildmen and from the submarine's shore party.

  At the doors of the bunker now Rourke could see a second figure— O'Neal. The missile officer was stepping back, kicking out, ramming his foot against the outer door of the bunker, then falling onto his knees, firing his pirated AK-47 at the locking mechanism.

  Rourke pumped the triggers of the twin stainless Detonics pistols, the truck grinding ahead, over the bodies, hurtling bodies to each side, gunfire ripping into the windshield again. Rourke fired out both pistols, nailing the wildman with the assault rifle.

  Forty yards to go, Rourke ramming fresh magazines into his pistols. He fired one pistol through the open side window, killing a man there, then pushed open the door, standing up, holding to the truck cab, shouting to O'Neal, "Back away— we're gonna ram the door." The massive winch at the front of the vehicle— it could be used as a battering ram, Rourke judged. "Paul— get into a crouch behind the wheel— I'll jump clear. Leave her in second and give her all the gas you got!"

  "Right— gotchya," Rubenstein shouted back.

  Rourke jammed the second Detonics into his left hip pocket, holding on now against the window frame with his left fist, leaning out, firing the Detonics pistol in his right, a chest shot on a woman with a spear rushing toward them, her blond hair knotted and tangled, dirty. Her body spun out and she fell, lurching forward, the truck bouncing as the right front wheel crushed her, a scream piercing the air.

  Rourke fired again— twenty-five yards to go— a massive man wrapped in what looked like dog skins racing toward them firing an assault rifle. Rourke emptied the Detonics into— the man's chest and neck, bright splotches of blood flowing there, the body lurching back, falling against more of the wildmen in his wake.

  The Detonics was empty, the slide locked open, a wildman rushing them with a machete. Rourke dodged the machete as the man hurtled himself laterally across the hood, Rourke's right fist arcing out with the Detonics still clenched there, using the butt of the pistol like a piece of pipe or a roll of quarters to back his knuckles, his fist impacting the man on the left side of the forehead, the eyes going wide, the body rolling, tumbling down, the right front wheel crushing the man's legs— but there was no scream, the blow to the head apparently having killed him.

  Ten yards to go, the roar of the engine and the vibration louder, louder than Rourke had thought it could have been— he jumped clear as they hit five yards, the roar louder still as Rubenstein—

  Rourke glanced to the younger man as he jumped— hammered the gas pedal flat against the floor.

  Rourke hit the ground, half rolling against a wildman, the wildman— tall, lean, the half-naked torso rippling with muscles under a fur poncho and cut-off jeans, lashing out with a Bowie bladed knife. Rourke's left fist groped for the second Detonics, found it, his left thumb passing behind the pistol's tang to work down the safety, then sweeping around as he fired the pistol point blank against the wildman's throat, blood bursting out of the wound in a wet sticky cloud as Rourke turned his eyes away.

  He pushed himself to his feet, hearing the grinding and tearing of metal, looking now toward the bunker doors, the outer door at least caved in.

  Rourke started to run, hammering the empty pistol in his right fist against the face of a woman with a revolver, knocking her down, splitting her nose down the center, her scream shrill, agonized as he ran on. A wildman from his left— Rourke fired the second Detonics, a two-round burst into the chest, the man toppling back.

  Rourke was beside the truck, Rubenstein visible through the still open right side door, sprawled across the seat.

  "Paul!"

  The younger man looked up. "All right— okay— I'm all right."

  Rourke punched the Detonics pistol in his left fist forward. "Down!" He fired three times, emptying the pistol, mutilating the face of the wildman with the butcher knife starting for Paul through the sprung-open driver's side door.

  Rubenstein rolled against the seat back, pushing up the CAR-15, firing through the open door behind him as more of the wildmen rushed the truck.

  Rourke, both pistols empty, wheeled, a short, stocky man wearing animal skins and blue jeans hurtling his body toward him.

  Rourke took its full force, sprawling back against the side of the bunker, the concrete rough and hard against the skin of his neck as he slipped down along its length, the man going for his throat. Rourke found his knife with his left hand, dropping the Detonics to the ground, his right arm pinned at his
side, his left hand arcing forward and around, driving the knife in under the right rib cage— there was a scream, a curse, the body slumping away for an instant, Rourke's right arm free, his right fist hammering down with the Detonics, the butt crushing into the face of the wildman, smashing the nose, as Rourke's left knee slammed upward, smashing into the groin.

  Rourke sidestepped as the body fell, the second pistol still on the ground, buttoning out the magazine in the pistol in his right hand, catching the empty and ramming home a fresh one from the six pack. His right thumb worked down the slide stop, his first finger pulling the trigger, killing a wildman lunging at him with a spear.

  Rourke slumped back against the concrete wall for an instant, inhaling hard— He reached across the body of the man he'd knifed, found his second pistol, reloaded it, then found his knife— he had emptied the Sparks six pack and had only the remaining magazines in his musette bag and on his belt— "John— inside!"

  Rourke looked to his right— Rubenstein and O'Neal were gone, the door to the bunker pried partially away from the jamb.

  He glanced skyward, Natalia in the helicopter making another pass over the ground— Rourke threw himself up, over the hood of the truck, swinging his legs over and dropping down, firing the pistol in his right hand at a man with a spear as he hit the ground, then pushing himself through the space between the metal door and the jamb.

  "Here!"

  It was half in shadow in the narrow space behind the door and he felt a hand on his left forearm.

  "Me, John!"

  Through the crack between the door and the jamb, Rourke could see wildmen massing for an assault against the door, the one called Otis, blood oozing through his fingers as he held his shoulder, at their head.

  Rourke looked behind him, his eyes gradually accustomed to the gloom. He ripped his sunglasses from his face, stuffing them into the inside pocket of his bomber jacket.

  "Paul— you and O'Neal get as far back as you can go— hurry."

  Rourke edged back, away from the door, the assault starting, the Detonics in his right hand coming up, in his mind's eye trying to judge the perfect spot for hitting the fuel pump— he fired, throwing himself back, the truck roaring into an explosion, Rourke suddenly gasping for air as he looked back, the heat of the explosion making a wind, sucking air from inside the bunker. Rourke coughed, lurching forward on his hands, his fists still clenched on the twin Detonics pistols— there was screaming from outside.

  Rourke pushed himself to his feet and half threw himself into the deeper shadow ahead, down the tunnel leading into the main body of the bunker.

  Cole would be arming the missiles to launch— and millions would die.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Rourke raced ahead, leaving Rubenstein and O'Neal beside the second door— the one with the combination lock, wide open— if Cole had closed it, Rourke would have been powerless to stop him. Rourke ran on, lights gleaming in the corners where the low concrete ceiling met the walls, such little room in the passage that if Rourke jogged slightly left or right, his shoulders would brush against the walls.

  He could hear the humming of machinery— generators working— the lighting and the missiles— firing devices were all on the same electrical system, he assumed.

  He could see brighter light at the far edge of the tunnel and he threw himself more into the run, his arms at his sides, his pistols clutched in both fists— he would kill Cole in cold blood if he had to to stop him.

  The end of the passage was less than twenty yards away, Rourke cocking his head back, his mouth wide open gulping at the stale, cool air, Rourke skidding on his combat boot heels across the last yard or so, lurching against the door frame— the missile control room.

  Cole— leaning across a panel of switches and lights, computer tapes whirring.

  Rourke shouted, "Cole— don't!"

  Cole turned, his face a snarl, his lips drawn back across his uneven teeth, his eyes glinting, the front of his body covered in mud-smeared blood. "For America!"

  Cole threw himself across the panel nearest him, both pistols in Rourke's fists bucking and bucking again and again, the noise deafening, his ears ringing, Cole's body sliding down from the panel, his left arm extended.

  Rourke saw it— as if in slow motion— the push of a button, a red button.

  The lighting in the control room switched from whitish yellow to a dull red, a mechanical voice booming over a speaker near Rourke's head, his ears still ringing from the concentrated gunfire in the confined space.

  Cole's body fell to the floor, rolled, the eyes blank and staring upward.

  The computer voice announced, "T minus ten minutes and counting— irretrievable launch sequence initiated. T minus nine minutes forty-five seconds and counting."

  Rourke stared at the speaker. "Shit."

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Rourke whirled the dials on the radio— praying the electromagnetic pulse hadn't reached this far into the ground, the electromagnetic pulse that had wiped out the air base communications until Teal— the late Armand Teal— had jerry-rigged to restore them.

  "Calling the helicopter— Natalia! Come in, damnit!"

  "John— where are—"

  "No time— in the bunker— launch is—" the mechanical voice again— "T minus eight minutes fifty seconds and counting"—"You hear that?"

  "Yes— yes—"

  "Get down here— I'm going into the silos— try to disarm the electrical system that would trigger the launch— the panel here is armor plated and I can't get into it. Follow me— we've gotta try—

  Rourke out!" Rourke threw down the microphone, both Detonics pistols already holstered, his hands at his sides as he ran for the metal steps leading down toward the silo maintenance access tunnel just ahead.

  He ran— he prayed.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Natalia shouted to the machine gunner, "I'm taking her down, seaman— I have to get inside the bunker and help Dr. Rourke!"

  "Yes, ma'am!"

  She made the helicopter rotate a full three hundred sixty degrees as she scanned the ground for a safe place to land— there was none. She picked a spot within two hundred yards or so of the bunker entrance and the still-burning truck at the door— she started down. "Hang on," she sang out.

  The landing party forces were consolidating to complete the envelopment. The wildmen, perhaps a hundred of them still— fighting hand to hand with the landing party forces now, gunfire pouring from a knot of the wildmen near the bunker doors, into the bunker itself, as best she could discern.

  She jockeyed the controls, the helicopter touching down. She killed her engine for the tail rotor, then the main rotor, and pressed the quick release button of her seat restraint harness, jumping out and to the ground, snatching up her M-16.

  Wildmen were everywhere— and she had to get to the bunker.

  "Hey, ma'am— this'll help ya!"

  She looked behind her— it was the gunner with the machine gun detached from its mounts, the link belt draped across his body as he framed himself into the doorway. The machine gun began to spit tongues of flame into the mass of wildmen.

  Natalia shot him a wave, then started to run.

  She shouted to the shore party men— "Follow me— to the bunker— I have to get inside! Follow me!"

  The men began to rally around her, forming a wedge with her at its center as she ran, pumping the trigger of her M-16, cutting down each target of opportunity, men and women, headshots, shots to the chest, bursts that ripped away the nameless faces— she kept running.

  The M-16 came up dry and she rammed the butt of the weapon against the face of a wildman with a spear— his nose crushed under its impact as he fell back and away from her.

  She threw the rifle at another of the wildmen, snatching open the holster flaps and drawing her L-Frame stainless Smiths, the ones customized by Ron Mahovsky for Sam Chambers before his ascendancy to the presidency of U.S. II, the ones he had given her as a gesture of fr
iendship for her aid in the evacuation of peninsular Florida, the ones with the American eagles on the barrel flats— she fired both .357 Magnums at once, putting two slugs into the chest of a wildman coming at her with an assault rifle blazing— she ran on.

  They were nearing the doorway into the bunker, the truck still smoldering but some of the wildmen— a man in Levis and a bearskin their apparent leader— creeping around the sides of the truck, gunfire coming from inside the bunker— it would be Paul and O'Neal, she realized.

  They ran ahead. "Get that squat man with the bearskin— he must be the leader," she shouted.

  The wildmen near the bunker door turned now, almost as one, raining their assault rifles, firing them out in long, ragged bursts, Natalia seeing some of the men from the shore party going down, Natalia's guns blazing in her hands, gunfire from both sides of her from the shore party, the wildmen going down as well.

  Both revolvers were empty and she rammed them into her holsters, securing the flaps, bending down, snatching up an M-16 from the ground beside her, standing then, firing out the rifle into the wildmen.

  "Close with them!" She started to run, using the rifle alternately like a spear and a club, ramming the flash deflector into a face, swatting the stock against a head, butting the stock against a rib cage.

  She stopped— a half dozen of the wildmen in a knot around the squat man who was their leader. The shore party men were around her.

  Natalia threw the rifle to the ground, reaching into her hip pocket for the Bali-Song knife, her thumb flicking up the lock that bound the two skeletonized handle sections together, then the interior of the right thumb joint sliding into the open depression in the rear handle section, the knife held between her thumb joint and the side of her first finger, the forward section and the blade rocking forward, the second finger of her right hand forming a fulcrum under the near handle half, and she rocked the near handle half down, both handle halves swinging together, her fist locking around them.

  She pressured the near handle half, the Wee-Hawk blade edge outward— with her thumb and first finger, flicking her wrist, rolling her hand and closing the knife, repeating the same motion, but finishing the circle and rolling the knife inward to open it again.