Survivalist - 14 - The Terror

by Ahern, Jerry

  As he considered his supposition, he suddenly noticed Maria Leuden glance toward him from the front seat—they had given her presumably the more comfortable spot—and laugh a little with her eyes, then quickly glance away.

  Other vehicles followed the SM-4—trucks that looked like the two and one-half ton trucks he had seen in photographs and in films, but halftracks instead and their front tires more balloon-like, more massive.

  It had been explained to them by Lieutenant Schmidt that the site used as an airfield had been selected to be sufficiently distant from the base camp that should the arrival of the vertical take-off and landing craft somehow be detected, it would not endanger the security of the base camp itself.

  They had stopped once when one of the halftracks developed what turned out to be a minor mechanical difficulty, then proceeded.

  According to Common Time by the face of his Rolex, it was well after midnight when they reached the tents of the base camp in a dune-sheltered depression well to the north of the landing area. What had

  happened to the J-7V aircraft after it had deposited them, he did not know.

  The other vehicles broke off, the SM-4 proceeding through the perimeter security—Michael assumed much of it was electronic because there were very few human guards—and stopping before the second largest of the tents.

  Hammerschmidt flipped out the rear of the SM-4 to the sand, slapping his hat to his left thigh, tugging off his goggles. Michael removed his goggles as well, as did Maria Leuden—it was the first time he had seen her eyes without the glasses. They were very pretty eyes and he told himself that had it been another time—long distant from now—he would have wanted to look more deeply into them.

  He jumped to the sand, perfunctorily helping the archeologist down—she beat her skirt free of sand with the open palms of her hands.

  “I would suggest, Herr Captain, Herr Rourke, Fraulein Doctor Leuden, that we take refreshment privately in these quarters I have arranged as the command center.”

  Hammerschmidt nodded to the junior officer.

  Michael Rourke stepped forward. “I’m hungry. Thirsty. Like everybody else. But I want to see that Russian position—how far is it?”

  “The Great Pyramid is some fifteen kilometers from our camp, Herr Rourke—but surely—”

  “I too share your eagerness, Herr Rourke,” Hammerschmidt smiled, “but refreshment seems in order, and the moon—it is too much full for us, I think. We should wait until nearer to dawn. Time will be more critical then, but light more favorable.”

  Michael nodded, only deferring to Hammerschmidt out of courtesy rather than deference to combat experience—Michael realized that merely by staying

  alive in that time of his boyhood between the Night of The War and the Great Conflagration, he was more experienced than any living man—except his father, except Paul Rubenstein—except Vladmir Karamatsov.

  “Very well,” he said softly.

  Maria Leuden spoke. “We will be working in the desert here—and our bodies will be ill-suited to it— but through my research, I have prepared for this as best I could. While we refresh ourselves, I can brief you.

  The obvious thought crossed his mind. Maria Leuden’s eyes flashed toward him behind her round-rimmed glasses, then away.

  He had seen the look before—in the Jeeplike SM-4, and seen the look in the eyes of his sister.

  In his sister, he could accept it—in this woman, he did not.

  “All right—I’m starving,” he announced, starting into the tent after Hammerschmidt, the Lieutenant stepping back and opening the tent flap.

  He had seen the film, “Lawrence of Arabia,” and the other films which depicted the vastness of the Middle Eastern Desert. He had read books depicting the Bedouin life. But nothing had prepared him for the interior of the tent.

  It was air conditioned, hermetically sealed it seemed from the desert, the ambient temperature almost chilling, despite the drastic drop of desert heat as the sun had declined. A table dominated the center of the tent—long, narrow, studded with camp chairs.

  Enlisted personnel brought in several duffle baglike sacks Michael had seen removed from the aircraft, seen transferred from the helicopter which had taken them out of Iceland.

  As other enlisted personnel brought forth food and

  what appeared to be wine—Michael tasted and confirmed that indeed it was, but a trifle sweet for his palate. Maria Leuden with Lieutenant Schmidt’s help began opening and unpacking the bags. “The greatest danger in the desert climate is the sun and its effect on the body—stating the obvious,” she began, not smiling. “The Arabs guarded against this in several ways, but chiefly in shielding the body from the extremes, reducing the effect of these extremes upon the body. I have had prepared clothing similar to that worn by the Arabs in similar situations.”

  Hammerschmidt lit one of the non-carcinogenic cigarettes. Michael sipped at his wine—he wondered if it were non-alcoholic.

  “The keffiyeh shields the head and the neck. The top of the head is the most susceptible portion of the body to heat loss and gain, except in some cases, I believe—there are medical data—”

  “Is,” Michael corrected unconsciously—

  “Either is correct, since data is the plural form,” she nodded, not smiling.

  Michael nodded back.

  “At any event, for protracted periods of time in the desert, our health will best be served to take advantage of the knowledge gained by the Arabs over the centuries. For each of us that will comprise the team, I have had prepared a keffiyeh,” and she produced a large-seeming square of off-white material of what appeared to Michael’s untrained eye to be a loose weave. “The keffiyeh is held in place by this headband which was called an akal.” It was made of various strands of cord running parallel to each other with large, knot-like objects—she held the headband to her own forehead, the knots at roughly the temples. “And,” she said, setting down the akal and drawing now from one of the other duffle bags, “for each of us

  there is a jellaba. The robe. It may appear heavy and is made of wool, but it is this very heaviness which controls moisture loss from the body and shields the body from heat. It is loose and after a time you’ll find it comfortable. It can be worn open,” and she slipped it on, “or closed against the cold. And the desert at night and in the hours before dawn can be quite cold.”

  Michael sipped again at his wine—he’d come for more important things than a costume party …

  Paul Rubenstein sat bolt upright—his right hand reached to the bed; Annie was not beside him. There was no light from the bathroom. He pushed down the covers, throwing his feet over the side of the bed, the rug feeling cool to his naked flesh. “Annie?”

  There was no answer—in the darkness which was never total in the room, the white shadow of the large nursing shawl she used like a robe was missing from the chest at the foot of the bed. Paul Rubenstein found his Levis and skinned into them, then found the long sleeved, dark blue cotton sweater he had worn earlier over a shirt and pulled it on now, shirtless as he stuffed his bare feet into his slippers.

  From beside the bed, he picked up the battered Browning High Power, stuffing it into the waistband of his pants, pulling the sweater down over it.

  There were no keys necessary—nothing else really. He left the room, closing the door into the hall of the dormitory behind him, walking along the length of the corridor as silently as he could because of the hour.

  He reached the end of the corridor and stepped through the double doors onto the small porch which fronted the steps leading down toward the gardens which gave way to the central mall of the Hekla

  village. Annie sat, swathed in her shawl, on one of the massive stone facades which flanked the steps.

  From the height of the steps, Paul called to her. “Hey—can I join you?”

  She turned around, as though startled, he thought, smiling up at him. “Uh—huh—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to wake you up.” But he was a
lready starting down the steps toward her, crossed to the stone on which she sat, then dropped down beside her. “I just—ahh—”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked her.

  “I saw it, Paul—I dreamed that Madison was hurt, was dying—and I woke up to the gunshots.”

  “Aww, Annie,” and he embraced her, holding her tight.

  “I—ahh—I saw it. And I dreamed again tonight. I don’t wanna dream—I don’t wanna, Paul— it’s a curse. I can see—things that are happening far away—”

  “Remote viewing, they call it—ahh—” “The library?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded, hearing Annie sniffle against his chest, smelling her hair, his lips touching her forehead. “What did you see?”

  “Daddy and Natalia. They were walking across the snow, following some depressions in the snow. But something was going to happen to them—and Natalia was very cold—and—”

  “And what, sweetheart?”

  “And—somewhere ahead of them—I couldn’t see clearly and I knew that they couldn’t see it at all—but there was something horrible. Death—I could feel it,” and her body trembled against him and he held her more tightly. “I—Jesus, Paul—I—”

  “We can’t break radio silence—but we might be able to go after them. Your father should know

  anyway about Madison. Breaking radio silence might get them in worse trouble, ya know?” “Uh-huh,” she whispered.

  “All right. Listen—you get some things packed. Cold weather gear. Get the weapons ready. I’ll go see Major Volkmer at the base—and if that doesn’t swing it, I’ll get Doctor Munchen out of bed. Somehow, we’ll set it up. All right?”

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  He had nearly gotten the purple quality of the light to the point where he didn’t really notice it. But he noticed it now, noticed the warmth of the night there in the heart of the dormant Icelandic volcano. He could smell the flowers and the plants. He could smell the woman smell of Annie, his wife.

  “I love you,” Paul Rubenstein whispered, holding her for one moment longer …

  Doctor Munchen lit a cigarette. Major Volkmer was saying, “I hardly think, Herr Rubenstein, that the dreams of an impressionable young woman who has just suffered traumatic shock are sufficient cause to dispatch a military expedition into hostile territory, an expedition whose very arrival might trigger the danger she so fears for her father.”

  Volkmer was a short man, his body one obviously developed through building, his shirt open at the collar, otherwise compacted to his torso; muscles rippled there as he paced the room. His dark eyes seemed to be looking through the walls of Munchen’s office, looking at no one as he ran his stubby-fingered hands through his thinning blond hair.

  Munchen spoke now. “Prior to the Night of The War, both the Soviet Union and the United States were actively engaged in researching the practical

  military applications of certain phenomena in the field of parapsychology, among these what Herr Rubenstein has referred to as remote viewing. There were some remarkably interesting results. Certain remote viewers with the proper stimulus could reveal details later verified by satellite and high altitude observation photography, details of missile installations and the like.

  “Annie—ahh—she has—whether it’s a gift or a curse. Before Sarah or Natalia or John or myself were awakened back at The Retreat, she saw Michael in danger. And she awakened us. If she hadn’t, Michael would have been dead.”

  “Coincidence?” Major Volkmer smiled as he shrugged his shoulders.

  “Agreed—possible. Natalia told me that she could almost feel something probing her mind for an experience she’d had years before where she had used a knife to kill a man who was trying to—ahh—attack her. Anyway—Annie, ahh—Anriie—”

  “Killed the American traitor, Blackburn,” Munchen supplied. “In exactly the same manner. Frau Rubenstein has conversed with me since the death of her sister-in-law.”

  “She saw Madison being shot—then awakened when the gunfire awakened us all.” Paul fell silent, eyeing Munchen’s cigarette, wishing that he still smoked.

  Munchen sat on the edge of his desk. “The Rourkes are extraordinarily gifted in intelligence. That is readily apparent to anyone. Sarah, the wife of the Herr Doctor Rourke. Her intelligence seems extraordinary. Combining the genes of the Herr Doctor Rourke and his frau—the possibilities exist. Couple this with the totally unknown effects of nearly five centuries of the mind functioning at a level of activity

  about which we know nothing. Could five centuries of development in a person of tremendous intellectual potential have achieved the crossing of a barrier? Hmm? With the adults, it was difficult, I think. But with the children, the mind was fertile, raw material. It is likely that if Frau Rubenstein possesses this ability, young Michael may possess it as well. But the female—there is greater incidence of special psychic awareness among women, and women to listen more easily, less reluctantly to their emotions, their feelings. Michael might well have such dreams and not even be aware of them. But Annie Rourke Rubenstein is aware of them.”

  Volkmer leaned heavily against the wall of the office. “You believe, then, Herr Doctor, that I should co-operate?”

  “It is my official recommendation, Herr Major.”

  “How can you gamble otherwise?” Paul Rubenstein asked. “If John and Natalia and Captain Hartman are lost, we’re at square one finding the Soviet Underground City, aren’t we? And you don’t have enough forces to defend your homeland in Argentina, the Eden Project Base Camp and the Icelandic Communities if Karamatsov should throw all his weight against one target. But if we can destroy his base, his source of supply—”

  “Herr Rubenstein,” Volkmer began, pushing himself away from the wall and crossing the room, standing at the apex of a triangle formed by Munchen, Rubenstein and himself. “Though you are not biologically a Rourke, you reason like one. Perhaps it is contagious? Hmm?” And Volkmer started to laugh.

  Chapter Seven

  The Great Pyramid had survived—somehow Michael Rourke had known that it would. Maria Leuden brushed past him, to peer over the rift of sand. “Mein Gott,” she murmured.

  “I thought religion was something rather new to you folks,” Michael whispered to her.

  “It is an expression, Herr Rourke.”

  “Ahh—gotchya,” Michael told her. He looked along the ridge line formed by the sand—Hammerschmidt, in his Arab mufti, along with the sergeant and the five other German commandoes, were positioned along its length, a heavy machinegun set up on its bipod.

  Michael sank below the level of the dune, staring back into the desert through which they had come— fifteen kilometers from the site of the German camp. The stars’ brilliance was slightly diminished here— the yellow glow of the Soviet worklights saw to that.

  Maria Leuden hugged the jellaba close around her, her head and neck swathed in a woolen shawl. “It was built during The Old Kingdom—but we don’t really know much about the people who built it, really. The priest and historian, Manetho—some of his works survive in bits and snatches but as recounted by persons living at least six centuries after he wrote. It

  was begun nearly two and one-half millenia before the birth of Christ. Why would this man Karamatsov—” “Hide a weapon here?”

  “But don’t you see—by some accounts the Pyramid may be vastly older than that. No one has ever really explored what may be inside it—not completely.”

  Michael rolled onto his stomach and elbowed his way to the ridgeline again, this time taking the borrowed German binoculars up from their strap around his neck, placing them to his eyes. They were electronic, allowing precise range measurement, precise measurement of object in view. He pushed the button for automatic focusing, releasing the button when the focusing was corrected to his vision. “At the base,” he heard her telling him, “each side averages slightly over seven hundred seventy-five feet—the height is four hundred eight-one feet—the Pyramid’s exact dimensions were�
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  “A subject of great debate—I know. The four sides aren’t exactly equal, but rather seem to have been designed to reflect precise measurements of terrestrial geography—” He could see men moving about the Pyramid of Cheops, digging with hand tools. “Do you believe in the concepts of good and evil?”

  “What?”

  He put down the binoculars and slid closer to her down the embankment, staring into her eyes through her glasses. “Do you believe in good and evil—that they complement one another. Without one we could not perceive the other?”

  “Yes—I think so—but, Herr Rourke.”

  “Fraulein Doctor—I’ve thought about Vladmir Karamatsov for quite some time on and off, and quite steadily since his suicide squad caused the death of my wife and child. To kill someone who is very hard to kill, it’s important, I think, to know that person. To

  know that person in as great detail as possible. There was little detail available beyond that which I already knew. Natalia—Major Tiemerovna—could have provided more. As his wife, she probably knows him better than anyone. But Natalia was unavailable to me. Instead, then, I carefully considered every fact I had, from as many different perspectives as I could. I came to the conclusion that in his way, Marshal Karamatsov is the antithesis of my father, and I suppose of me as well since everyone tells me I’m very like my father. Now, if we assume that what the Rourke family has fought for all these years—centuries really—is the objective good, then it’s easy to concede that Vladmir Karamatsov is the objective evil. But persons who are diametrically opposed may have astounding similarities, perhaps be so thoroughly opposed to each other because of these similarities. A similarity I have found in my father and Vladmir Karamatsov is a simple and basic one. They are both fastidious planners, and both totally committed to succeeding in their goals. My dad—he was totally committed to survival, but not at the cost of integrity. But on the other hand, Karamatsov was totally committed to survival at any cost, having no integrity at all. And, unlike my father, if he couldn’t win the game, he would destroy the arena. So we have assumed he is looking for some fantastic weapon. Maybe some super bomb—who knows. But if you expected all life on earth to perhaps cease, but that somehow you would make it through, and if you wanted some sort of special thing to be waiting for you centuries into the future, what would you do?”