The Survivalist #2

by Jerry Ahern

  "I brought you a cigar," she said, her face brightening. She handed it to him, then reached into the right-hand pocket of her skirt and pulled out her cigarettes and a lighter. She lit the cigar for Rourke, then her own cigarette. She sat down beside him on the bed. "John?"

  "What?"

  "You aren't in the CIA anymore, are you?"

  "I told you I wasn't—all I'm interested in for now is finding my wife and children."

  "Tell me about them, John—all of them."

  "Why?"

  "Just tell me about them, please," she said, her voice a whisper. Rourke stared at her, watched the deep blue eyes, the exquisite profile.

  He dragged on the cigar, saying, "Well, my son Michael is six—smart, independent little guy, but what do you say—he's a neat little man. There's Annie—my daughter, she's just four—kind of funny, cracks you up sometimes, pretty like her mother. And sometimes she drives you crazy."

  "What's your wife like?" Natalie asked.

  "Sarah—dark hair, brown though, not like yours. Gray-green eyes, about five-seven. She's smarter than I am. She's more—what would I say—she's more of a diversified person, wider interests—she's—"

  "Do you love her that much?"

  "We talked about that already, didn't we?"

  "Give me an honest answer to one question," the girl said.

  "All right, if I can," Rourke told her, watching the tip of his cigar, not wanting to look at Natalie.

  "If you'd never met Sarah, didn't have Michael and Ann—would you have—ahh—never mind, John," and she started to stand up.

  Rourke put his left hand on her forearm, his hand moving down to her hand. "Maybe I'm crazy," he said, forcing a smile.

  "No," she said quietly. She looked at the door, then hitched up the skirt over her right leg and Rourke saw the COP pistol, the little stainless steel .357 Magnum, strapped to her right thigh with a length of white surgical elastic. She undid the elastic, stuffing it under the pillow on the cot, and weighed the gun in her hand, then pointed it at him.

  "John—your weapons, Rubenstein's weapons, they're in my husband's office. He's learned of an attack on the base—here, late tonight. We have a spy in Chamber's organization in east Texas. Vladmir is calling down a neutron strike at the time the attack starts, then you and Chambers will be flown to Chicago. You'd never find your wife and children. Rubenstein would be made to talk, when they found out he didn't know anything, they'd kill him then. You wouldn't leave here without Chambers, would you?"

  "Honest?" Rourke asked, looking into her eyes.

  "I know you wouldn't. If I help you—to get Paul out and Chambers too, would you promise me one thing—that you wouldn't kill anyone you didn't have to?"

  "Yeah—I'd promise that," Rourke answered.

  "And that includes Vladmir—that you wouldn't kill him—only if you had to, to defend yourself?"

  "Do you love him?" Rourke asked her.

  "I don't know," she said flatly. "Get ready—I'll get the guard in here."

  She stood up and walked to the door, smoothed her hair back from her face and tapped on the door, saying in Russian, "Corporal—come in here. This prisoner had a weapon—I've disarmed him. Come inside immediately and assist me."

  The door opened, the young corporal said, "I will assist you, comrade captain," then stepped through the doorway. As he passed her, the COP pistol clamped in her right fist, she straight-armed him in the right side of the neck. Rourke stepped forward and caught the young soldier before he hit the floor, then eased him onto the bed. As Rourke stripped the man's weapon away, then used the military trouser belt to tie the man, the girl stood by the door, watching. Rourke, over his shoulder, said to her, "How are you going to get out of this?"

  "Don't worry about me. We can get Chambers freed, then get Paul out. I have already arranged for your motorcycles and equipment to be brought to one of the elevators they use for getting the planes up onto the field. There's a prop plane down there—it's fueled and flight checked. You can fly it?"

  "Unless the gauges are in Arabic, I'll do okay. Why are you doing this?"

  She looked at him, saying, "I gave my word—I keep my word, just like you do."

  He didn't say anything to her as he checked the young unconscious guard's AK-47, but he could see her smiling.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The girl behind him, Rourke edged along the wall toward the base of the stairs. The hall there was in shadow, light streaming from the head of the stairs above on the main level of the underground complex. Chambers was being held just beyond the head of the stairs, with two security guards outside his door and a third inside with him as a suicide watch. On this same floor, one level below the ground-level runways and the few ground-level hangars, was the hospital wing and Karamatsov's office. Rourke had explained to Natalie that he had to confront her husband, had to stop Karamatsov from calling in the neutron strike against the attacking forces. Once he was airborne with Cham­bers, he'd try every frequency he could to contact the U.S. forces on the ground and alert them that the attack could be called off because Chambers was free—that would be Rourke's end of the bargain with Natalie for his freedom.

  He glanced up the stairwell, saw the booted feet of a guard and pulled his head back, using hand signals to warn the girl beside him. She moved up to the base of the stairs, smoothed her blouse and palmed the COP pistol in her right hand, behind her skirt, then started up the stairs. Rourke held back at the edge of the stairwell, not daring to look up lest he give the girl away. He heard bits and pieces of a brief conver­sation in Russian, then a shuffling of boots and a heavy thudding sound. He raced around the corner of the stairwell and halfway up the stairs intercepted the body of the Russian guard, rolling down toward him. He dragged the man down the stairwell, took the AK-47 and as he started to tie the man, stopped, realizing the guard's neck was broken and he was dead.

  Rourke started up the stairs. Natalie was standing three stairs down, looking along the corridor. Rourke stopped a stair below her, saying, "He's dead—you do it?"

  Her face was expressionless, then the corners of her mouth turned down and she said, "I had to—he realized something was wrong."

  "At least he was right about that," Rourke said, glancing back down the stairs. "Where are they holding Chambers—along there?"

  "Around the corner," Natalie whispered. "Come on." Rourke had no plan, other than to overpower the guards outside the door if Natalie couldn't connive her way inside. It was the guard on the inside that he was worried about—he judged that the man on the suicide watch was also on a death watch, ordered to kill Chambers if it appeared he was being rescued.

  Rourke flattened himself below the top stairs, watching from the floor level as Natalie walked down the hallway and turned the corner. Rourke saw no one, heard nothing, pushed himself up and started across the hall, along the near wall, waiting at the corner, listening to the sounds of Natalie's shoes down the corridor. There was—again—a conversa­tion in Russian. He could make out enough to realize she was having some difficulty convincing the guards she should be allowed access. Finally, he heard her say, "Would you care for me to leave, then come back with Comrade Major Karamatsov? Must he inform you personally that I am to see the prisoner to secure an important item of information— immediately? Well—what is it?" and Rourke could hear the sound of her footsteps coming back along the hall toward him, then the heavier sound of one of the soldier's boots against the floor, the man's gruff-sounding voice, the grammar so bad even Rourke could recognize it as bad, saying, "Wait, Comrade Captain Tiemerovna—you may of course see the prisoner, Chambers. We were only trying to do—"

  "I know—and you should be commended for it— but there is no time. Hurry," and he could hear footsteps going away from him, "Hurry, there is no time—open the door!" Rourke heard the door open, then turned into the hallway and started for the two soldiers in a dead run, hoping to get the drop on the two men. Halfway down the length of the hall, he knew it was
no good. One of the guards was already turning toward him. Rourke's finger edged inside the trigger guard of the AK-47 and squeezed, his first three-shot burst cutting into the nearer guard. He heard an isolated shot then, heavy-sounding, like a big bore pistol. He dismissed it from his mind, firing another three-round burst into the second guard as the man reached for the alarm buzzer on the door frame. The guard collapsed against the wall, his hand grasping toward the button. Rourke ran up beside him, knocking the hand aside with the butt of the AK, then kicking open the door into Chambers' room.

  Natalie was standing inside. A third Russian guard lay on the floor, dead, a neat hole in the middle of his forehead.

  The graying, tall man Rourke recognized from news footage as Samuel Chambers was staring at Natalie, then turned, looked at Rourke and said, "You the Marines?"

  "No, Mr. President," Rourke said, letting out a long sigh. "Just a talented amateur. Are you all right?"

  "I am for now."

  Rourke turned back into the hallway, snatching up the two AK-47s from the fallen guards and passing one in to Chambers, then giving the second gun, plus the spare AK he already carried, to Natalie. She slung one across her back, checking the magazine on the one in her hands. Rourke looked at her, saying, "I'm sorry—I tried not to have to do that."

  "I know," she said quietly. "Come on—we have to get Paul."

  "Who's this Paul?" Chambers asked.

  Rourke started to answer, but the girl cut him off, saying, "Never mind, Mr. President—once you meet Paul you'll love him."

  Rourke just looked at her, saying, "You and the president get Paul—unless you think you'll need me. I've gotta stop Vladmir—more than ever now since the shooting started. Where's that elevator?"

  "At the end of the corridor along here," she said, "then make a hard right and take it all the way to the end. You'll start seeing the aircraft maintenance area before you get there—but hurry. Every guard will be turned out."

  Rourke stepped back into the hall, snatching two spare magazines from one of the fallen guards, then starting back along the hall toward the far end where Karamatsov's office was. When he was only halfway along the corridor's length, he could hear a siren starting. Three uniformed Russian soldiers suddenly appeared from a doorway, one of them carrying his AK-47 in his right hand, the others with their weapons slung across their backs. Rourke opened up with the AK-47 in his hands, catching the first guard before he even looked up, then firing short bursts into the other two as they made for their weapons.

  Rourke continued down the hallway, reached Karamatsov's door and stepped back from it, firing a three-round burst into the lock and ducking aside as the door swung open. There was a burst of automatic weapons fire from inside the office.

  Rourke flattened himself along the wall, shouting, "I don't want to kill you, Karamatsov, unless I have to—listen to me."

  There was another burst. Rourke stared back down the hallway. In minutes or less, he realized, the halls would be swarming with Soviet soldiers, and all would be lost. Rourke dumped the nearly spent magazine from the AK-47 and slapped in a fresh one, then, extending his right arm on line with the open door into Karamatsov's office, he fired, angling the muzzle up and down, right and left, in short bursts. Then Rourke dove through the doorway, rolling across the carpet. Karamatsov was up, firing from behind the desk, and Rourke loosed a burst just above the desk, as Karamatsov ducked down.

  Rourke was on his feet, running, then he jumped across the desk as Karamatsov raised himself to fire. Rourke's hands reached for the KGB major's throat, his right knee smashing upward into Karamatsov's groin, both men falling to the floor behind the desk. Rourke had a plan now, and his promise to Natalie aside, he couldn't kill Karamatsov—the Russian was the only ticket down the corridor and to the aircraft elevator with Chambers, Rubenstein and the girl.

  Karamatsov wrestled Rourke's hands away from his throat, a small revolver appearing in his right hand. Rourke wheeled, smashing the knife edge of his left hand into the inside of Karamatsov's right wrist, punching the gun out of line with his own body and onto the floor. Rourke crossed his body with his right fist, lacing against Karamatsov's jaw, knocking the Russian back against the wall, then diving to the floor for the revolver. Automatically, as his right hand reached for the gun, Rourke started to roll, a desk chair crashing down onto the floor where his head had been a second earlier. The revolver was in Rourke's right fist now and he extended his arm, his thumb cocking the hammer as his arm straight­ened, the muzzle of the little blue Chief's Special .38 on line with Karamatsov's face. The Russian froze.

  "You so much as blink, you're a dead man," Rourke said, his voice barely audible. He got to his feet and moved toward the Russian, spinning him around against the wall, doing a fast light frisk, keeping the muzzle of the little revolver against Karamatsov's right temple. Rourke glanced over his shoulder. There were four Russian soldiers crowding the doorway. Rourke shouted, "Move and Karamatsov gets it," in Russian, then saying, "I mean it!"

  Rourke punched the muzzle of the revolver against Karamatsov's temple, rasping in English, "Tell them—now!"

  In Russian, the voice edged and trembling with rage, Karamatsov commanded, "Do as this man tells you—that is my order."

  "Wonderful," Rourke whispered to Karamatsov. "Now—tell them to get out of here and clear the corridor. In about two minutes you and I are walking out of here and the first man I see with a gun means you're a dead man—got me?"

  Karamatsov said nothing, then Rourke pushed the muzzle of the revolver harder against the KGB man's head, repeating, "Got me?"

  "Yes—yes—I understand." Then, in Russian, Karamatsov repeated Rourke's instructions. One of the soldiers started to say something and Rourke increased the pressure of the little Smith & Wesson's muzzle against Karamatsov's temple, and Karamatsov shouted something Rourke didn't quite understand, but the soldier fell silent and all four men left.

  "You're being real good, Vladmir—I'm proud of you," Rourke said softly, the gun still at the Russian's head. "Now—where are my guns—be quick about it!"

  "In the closet," Karamatsov said.

  "Fine, let's go get them." Rourke walked Karamat­sov toward the closet, never moving the revolver's muzzle from the man's head. Karamatsov opened the closet and Rourke had him reach down the twin .45s, the Python and the two-inch Lawman from the closet shelf, then had him take the CAR-15 and the Steyr from the corner of the closet. "Where's the bag with the magazines and ammo?"

  "I don't know—I think with your motorcycles."

  "Good," Rourke almost whispered. "Now, on your knees, and real careful, check out each one of those pistols and the CAR-15 so I can see they're loaded—hurry it up!"

  As Karamatsov knelt and one by one inspected the weapons, slowly so Rourke could see that they were loaded, Rourke slipped the shoulder holster in place, switching the Chief's Special at Karamatsov's temple from one hand to the other as he secured the stainless Detonics pistols under his arms, then got Karamatsov up off the floor.

  "Now—hand me that belt with the Python on it," Rourke said. Rourke slung the belt on his left shoulder, moving the muzzle of the Metalifed six-inch .357 to Karamatsov's head and tossing the little Chief's Special into his hip pocket. Rourke slung the CAR-15 to his right shoulder—he'd had Karamatsov chamber a round—then flicked off the safety. He slipped the two-inch Lawman into his belt.

  "Forgot my knife—where is it?" Rourke asked.

  "In my desk." Karamatsov said.

  "Let's go get it—and my wallet and lighter, hmm?"

  Never moving the muzzle of the Python from Karamatsov's head, Rourke walked slowly beside the Russian to the desk. The Russian started to open the top drawer and Rourke pushed him away, then opened the drawer himself. There was his wallet, and the black chrome Sting IA and his Zippo—and a Pachmayr-gripped Model 59 Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic. "I would have killed you, Vladmir. Hey—what do people call you for short—Vladey? I like that—I'll call you Vladey," Rourk
e said, smiling. "Now Vladey, we're gonna walk down that hallway, you're gonna carry my Steyr in that nice padded rifle case—be real careful with it. Fantastic gun—come up my neck of the woods sometime and I'll show it to you. Great shooter. Now, you carry it, walk real slow and don't try to get so you can't feel this—" and Rourke gestured with the muzzle of the Metalifed Python—"against your head. 'Cause if you stop feeling it there, I'll pull the trigger." Rourke thumb-cocked the hammer on the Python, his first finger against the grooved trigger. "All right—let's go."

  Karamatsov didn't move, saying, "Kill me now."

  Natalie was blown, she would be fingered for helping him escape, Rourke knew that, and he said, "I promised your wife I wouldn't unless I had to— your choice. You want to be a dead hero, or you want to live again to fight another day—which is it?"

  The Russian started walking toward his office door. Rourke switched the Python into his left hand, his right fist wrapped around the pistol grip of the CAR-15, his finger against the trigger. They entered the corridor and Rourke spotted at least a dozen Russian soldiers halfway along its length. "Shout to them," Rourke whispered.

  In Russian, Karamatsov almost screamed, "I gave an order—it is to be obeyed—let us pass and stay out of sight. That is my order!"

  The soldiers, some slowly, vanished from the corridor. Rourke started walking faster, saying to the KGB man, "Let's pick up the pace a little—I'm runnin' a little late. Where's the radio room?" Karamatsov said nothing for a moment, then Rourke repeated the question. "Where's the radio room, Vladmir? Hmm?" and Rourke punched the muzzle of the Python harder against the back of Karamatsov's head.

  "By the aircraft maintenance section—at the far end of the corridor and to the right. But you'll never make it."

  Rourke pushed a little harder with the muzzle of the Python, "You better hope I do, pal—it's us, remember. I don't make it, you don't make it. Move."

  Rourke started walking faster, Karamatsov just ahead of him. They were halfway down the corridor, and ahead of him, Rourke could see more of the Russian soldiers, and as he started to say something to Karamatsov, the Russian shouted, "Get away from here! That is an order!"