by Ahern, Jerry
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Title : #13 : PURSUIT
Series : Survivalist
Author(s) : Jerry Ahern
Location : Gillian Archives
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Chapter One
The bullet crease along the left side of his ribcage was the sort of thing that would, literally, only hurt when he laughed. But John Rourke worried little over the potential for pain —for there was nothing to laugh about. Nor would there soon be. As soon as Colonel Wolfgang Mann’s forces —the last of the new SS holding out in isolated, futile pockets of resistance — had consolidated their positions, Mann’s replacement crew for the Complex’s electronic defenses and countermea-sures had discovered that a substantial force was moving on the Complex, by land and air. Mann, his broken foot being set but without painkiller, had simply said, “Soviet.”
Natalia had whispered, “Vladmir.”
Sarah had only sighed.
John Rourke had murmured, “Shit.”
Kurinami had gone for Elaine Halversen, retrieving Sarah, Helene Sturm, her three young sons, and her newborn infant daughters.
Rourke had changed out of the black SS BDUs, into his Levis and his blue shirt, into his own combat boots as well. He had been sitting with a second cup of coffee, the first drunk while the radio communications link between Helmut Sturm and Colonel Mann had been established. With Sturm suiciding after the real
ization that his wife and children had nearly died at the hands of the Nazi regime he had sworn to serve, a junior officer had been given charge of the unit by Colonel Mann and they had been directed to join Dr. Munchen and the handful of German troops assisting Eden Project Base, to secure the site in the event of further Soviet attack.
While drinking the second cup of coffee, Rourke had been reloading the magazines for his pistols, checking his assault rifles, touching up the edge on his Gerber fighting knife. When the news had come of the impending Soviet attack under the leadership of Vladmir Karamatsov, Rourke had silently finished his coffee, finished the reloading of his magazines, holstered those pistols he had holsters for, sheathed his knife.
When Captain Hartman had made the announcement, Natalia had quietly asked where her things were. Frau Mann, who had joined them in the reception area near the communications center, had gone with her, Sarah joining them as had Elaine Halversen. Only Kurinami had sat with Rourke. When Rourke stood, Akiro Kurinami stood, his voice low as he asked, “Do we fight, John?”
“Yes,” Rourke had told the Japanese naval lieutenant, then started from the communications center. It hadn’t taken long to find Colonel Mann, on crutches, his officers surrounding him, in the Complex street outside the communications center. Mann had seen Rourke, signaling to him and Kurinami, who had walked toward the knot of officers, the officers parting like a wave to give Rourke and the young Japanese access to Mann. “Colonel,” Rourke almost whispered.
“You have fought this man before. Do you have any suggestions?”
“He might be the devil,” Rourke said slowly. “But he’s flesh and blood. He wants to live. He’s committed
more to himself than to his cause —but they may be one and the same. If we can show him hell be in personal danger, he’ll take a considerable portion of his force with him, leave a rear guard, and flee to fight another day.”
“A lightning commando strike to the heart of his forces, then.”
“Yes,” Rourke nodded slowly.
“Perhaps more easily said than done, Dr. Rourke. A third of the personnel available to defend the Complex were either loyal to the Leader and are since dead, or wounded or under guard. Or fighting for freedom. But a full third of the potential force here is unable to fight. Considerable equipment has been damaged.”
Rourke took one of the thin, dark tobacco cigars from the inside breast pocket of the brown bomber jacket. “Give me a few men and some equipment. I’ll lead a raid into Karamatsov’s field HQ_ if we can pinpoint it. At the same time I strike, cut a wedge in his front lines with the biggest counterattack force you can muster without leaving the Complex defenseless. Make him think we’re stronger than we are. Put him in fear of his life.”
And Rourke heard the voice behind him. “I’m going with you.” It was Natalia.
Rourke looked away from Mann, toward Natalia. She stood silhouetted against the street, the street a bustle of military activity, armed men running, assault rifles at high port, military vehicles moving up toward the Complex’s main entrance. “You and Sarah and Elaine —the three of you can stay here, help with the defense of the Complex. I’ll take Akiro if he wants to come.”
“I will come,” Kurinami said quickly, enthusiastically.
“I will come,” Natalia whispered, just as firmly, but
her voice flat, lifeless-sounding. “I know my husband, how he thinks, better than anyone. If we each go, we can split your penetration team into two elements perhaps twice the chance of success of catching Vladmir by surprise.” Her hands rested on the flaps of her holsters. She had changed into her usual fighting gear —a black jumpsuit that looked sensual on her despite its utility; nearly-knee-high black low-heeled boots; her black canvas bag, which converted from purse to daypack, hanging suspended from her left shoulder; an M-16 slung cross-body, muzzle down along her back, its muzzle and flash suppressor just barely visible from where he watched her; the silenced American Walther PPK/S in the shoulder holster under her left arm, inverted, the silencer tube muzzle up. Her almost-black hair rested against her shoulders and she tossed her head, a stray lock of the hair falling across her forehead, into her eyes, the surrealistic blue of her eyes hard somehow, set. “All right,” he told her.
The minitanks of the Germans reminded Rourke of stories heard of Rommel utilizing cardboard tanks placed over Volkswagens to make his Allied enemies assume the Desert Fox had greater reserves of armor than he actually possessed. The minitanks were little larger than Volkswagens, one-man units, the weapons systems operated electronically by the driver. Aside from the integrity of the armor which was obvious, they were little more than one-man wheeled body armor.
Captain Hartman had assigned a Sergeant Hofsteader to give both Rourke and Natalia and Kurinami a short course. “Herr Doctor, Fraulein Major, Herr Lieutenant. To fully utilize the KP6 one must spend
several weeks in training, utilizing simulators and then actual field trials. But the KP-6 can be driven from one place to another as simply as an automobile. Utilizing the weapons systems while the vehicle is in motion without upsetting the vehicle itself is the difficult part, as are quick turns and reverses. I am a student of antique armor, Herr Doctor. Just as in your days, when tanks were likely to throw or break a tread and become disabled, the KP-6 is likely to overturn if not handled properly. With an experienced operator at the controls, the vehicles are almost impossible to overturn, even if firing while turning. So —you have been warned of the potential danger,” Hofsteader smiled. “Fraulein Major — perhaps you would climb inside.”
Natalia nodded, Rourke helping her to clamber up the side of the treaded desert-tan minitank. Hofsteader — graying, his face pale complected, his eyes a piercing china blue —climbed the opposite side, opening the hatch cover for her. Natalia twisted around, her legs down the hatch, her body sliding inside, her voice peculiarly echoing. “This is very small, Sergeant.”
“Yes, Fraulein Major —but you will feel adequately comfortable once you have secured yourself into the control seat.”
“Yes — I see what you mean — there’s even decent leg room.”
“The yoke in front of you controls side-to-side motion, as would the steering wheel of a truck. The right foot cont
rols acceleration with the pedal to the far right, braking with the pedal to the center. The third pedal-“
“A clutch?”
Hofsteader laughed aloud. “No, Fraulein Major. The clutch … I have read of these, inspected these in some vehicles preserved for their historic value —but the pedal on the left is the transmission. When you
activate the pedal while the machine is moving forward, it automatically reverses the direction of the four main drive wheels. When you activate the pedal while in reverse, you automatically go forward. When starting the vehicle, the readout on the control panel will indicate what the gear is, forward or reverse.”
Kurinami looked at Hofsteader. “Sergeant — is there no lower gear for more difficult terrain?”
“Herr Lieutenant — such is not needed. Sensors located through the undercarriage of the machine and within the treads themselves constantly monitor the terrain and self-compensate.”
“How can you shift at speed — straight from forward into reverse —without stripping gears?” Rourke inquired.
“Forward drive and reverse are totally separate units. Activating the pedal trips out of one drive into another.”
“You must lay down a lot of rubber,” Rourke smiled.
Hofsteader only smiled, apparently not understanding the term, Rourke thought —but there was no time to elaborate. Hofsteader began explaining the functions of each major readout and button and switch. Cruising speed of the minitank was, translated from kilometers into miles, eighty per hour, top speed on level dry terrain ninety-six miles per hour. Totally amphibious, it could climb dry obstacles with a 70-degree angle from the horizontal. Mounted atop the vehicle was a repeating 40mm grenade launcher with the capability of turreting a full 360 degrees while in firing mode or on search. Mounted on each side of the tank were missile launchers, the missiles targeted through a gunsight targeting computer on the control console behind which Natalia sat. Three missiles on each side. To the front and rear were twin, independently targetable machine guns —about .70 caliber, Rourke judged —giving the driver the capability of
firing in four different directions at once if needed.
He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist — in another ten minutes, the counterattack force would be assembled, his own commando unit assembled. The Russians would strike at any moment as indicated in the last report from the electronic defenses and countermea-sures unit. Hofsteader broke his monology — “Are there any questions? Comments? Gentlemen? Fraulein Ma-jor?”
Kurinami laughed. “If this were five centuries ago, my country could have made it cheaper and with greater fuel economy.”
Rourke realized he had been both right and wrong— right that his left ribcage would only hurt when he laughed and wrong that there would be no reason to laugh. He laughed. His ribcage hurt …
Krakovski sat at the controls of his machine. The Hero Colonel, Karamatsov, was now a marshal. There would be promotions, at least one colonelcy to be had this day, Krakovski told himself. Either Antonovitch, one of the Hero Marshal’s Elite, or himself, from the new generations bred for warfare within the Underground City in the Urals.
Krakovski intended that it should be himself rather than Antonovitch.
He spoke into his headset microphone. “This is Krakovski. At the appointed moment, one thought must be uppermost in your minds, my comrades. We do not fight against these Nazis and their capitalist allies for personal glory, we fight for the security of the Soviet people, for World Communism. No more noble cause exists, and in this cause, no sacrifice is too great. For some of us, this may prove our last moment together. The Nazi stronghold is well fortified. But, it
cannot withstand our combined efforts, the collective will to victory. And victory is the only alternative, comrades.” It was something that if the battle went well would be remembered. “Victory is the only alternative.” If a statue were erected to him, it would be the perfect inscription.
His diary —he would note it there, save it. He began increasing the revolutions of his main rotor, watching the instruments as temperatures rose into the accepted levels. “Victory is the only alternative.” It had a nice sound to it, Major Krakovski thought, rolling it silently on his tongue …
Vladmir Karamatsov looked at his watch. The sun should rise soon, and with the sunrise his forces would attack out of the east, against the Nazi stronghold. He paced away from the hastily erected village of tents that would serve as his temporary headquarters, the sounds of the waiting gunships like the sounds of insects swarming, ready to strike if provoked. The world had provoked this, he thought within himself. The world had provoked its own destruction, in its failure to relent to the inexorable. Good. Evil. The words meant little to him, one man’s good another man’s evil. There was no truth to quest for —truth was subjective, within the mind of the seeker.
He had found his truth — the acquisition of personal power, and a greater truth still —revenge. His loins ached with it. Natalia—he had just begun to punish her and Rourke had taken her from him again. Karamatsov flexed his arm where he had sustained the recent bullet wound. The next time —he would kill Natalia slowly, in inconceivable agony, and whether he killed Rourke by his own hand would then be immaterial—because Rourke loved her, and when she died so
horribly, Rourke’s soul would die.
He stopped at the far perimeter of the clearing in which the tents had been set, the predawn air warm, moist. There was life here —this time, this life which had been snatched from death at Rourke’s hands — but if for some reason there was not total victory, then there would be total destruction.
He had arranged that, would exercise that option if it were the last remaining option.
There had been men throughout history who had striven for the ultimate control, the power of life and death over the world as it was known in their times. And if he, Marshal Vladmir Karamatsov, could not have the power of life, then he would exercise his power of death and it would be the ultimate power, the irresistible power.
Soon it would be sunrise. Soon the battle would start.
Chapter Two
The horizon to the east was a line of luminescent grey as Rourke took Sarah into his arms and held her. A wind —warm, damp — buffeted the helipad complex atop the mountain into which the Complex had been built five centuries ago, the hissing and thwacking of rotor blades cutting the jungle air only heightening the sense of unreality. “We’ll be all right here,” Sarah said into his right ear, Rourke feeling her breath on his skin. “But you —and Natalia and Akiro —be careful. Please. Come back to me, John. I feel something. And I know it’s silly. But I feel something inside of me. Like I felt when Michael was inside me, when I carried Annie. It’s —ahh —”
Rourke held his wife closely. “I feel it too. I’m sorry —about what I did with Michael and Annie, using the cryogenic process to let them grow up. But I did what I thought was best for all of us to survive — them especially.”
“I know that,” she answered, Rourke’s eyes focused in her hair —she still smelled of expensive perfume, just a little, the smell lingering from the masquerade they had carried out in order to rescue Frau Sturm and her children. She had changed clothes — black slacks, a gray sleeveless cotton sweater. “If I am —well, pregnant—I, ahh —I didn’t try to get you to get me
pregnant—just to — well — because of Natalia.”
“I know that,” he told her. “I love you —always have. Maybe we’ll make this work out.” He touched his fingertips to the tip of her chin, raising her face, brushing his lips against hers, then kissing her harder, his arms tight around her. “Be careful yourself,” he told her, then released her, catching up his assault rifle from the pavement, not looking back, breaking into a run for the minitank, clambering aboard, setting the M-16 across the top of the turret, lowering himself feet first into the cockpit of the minitank, reaching up for the rifle. He looked along the field — Kurinami’s minitank, Kurinami closing the hatch. Natalia—she w
as dropping through —shot him a wave. He looked the entire length of the mountaintop field — beside Kurinami’s, Natalia’s, and his own machine, eighteen others, each hitched on a cable lead, the lead running to the fuselage undercarriage of one of the German helicopters. It was a procedure Mann had invented and practiced with his pilots to perfection, Captain Hartman had told Rourke: Air-mobile, rapid-deployment armor to any portion of a battlefield that could be reached by helicopter gunship; the weight of the minitanks, despite the efficacy of their armor, light; the gunships able to travel at combat speeds when necessary, to hover over the battlefield, lower the minitanks into the battlefield and cover the tanks with guns and missiles until the tanks were freed of the hauling harnesses and could defend themselves.
He had been told to watch for signs of nausea, since the tanks would sway badly at times.
He had eaten nothing.
He stared back across the field —Sarah, gray sweater, black slacks, gunbelt at her waist. John Rourke wondered if there would ever be peace. He didn’t wave. He looked. Sarah looked back. He
nodded, tucked down and closed the lid of the tank, adjusting his body mass into the contours of the pilot’s seat, the minitanks not built for someone with his leg length, but making the best of it as he found the harness closures and started to buckle in, his eyes already scanning the control console readouts. But his eyes left the console, glanced to the Rolex Submariner on his left wrist —it was dawn …
Col. Wolfgang Mann stood before the upper battlements of the Complex, staring down across the meticulously manicured lands that surrounded it, lands reclaimed from devastation, replanted to aid nature, now to be fertilized with the blood of men. Warfare had been much different when studied in the abstraction, when practiced in the abstraction that there really was no enemy out there. But it had all become suddenly different.
Young Helmet Sturm had taken his own life because of it. Men and women had died in battle now. The Leader and his faithful SS, many, like the Leader, dead, some at their own hands, others more honorably in combat. And there would be executions, he realized—those among the SS who had caused the innocent murders of others, plotted the death of Dieter Bern and the ensuing purge there would have been.
