by Ahern, Jerry
The voice of Dieter Bern — philosopher, teacher, scientist, and now the new leader—echoed from the loudspeaker system, across the battlements and the airfield they surrounded, down the mountainside, to the ground troops and tanks deployed below. “This night we have won our freedom from tyranny — and so soon our resolve is tested. The fight of good men against evil is, perhaps, never ended. There will be glory, there will be misery, there will be moments filled
with the rapture of courage, moments of unutterable agony. Right. Wrong. They are in the hearts and minds of men, not some abstraction which can be reached for, examined, analyzed. We fight for freedom. Our enemies fight to kill or enslave us. We fight the good fight. That is all that can be asked, and our finest sacrifice. The hopes and aspirations of us all go with you into battle.”
The voice echoed away, ended on the wind.
His foot ached, but the pain was steady since it had been set, no longer all-but-uncontrollable spasms of pain. He withstood it. The radio crackled and he spoke into his headset. “Yes, Captain Hartman.”
“Herr Colonel —the assault force awaits your command.”
Wolfgang Mann closed his eyes. This God some of the Americans had spoken of, that he had read of in banned books — he wondered if this God would take his prayer at face value, if this God indeed existed. “God — bless them,” he murmured.
“Herr Colonel?”
“Hartman —my prayers are with you. Attack.” “Yes, Herr Colonel!”
Wolfgang Mann felt the wind suddenly die …
Through the viewport — with the viewport, Rourke corrected himself, because there was no actual window—the terrain was viewed by means of two 180-degree scanning television-type cameras, monitoring front-or rearview at the flick of a control switch. Rourke scanned forward, punching on the overhead scan now as well —the air seemed alive with fighter aircraft and gunships, the bursts of aerial mortars and the contrails of rockets everywhere. The attack against the Complex had begun when Rourke had expected,
but its pace was quicker than he had imagined it could have been. Fighters screened the gunships that ferried them across the batdefield, but the hull of the minitank rang with the impact of machine gun fire, rocked with the nearby airbursts of the mortars, Rourke clutching the armrests of his seat now, powerless to aid himself. If the gunship that ferried the minitank should take a hit, he would be dead.
The reality of death was something he had faced more times than he could remember or chose to recall —but never a powerless death like this. He thought of Natalia in her minitank, of Kurinami in his. They all shared the same potential fate. And if the gunships reached behind Karamatsov’s lines successfully, the minitanks would only be set into the heart of the battlefield, albeit from the rear.
A rocket detonated nearby, Rourke’s ears ringing with the concussion the blast imparted to his tank, the tank swaying violently on its pendulum chain, Rourke scanning above. The gunship smoked. “Holy shit,” Rourke hissed, locking his fists tighter to the chair arms. He scanned ahead, ground forces, tanks backed by infantry, closing against one another, like some battle of Armageddon. He hit the scan switch, scanning rearward now, the gray sky dark with smoke, images of fighter aircraft dogfighting over the Complex. Sarah, he thought, almost verbalizing the name.
He glanced to the overhead monitor again —smoke had turned to fire, the German gunship’s fuselage tail section licking flames, Rourke inhaling, tensing his neck muscles, his mind racing for alternatives, his eyes scanning the forward monitor again, working the switch to forward view. Soviet infantry was beneath him, but he was behind the line of tanks that spearheaded their advance. He could hear the pilot of the helicopter on his comlink through the headphones.
“Herr Doctor Rourke — my machine — it is going out of control. I am wounded — dying.”
“Get to the ground —I’ll get to you.”
“No —there is a better way. I will hover, release the KP-6, Herr Doctor —I am dying anyway.”
“What do you mean a better way, Lieutenant?” He didn’t even know the boy’s name.
But there was no answer —only static, Rourke feeling it in his stomach as the minitank began to descend. He heard the voice of the young officer again. “On ten, Herr Doctor —I shall release at the count of ten. There will be heavy small-arms fire, but placing you in their midst will preclude use of antitank weapons. Make certain your hatch lock is secure, Herr Doctor.”
Rourke started to speak, but only the static again — he glanced up to the control panel; the hatch lock was secure. He manually confirmed that, reaching up. He checked the controls on the panel, powering the KP-6 up, wasting fuel, but it was synthetic anyway, abundant.
He scanned his rear —the other helicopters were following suit, starting to descend, to place the KP-6 minitanks of Natalia and Akiro Kurinami and the eighteen volunteers from among Wolfgang Mann’s troops into the center of the battlefield. He scanned forward — small-arms fire in heavy concentration, a mortar crew taking position. He had no idea whether the Soviet mortars were powerful enough to stop the minitank and neither did the Germans who had armored the KP-6.
“Ten,” the voice of the young pilot began, a deathly quality to it already. “Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One —luck to you, Herr Doctor!” Rourke felt the sway, the lurch, heard the release of the lock above, the tank dropping slightly as Rourke worked the extreme left pedal, the minitank impacting,
bouncing, jarring, Rourke feeling it in his bones, in his teeth, working the far right pedal, accelerating, cutting the wheel, trying not to cut too sharp —right, aiming the minitank for the mortar emplacement, infantrymen of the KGB force assaulting the minitank, clambering onto it. He hit the control button for external electrical charge, electrifying the skin of the tank, the forward monitor and the overhead monitor showing the lightning-bolt twists of electricity flickering between the minitank’s shell and the men who had clambered over her, the men falling away, clothing and flesh smoking. Rourke hit the power off—he had been told it was a direct drain on the batteries. The mortar emplacement was coming close now, Rourke activating his missile targeting system, locking the right side missile bank onto the mortar plate and the crew surrounding it, hitting the fire switch, the minitank rocking slightly, a thudding sound, then the missile’s contrail appearing in his forward screen. There was a flash of brilliant light, a belching ball of upward-rising smoke and flame, the mortar emplacement gone. Rourke hit for rear scan —he could see the flaming gunship, aiming itself toward the concentration of tanks at the center of the forward battle line. Rourke whispered, “No.”
The helicopter —it was there one instant, the tail section consumed with flame —and then a massive fireball engulfed the helicopter and the four tanks nearest it, secondary explosions now, the ground beneath the minitank rocking with them. And in his ears, he heard Kurimani’s voice, a whisper, “We called them the Divine Wind —it is the same.”
Rourke closed his eyes for an instant, blindly hitting the forward scan, opening his eyes. “Natalia —with me?”
“I’m okay, John.”
“Akiro —all in one piece?” “At least.”
Rourke smiled. “Strike force —sound off!”
Numbers rang in Rourke’s ears: one, two, three, four —through eighteen, all eighteen of the volunteer force on the ground, mobile.
“Akiro —left flank. Natalia — right flank. My men — follow me —remember, save those skin charges. Batteries die, they tell me.”
They were almost all officers who commanded the minitanks, officers and a few senior noncoms, all of them chosen not only for their abilities but for their English, no time for a command in the heat of battle to be lost in translation or to Rourke’s adequate but not perfect German. Kurinami spoke the language not at all. Only Natalia had what Rourke considered perfect fluency, even the perfect accent.
Infantry surrounded them now. Rourke piloted the KP-6 minitank ahead, firing his machin
e guns, spraying into the enemy forces, but holding back with the turret-mounted 40mm grenade launcher —he was saving it for Karamatsov’s headquarters.
“John — aircraft coming in low — fighter.” It was Natalia. “He’s opening fire.”
“Evasive action,” Rourke ordered, cutting the wheel hard right —not too hard he hoped —then back left, zigzagging, hitting to rear scan, the ground behind him furrowing with lines of machine gun fire. The tank rocked as a rocket impacted some fifty yards behind him. Rourke swung the turret rearward 180 degrees, punching the targeting button, the 40mm grenade launcher’s targeting frame appearing on his screen, following, tracking the incoming fighter as it began a second pass. “Stay clear of me,” Rourke hissed into his headset microphone, centering the targeting frame
over the fuselage underbelly — he hit the fire-control button, zigzagging the tank again as the ground behind him began to ripple once more with machine-gun fire, the fighter plane exploding, chunks of fuselage and wing bursting outward, the airspace it had filled a split second before now nothing but flames. The minitank rocked, the shell reverberating with the impacts of debris from the fighter aircraft.
Rourke hit to forward scan, cutting the wheel hard left just in time, avoiding impact with a jeep-like vehicle mounted with a recoilless rifle, working the controls for the turret-mounted grenade launcher, working the target-acquisition frame, settling the frame over the center of the jeep-like gun carrier, hitting fire control —the vehicle vaporizing into a ball of flame, Rourke working the turret full forward now — he would save the rest of the grenades for Karamatsov’s HQ.
He put the machine gun on automatic scatterfire, the machine guns twisting crazily — unpredictably, it seemed as he viewed them — working from front to rear and back to forward, the machine guns covering the area around the KP-6 with a curtain of fire.
More infantry ahead —and spearheading them, a full-sized Soviet tank.
“John —do you see that —on your right?”
“I see it, Akiro —get away from it —we can outma-neuver it.” At least Sergeant Hofsteader had told them that, Rourke recalled, cutting his steering yoke left, the tank bouncing and jarring over the grassy terrain, infantry fleeing before him, the Soviet tank —the size of an Abrams or larger — altering course, coming for him.
Rourke spoke into his headset. “If this guy has our frequency, we’re dead meat… . All right, listen everybody. Even numbers take the tank’s right tread, odd
numbers take the left. Use the turret-mounted grenade launchers. When I count down, acquire, and when I say fire, do it. On my mark—from five —Five! Four! Three!” Rourke setded his own targeting frame at the underbelly side of the left tread. “Two! One! Firel”
The minitanks he could see in the peripheral edges of the forward scan fired, streaks of white smoke propellant converging on the treads of the giant Soviet tank, impacting, smoke and dust momentarily obscuring the tank, then fireballs erupting on either side of it, the machine rocking, seeming for a moment to be airborne, then crashing downward.
The screams in his ears from the strike force —the momentary victory.
“Let’s cut out that infantry,” Rourke rasped, cutting his yoke right, cutting back left, compensating as he felt the machine start to tip. He accelerated out of it, the minitank jumping a large hummock of earth, bouncing, his machine guns scatterfiring, the Soviet infantry falling away.
Tents in the distance.Natalia’s voice through his headset. “John —it must be Vladmir’s HQ.”
Rourke whispered into the microphone. “Let’s get him!” Boosting his acceleration, Rourke armed another missile, setting the targeting frame for the missile in his forward console, settling the bulls-eye over the farthest of the tents, hitting fire control. The minitank rocked, the thudding sound against the skin, the contrail, the impact, a fireball bursting skyward, parts of men and equipment scattered in its wake. Natalia’s team to his right —they were moving out in a flanking maneuver, Rourke speaking into his headset. “Numbers thirteen through eighteen —up the middle —come on. Akiro — your team —”
“Flanking left,” the voice cut back.
Rourke targeted another missile, firing, the bank on
the right side of the tank empty, targeting another missile, firing, two tents going up this time along with a helicopter near them.
He switched to the 40mm grenade launcher mounted on the turret, swinging the turret in a wide arc, acquiring a target — another Soviet chopper. He fired, the chopper vaporizing.
Running men, with infantry guarding their withdrawal, Rourke heading his KP6 straight at them, his forward machine guns now the only ones firing, but scatterfire still, mowing the Soviet soldiers down, then he was targeting another missile beyond them, toward the running men, firing, another helicopter starting airborne, men on the ground near it, all consumed in the fireball.
One missile remained.
To his right — Natalia’s force was engaging another tank. Dead ahead —he could see a knot of infantry running, a helicopter swaying slightly as though about to go airborne instantly. Inside him, he felt it, knew it — “Karamatsov.” He started the KP-6 toward him.
“John —we’re in trouble.” Natalia’s voice. Rourke hit to reverse scan, two of the KP-6s under Natalia’s command smoldering balls of twisted metal, a fireball puffing skyward. The tank. It was firing again, another of the minitanks gone.
“Akiro —cut right —help Natalia.”
“On the way.”
Rourke hit for forward scan, the helicopter nearer now, men running to it as infantrymen fell into prone positions, firing toward him. An RPG-like device at the shoulder of a kneeling man. There was no choice — Rourke swerved to avoid the rocket, the ground beside him shaking, the sound of shrapnel impacting the skin of the minitank. Rourke watched as the fusilier loaded another missile, swinging it to Rourke’s right. Natalia.
Rourke settled his last missile cn the man with the RPG, firing, the man and the men around him gone in a black and orange fireball.
The helicopter —it was starting airborne, men climbing to its skids, Rourke firing the 40mm grenade-launching device on the turret, grenades exploding on both sides of the chopper, the chopper visibly buffeted by the explosions, but still climbing.
Akiro’s voice. “John —this is a different kind of tank —the treads must be armored. We’re not stopping it.”
Rourke whispered, “Later,” but not to Akiro —to the man he knew was inside the fleeing chopper.
He hit for rear scan —the tank was closing on Natalia’s forces, two tanks with her, Akiro’s force coming up on the tank’s right flank. Rourke spoke into his headset. “My team —clean up here. Wipe out the headquarters,” and then hit for forward scan, slowing the KP-6, starting the minitank into a wide arc to his right, recovering the yoke, accelerating —the Soviet tank was firing again, two of Akiro’s force incinerated, a third tank visibly disabled.
Rourke stomped the KP-6’s accelerator. Reaching to his right —the M-16 he had taken with him.
He caught up the assault rifle in his right fist, slamming the butt against the accelerator, wedging the flash-suppressed muzzle against the seat’s right-side armrest —the length was almost tailor-made.
Rourke punched the release for his seat restraint, hitting the hatch control lock on the panel, the sound of the lock popping overhead.
Rourke started up from his seat, reaching to the hatch-lock handle, twisting, glancing to his monitor — the Soviet tank was perhaps two hundred yards away, the KP-6 rocking, bumping toward it at top speed. Rourke pushed up on the hatch, the slipstream tearing
at his face as he pushed his head through, his eyes squinting against the dust carried on the slipstream.
His fists balled as he pushed himself free and rolled, his legs springing him away from the turret, his body impacting the ground hard, rolling, his right shoulder taking it, pain. To his feet. He stumbled, fell to his knees, looked back —fift
y yards until impact. To his feet —Rourke ran, counting it off, seconds to impact. When he hit five, he threw himself down, his arms rising to shield his head and neck, the roar like a hundred thunderclaps now, the ground trembling under him.
He rolled onto his back —a fireball was rising almost lazily, flames consuming both the minitank and the Russian monster. Men were starting to clamber from the hatch of the Soviet tank, but machine-gun fire cut them down.
Rourke stood, both of the Scoremasters from his belt into his fists — but there was no fighting near him now, the sky to the east filled with retreating Soviet air-power.
Chapter Three
He had walked the batdefield, Natalia beside him, the Russian dead vastly outnumbering the German dead. A Russian soldier—a boy —had been crawling toward his weapon, using only his feet, Rourke kicking the assault rifle away, then dropping to his knees beside the boy to see if he could aid him. But the boy was dying, Natalia speaking soothingly to him in Russian.
She had asked him, “Where do you come from, Corporal?”
“The City —the Underground City. Are you the one?”
“The one?”
“Whom the Hero Marshal wants to see dead.” “He is a marshal now — Vladmir? Vladmir Karamatsov?”
The boy had nodded only, coughing, flecks of blood appearing on his chin, Natalia wiping them away —the boy’s hands held in his intestines. Rourke wondered clinically how the boy would have held a gun if he had ever reached it.
“Where is the Underground City?” Rourke asked, the Russian coming to him after long disuse.
The boy either didn’t hear or didn’t want to answer.
“All of us —we trained for this day, when we would defeat our enemies.”
“How many of you are there in the Underground City?” Rourke asked.
