Survivalist - 13 - Pursuit

by Ahern, Jerry

  The rattle of M-16s, the heavier, flatter sounds of the Soviet assault rifles, more gunfire from M-16s. An explosion — Natalia too had some of the grenades.

  Rourke kept running, narrowing the distance to the helicopters by another hundred yards, the camp now filling with men with assault rifles, shouts, the angry screeching of the claxon from the electronic alarms. To his right —a hut door opening, gunfire coming toward him, Rourke feeling impact, but no pain, falling, hitting the snow, his pack. He realized they had hit his backpack.

  It was a good pack.

  On his side, he stabbed the M-16 in his right hand toward the hut, firing, then to his knees, both M-16s spitting fire, Paul Rubenstein crouched beside him, firing an M-16 as well.

  To his feet —Rourke started running again, firing out both assault rifles, letting them fall to his sides on

  their slings. He tugged open the velcro closures on the storm flap of his coat, then worked the zipper half down, reaching beneath the jacket —the Detonics Scoremasters — he jacked back the hammers, firing.

  One gun to his right, one to his left, wingshooting them. A man down on his right, another on his left. The high crackling burp sounds of three round bursts from Paul’s Schmiesser.

  Another hundred yards gone.

  One Scoremaster empty —two more of the Soviet soldiers dead.

  Another grenade on the far side of the camp.

  Rourke rammed the spent Scoremaster, the slide still locked open, into his waistband beneath his jacket. He emptied the second pistol, doing the same with it, grabbing up one of the M-16s and a spare magazine, buttoning out the spent magazine, letting it drop to the snow as he ran. Another fifty yards gone.

  He rammed the fresh magazine up the well, swinging the M-16 right to left, spraying, men going down, left to right, right to left. Another fifty yards gone, the M-16 empty.

  A knot of Russian soldiers from a hut to his left.

  Paul’s Schmiesser was firing, then stopped.

  Rourke glanced back —the younger man was ramming a fresh magazine home, running still.

  The Russian soldiers from the hut to his left were closing fast. Rourke reached into the musette bag, grasping another of the grenades, wrenching out the pin —he counted to five, letting go, lobbing the grenade underhand toward the center of the running men, the handle popping clear, arcing to the right, the grenade vanished in their midst.

  The explosion came, flames lighting the gray sky for an instant, screams, a running man, his body a living torch.

  John Rourke had a fresh magazine into both M-16s now. Firing them in tandem, a three-round burst from each into the burning dying man’s center of mass.

  Two hundred yards to go.

  More gunfire and two more explosions from the far side of the camp.The heavy thundering of Michael’s .44 Magnum revolvers.

  Rourke kept running, Paul’s Schmiesser firing again from behind him.

  Men to the right —six of them; three kneeling, three standing, their weapons shouldered for aimed fire. Rourke hopped left, skidding to his left knee, his right leg outstretched, shouting, “Paul! Down!”

  At the far right edge of Rourke’s peripheral vision Paul Rubenstein hit the snow, Rourke opening fire with both M-16s simultaneously now, two men down, a third, then a fourth, the M-16s empty, Paul’s subgun chattering, a fifth man down as Rourke dropped both empty assault rifles on their slings at his sides.

  He reached to his gunbelt over the waist of his parka, snatching out the six-inch Metalifed and Mag-na-Ported Colt Python. He double-actioned it at full extension of his right arm, double-actioning it again — the sixth man was down.

  Rourke was up, running, Paul beside him. A man running from a hut at their left, a Soviet assault rifle spraying into the snow —Rourke snapped off a double tap from the Python, impacting the man —at center of mass, judging from the way the body took the hits, twisting, jerking, spinning, the assault rifle firing out as the body lurched into the snow.

  Rourke emptied the Python into a man coming up at their left, the man’s momentum carrying the body toward them, a bayonet fitted beneath the muzzle. Rourke sidestepped, smashing the long barrel of the Colt six-inch across the back of the man’s head above

  the left ear like a piece of pipe in a street brawl, the body going down, Rourke vaulting over it, nearly losing his balance with the snowshoes, running on.

  He rammed the empty Python into the flap holster at his side, grabbing a grenade, pulling the pin, looking for a target —eight or nine men —he didn’t have time to count — running from a larger hut, firing. He lobbed the grenade toward them, the men dispersing, Rourke loading fresh sticks in the M-16s, spraying them now toward the running men, the grenade exploding, chunks of arms and legs, burning, flying skyward.

  A hundred yards now to the nearest of the choppers, men coming from beside the choppers, firing, Rourke shouting to Paul —“Come on! Don’t stop or we’re done!”

  Tm with ya —God help us!”

  Rourke started firing, firing, gunfire impacting the snow around him, a burst clipping off part of one snowshoe as he fell forward, rolled, loosed one of the M-16s, and released the binding. He hit the binding for the second snowshoe, rolling to his knees, firing out both M-16s, Paul running past him now, the loping, gliding run of the snowshoes almost ludicrous-seeming.

  To his feet, Rourke dropping both M-16s. He ran, throwing himself into the run, feeling pounds lighter and years younger without the awkward snowshoes, skidding, sliding, running. No time to reload the M-16s, he reached under his coat, first his right hand then his left, grabbing for the butts of the twin stainless Detonics mini-guns in the double Alessi shoulder rig. He ripped each gun free of the leather, thumbing back the hammers, firing, one Soviet soldier down, another down. The nearest helicopter was fifty yards off now.

  Paul had fired out the Schmiesser, his M-16 in both hands firing as he ran.

  Twenty-five yards, Rourke closing with one of the Soviet soldiers now, firing point-blank into the man’s face, shoving the body aside, a man with an assault rifle turning on him, Rourke emptying both pistols into the man’s chest, the body flopping back with the multiple impacts.

  Rourke wheeled left —a Soviet soldier, making to fire —Rourke hurtled himself toward the man, the force of John Rourke’s body shoving the assault rifle aside, Rourke punching both fists against the man’s face and head, the fists still closed on the butts of the little Detonics pistols, bloody welts opening on the man’s face, the eyes glazing as the body fell back.

  Rourke was to his knees now, stabbing the empty and bloodied Detonics .45s into his parka pockets, grasping the dead man’s Soviet assault rifle, turning it toward the troops nearest him, firing, hosing the weapon across their bodies until the weapon was silent. To his feet —he could see Paul, locked in combat with a single man —there was no time. Rourke used the Gerber — hacked through one tie-down, circling the chopper, cutting the other three. Rourke ran toward the chopper door, thrusting his arms outward, reaching, grasping at the doorframe and handle, sliding the door open, throwing himself inside.

  He looked up and left, toward the forward section of the fuselage — a bayonet was coming toward his face.

  Rourke rolled right, reaching to his belt for the big Gerber, the bayonet thrusting toward him again as he backed against the fuselage bulkhead, the Gerber flying from Rourke’s right hand. Rourke’s left foot snapped up and out, into the crotch of the Soviet trooper, Rourke’s right hand reaching under his coat — the little A. G. Russell Sting IA Black Chrome. He had it, the Soviet trooper hacking with the bayonet now, Rourke ducking beneath it, his right arm snapping

  forward in a lunge for the chest, the litde Sting IA biting through fabric, into flesh, Rourke throwing himself down, releasing the knife, on his right side now, his left leg sweeping out and back.

  Rourke rolled away, the Soviet soldier crashing forward, his body slamming down over the knife in his chest.

  Rourke was up —ti
me to retrieve both knives later.

  Rourke ducked, running forward, throwing himself into the pilot’s seat, starting to flick switches, his eyes scanning control panels—already the engines were warm, oil temperature and pressure up. It would be seconds before he could start the rotors turning.

  Gunfire near the door—he looked back, powerless to do anything if it wasn’t Paul —it was Paul, into the doorway, firing, his Schmiesser in his right fist, one of the Soviet assault rifles in his left.

  “Haven’t had this much fun since I can’t remember when,” Paul shouted.

  Rourke grinned, his eyes going back to the panels — he pulled down his snow goggles, the goggles steaming inside the chopper.

  He hit the main rotor control, hearing the reassuring whine, feeling the tremor of movement as the rotor started to turn.

  He found his litde Detonics pistols, reloading with fresh magazines from the musette bags, keeping the Sparks Six-Pack for emergency loads.

  He dropped the little pistols back in his pockets, reloading the Scoremasters now, shoving them back into his belt.

  He started the tail rotor.

  More gunfire from behind him. “Hurry it up, John!” “How’s Natalia and Michael?” “All right, I think—I can see Natalia at the controls of one of the machines on the far side —can’t see

  Michael, but I can see men going down as they’re charging the helicopter. Must be Michael!”

  “Hang on —strap in! We’re goin’ up!”

  Rourke hit the throttle, the helicopter slipping, rising, Rourke slipping it right, across the field of choppers beneath them, setting the machine guns on manual, punching up the targeting screen.

  The burping of Paul’s subgun.

  The helicopter rising to his left —“That Natalia and Michael?”

  “Yeah — gotta be — hey — lots of guys running from a hut to port.” “Hang on!”

  Rourke let the Soviet gunship spin on its axis one hundred eighty degrees to port, the targeting screen a disjointed blur, then the bulls-eye settling. Rourke shifted it over the pack of fifteen or so men running for the helicopters. He worked the fire control, opening up, furrows cutting into the snow, advancing toward them, impacting their bodies, the bodies lurching right and left, falling.

  Paul Rubenstein’s voice. “This is Rubenstein. Rubenstein to Hartman! Attack! Attack! Acknowledge. Over!”

  There was a crackle of static, then Hartman’s voice. “This is Hartman — message understood. Will comply. Hartman out!”

  Natalia’s gunship was fully airborne now, a missile launching from the starboard rack, then from the port-side rack, one of the Soviet helicopters gone, one of the huts bursting into flames.

  . More helicopters were starting off the ground now. Two. Three. Four —Rourke switched to missiles, dismissing the machines going airborne for a moment, targeting the last of the machines on the ground, activating the fire control, the helicopter jerking a little

  as his eyes followed the contrail of the missile from the port-side rack — the helicopter was there on the ground one instant, then engulfed in a ball of flame and smoke the next.

  Rourke glanced through the chin bubble — one of the Soviet helicopters coming up, dead for them.

  Rourke banked the machine hard starboard, arcing away from it, another of the gunships closing with him, ground fire impacting the helicopter’s undercarriage, pinging off the armor.

  Assault rifle fire from the rear of the fuselage, and Paul’s M-16 answering it.

  Rourke came out of the starboard bank, banking now to port, his stomach lurching with it as he scanned for a target, settling his missile-target grid, punching fire control — one of the Soviet gunships blew out of the gray sky, debris, burning, raining down toward the ground as Rourke banked to starboard, the bubble scorching around him, Paul shouting, “Shit, that was close!”

  “Only counts in horseshoes — stay back —we might do that again. Never know.” Gunfire —it chiseled across the port side of the chin bubble, then laced upward, Rourke banking the machine away from it.

  The contrail of a missile, right past him, the missile spinning off, exploding in the distance.Machine-gun fire. Rourke switched to machine guns, climbing, the heavy machine-gun fire impacting the helicopter’s tail section, Rourke starting to lose control of the tail rotor. “Shit,” he snarled, changing rotor pitch and starting down, nosediving toward the gunship that had hit him.

  His machine gun —Rourke settled the grid, the enemy gunship taking evasive action.

  Rourke punched up missiles, firing —one port, one starboard, flanking the enemy gunship on either side — the evasive action ceasing as Rourke hit the fire control

  on his machine guns, aiming for the center of the bubble, sweeping up and across the machine’s dorsal side, Rourke changing pitch, banking slightly to starboard, crossing over the enemy gunship, firing into the main rotor now, the machine exploding beneath him.

  He could see Natalia’s machine — he had memorized the fuselage number, the only way to identify it.

  She was firing missiles into the huts beneath them now.

  In the distance, coming over the cone of Mt. Hekla, the black wasp shapes of the German helicopters. He could hear Hartman’s voice breaking the static from Paul’s radio. “We have visual contact and are closing. Give your fuselage numbers.”

  “Damn,” Rourke hissed. “Paul —read ‘em Natalia’s numbers — quick.”

  He could hear Paul, giving the numbers. Then Hartman’s voice. “Herr Doctor Rourke’s numbers?”

  “What’s our number, John?”

  “I don’t know — tell him to count to five and when he does, I’ll fire a missile due south.”

  Paul repeated as Rourke started climbing, hitting his missile control, the tail rotor still making control difficult. He could hear Hartman’s voice now. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five.”

  “Paul —tell him two missiles, in case we were intercepted. Now!”

  Rourke fired one port and one starboard off his racks, due south, Paul’s voice as the chopper shuddered. “Make it two missiles, Captain.”

  “We have you, Herr Rubenstein — stay back now!”

  The German choppers were closing.

  Rourke swung his own machine one hundred eighty degrees and fired his machine guns toward the huts, starting a strafing run.

  One of the Soviet choppers was getting away and

  Rourke changed direction, starting to pursue.

  “Hey—John! I smell smoke —holy shit!”

  It was the tail rotor —Rourke could see it on the emergency controls — they were on fire.

  “Hang on —going down!” Rourke glanced once more toward the fleeing chopper, ^He could feel it inside him —it wasn’t Karamatsov.

  That was still to come.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  When compared side by side in battle, the Soviet machines had armor inferior to that of their German counterparts, and the avionics were not as good either. The Soviet helicopters had been designed, it seemed, with total uniformity in mind, the German machines designed to allow the individual pilot to excel.

  The Soviet chopper was burning a few hundred yards behind them, as Paul Rubenstein and John Rourke moved about the abandoned encampment, Rourke recovering his knives as they left the machine. The destruction was almost total and Rourke doubted any useful intelligence data could be gleaned from here. Two German helicopters had gone off in pursuit of the Soviet chopper that had fled, but Rourke doubted they would catch it. The typical modern Soviet command policy, he had learned since the return of the Eden Project, was to plan for command survival at the expense of screening actions that expended the lives of subordinates unnecessarily.

  It had been that case here.

  One of the German helicopters was starting to take off, Hartman running across the snow toward them, slipping, catching himself, running, waving his hands toward them.

  Rourke looked at Rubenstein — “Come on —I think
something’s up,” and Rourke broke into a skidding dead run to link with Hartman, Paul Rubenstein

  beside him.

  “Herr Doctor,” Hartmann was shouting. “Herr Doctor!”

  Hartman stopped, Rourke and Rubenstein meeting him midway across the gutted base camp site. “A team — a team of Soviet commandos — they have penetrated the presidential residence, using hostages to force their entry.”

  “Hostages-“

  “Your daughter.Your wife. Your son’s wife. One of the police —Rolvaag —”

  John Rourke started to run, toward the nearest of the German machines —overhead, he could see Natalia’s Soviet aircraft. Michael was aboard it still. It was speeding toward the volcano… .

  Annie Rourke sat with her hands in her lap, watching the Russian officer as he paced. His men were in positions at each of the library windows, thus dominating one half of the lower floor of the presidential palace. She knew enough about tactics that the position was indefensible, except for the fact that they held hostages. Her father’s library had held considerable data about the operation procedures of such groups as the British Special Air Service, the Navy SEAL Teams, and the like. If there had not been hostages and a prolonged shootout were to be avoided, a team of men could simply have come through the ceiling from the floor above them, timed with an assault through the library doors. Gas, perhaps, if such things as sound and light grenades still existed, these too.

  But the hostage situation was the problem —in a strange way, she was almost glad she was on the inside as a hostage rather than on the outside as someone trying to solve the tactical problem. It seemed insolu

  ble. She had considered the fact that she might well die this time.

  Her head still hurt — a rifle butt against her neck, she supposed. Considering that, she also supposed she was lucky to be alive. For the moment.

  The Soviet officer spoke English, oddly accented but sufficiently fluent. He had been polite enough.

  He had told them there was no reason for the four women to be forced to be uncomfortable — Madame Jokli had ordered him from her house. He had asked to be forgiven for the inconvenience caused her.