by Jerry Ahern
The MiGs screamed through the air above, machinegun fire chewing chunks out of the road surface as the MiGs at-tacked the U.S. II defensive position. And Chambers real-ized it suddenly—driving in a Volkswagen down an otherwise deserted road toward U.S. II lines they would have had no way of knowing he was the president, no desire to waste a missile to destroy them.
The Volkswagen’s windshield wipers were working furi-ously, but dirt still streaked the glass and the Volkswagen moved ahead — Chambers estimated the speed a little better than seventy miles per hour. Ahead of him, there were explosions, fireballs belching skyward, missile contrails mov-ing from the air to the ground, more missile contrails mov-ing from surface to air. One of the MiGs exploded, then another. At the rear of the U.S. II position, there was a huge explosion—perhaps they had hit an ammo or fuel dump.
“Get us there, son,” Chambers snapped.
And where was Lieutenant Feltcher and the TVM? Had he ever reached the Texas Volunteer Militia at all?
Sam Chambers told himself not to expect a miracle — but he closed his eyes and prayed for one anyway, all the while hearing more explosions, more death.
Chapter Forty-one
“What is happening, Major Revnik?” Rozhdestvenskiy grabbed Revnik by his tunic, twisting him around. At a dis-tance well beyond Revnik and a dozen armed guards there was gunfire—machineguns, assault rifles, occasional pistol shots, from the far end of the Womb near the interior bombproof vault doors.
“A group of men, and one woman, have entered the Womb. They have detonated explosives at the loading dock—many of our men are killed, Comrade Colonel.”
“The men—who are they?”
“I do not know —some of them seemed Russian —some of them were dressed in American uniforms, Comrade Colonel.”
“Comrade Major,” a young corporal interrupted, snap-ping to attention, rising from his position behind the barri-cade of electric golf carts behind which Revnik and his men had taken up their positions.
“I cannot be bothered now,” Revnik snapped.
Rozhdestvenskiy turned to face the corporal. “What is it?”
“Comrade Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy, I recognized the woman from my tour of duty in Chicago, Comrade Colo-nel. It was Comrade Major Tiemerovna.”
“And the man,” Rozhdestvenskiy snapped. “One of the men with her—it would be Rourke.”
“The doctor whom you have sought, Comrade Colonel?” Revnik asked.
“CIA agent, doctor, weapons expert— survivalist— he is all these— and he is here!” And Rozhdestvenskiy hammered the heel of his balled right fist against the wall surface. “Re-vnik, get fifty of our best men, assemble them here. I shall take charge of dispatching this Rourke and the traitorous Major Tiemerovna myself.”
He started back down the corridor, toward his office. He didn’t allow himself to run. It would have looked as though he were panicking, as though he were afraid.
He walked into his outer office, his secretary looking up, smiling, “Comrade Colonel?”
He walked past her, into the inner office. On top of his desk were papers, files, maps, intelligence estimates—none of these would do him any good now. He unlocked the top right hand drawer.
He reached inside, his right fist closing around the butt of his revolver. “Damn you, Rourke!” he rasped.
Chapter Forty-two
Rourke had stuffed all his belongings into the Lowe Al-pine systems pack, all except the scoped CAR-15. And one of the Soviet SF-ers had carried it through when escaping the truck in which he had hidden. The GRU sergeant had carried Natalia’s gear. Rourke fished in the pack now, no time or inclination to change from the borrowed Soviet uni-form, but instead needing the rest of his weapons related gear. The belt and flap holster for the Python, the ammo dumps in place, the big Gerber MkII strapped there. The Milt Sparks Six-Pack with its six additional Detonics maga-zines. The Metalifed Colt Government MkIV Series 70, the Thad Rybka small of the back holster with the two-inch Colt Lawman MkIII, the musette bag which carried extra magazines for the CAR-15 and M-16 and an identical bag carrying extra magazines for the Detonics pistols and for the Colt, these latter working in the Detonics pistols as well.
Rourke stripped away the Soviet uniform tunic.
He slung the musette bags cross body from his shoulders, using the wide belt from his Levis to secure the Rybka hol-ster and the Sparks Six-Pack in position. He secured the gunbelt for the Python as well, finding one of the speed loaders in the musette bag with the pistol magazine. He rammed the Safariland loader against the rear face of the opened cylinder, the ejector star activating the release, the loader dumping into the cylinder—six 158-grain semi-jack-eted soft points.
He holstered the Python. Natalia had stripped away her uniform tunic as well, ripping away the necktie from her shirt, opening her shirt collar. She positioned the Safariland double flap holsters on their belt around her waist, check-ing the twin L-Frame four inchers. She reholstered the Smith revolvers, securing the flaps. From her huge black canvas bag she took the Ken Null SMZ
shoulder rig, slip-ping it on, securing it to her belt on the off gun side. From the floor beside her, she picked up the silencer fitted Walther. She twisted the silencer free of the muzzle. “No need for this now. We can safely assume they know we’re here,” and she dropped the silencer into her purse.
She slung the purse cross body under her right arm, then shifted it across her back.
Vladov’s men who had changed into KGB uniforms stripped them away. Beneath them were their own Special. Forces uniforms, not the fatigues they had worn earlier, but blue parade dress uniforms, medals in place.
Vladov affixed the dark blue beret to his head, at a rakish angle, Rourke noted. “We will likely all die, gentlemen, Ma-jor Tiemerovna. We will die if we must, but we shall carry the pride of our unit to our graves.” Vladov picked up his AKS-74, then looked to his men. “Five of you—you, you, you there—you and you—take up positions on both sides of the RPK and behind it — you,” and he pointed to the fifth man, “will back up the machinegunner. The RPK will be dismounted and you will serve as the ammo bearer.” He turned to Rourke, Rourke realizing Reed was now standing beside him just inside the flange surrounding the interior vault door. “We are ready to proceed.”
“Where?” Reed snapped.
Rourke answered him. “We’ve got two jobs—to knock out the particle beam weapons so they can’t be repaired at all. We’ve got to locate the cryogenics laboratory and de-stroy the cryogenic serum, and if possible sabotage any-thing else along the way—life support systems for the Womb—anything like that.”
“And you are to steal as many of the cryogenic chambers as possible—this is General Varakov’s directive—to save yourself and the major and your family—and perhaps some of the men who fight with Colonel Reed.”
“And the men who fight with you,” Rourke corrected Vladov. “Them as well.”
“What the hell do you mean?” It was Reed, and as if punctuating his remarks, small arms fire began to erupt from the far side of the vaulted stone hall beyond the inte-rior bombproof vault door.
“They prepare to attack, Comrade Captain,” Daszrozinski shouted from beside the M-72
combination where he supervised the temporary defense.
“Very good, Lieutenant,” and Vladov turned to Reed. “It may be possible, Colonel, that some of your men or my men may find sanctuary at Doctor Rourke’s mountain Retreat and survive the holocaust. But I suggest there is little time to argue. And I suggest that it is more likely the case none of us shall leave this place alive.”
The gunfire was increasing in volume.
Reed nodded, “At least I agree with ya on that, Captain. Which way, Rourke?”
“Past their position, to the left—if General Varakov had his information right. A long corridor—it should be a shooting gallery.”
“You’re always so fuckin’ pleasant,” and Reed stomped away, raising his men.
Chapte
r Forty-three
Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy knew the target. Only one person could have set them against him. The person was Varakov. And the target was the cryogenics laboratory. The microphone in his left hand—the hand trembled slightly— he announced over the Womb’s public address system.
“At-tention all personnel. This is Colonel Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy. The Womb is under siege from within. Approximately two dozen American saboteurs and Soviet traitors. They are armed with assault rifles and handguns and possibly with plastic explosives. They are dangerous. Their objective is to reach the cryogenics laboratory and to destroy our very chances of survival. They are to be stomped out like the vermin that they are. They would de-stroy our plans for world order in the future. They are our enemies. All personnel are to be armed—male and female personnel. Ninety rounds of ammunition per weapon. The arsenal rooms are then to be locked and secured and guarded, appropriate officers of the day will take charge. Hunt these traitors and saboteurs, hunt them down, kill them. But if at all possible, two of them are to be brought to me alive. The sole woman, Major Natalia Tiemerovna, the treacherous widow of our late spiritual leader Vladmir Karamatsov, a hero to us all, in whose memory we still serve. A man—American. He is tall, muscular appearing. He reportedly habitually carries two small, stainless steel finish .45 caliber pistols in a double shoulder holster. His name is Dr. John Rourke. He is a terrorist with the Ameri-can Central Intelligence Agency. The person responsible for bringing one or both of these persons to me alive shall be awarded the highest honors and hold great responsibility and influence in the new order that shall be formed after the awakening. This is my word. I shall personally lead a search and destroy unit in pursuit of these enemies. Find them. Stop them. Kill them. Bring Dr. Rourke and Major Tiemerovnato me—alive.”
Rozhdestvenskiy looked at his hand—it had stopped shaking.
He would win—he must.
Chapter Forty-four
The CAR-15 slung across his back, an M-16 in each hand, Rourke sidestepped past the flange of the interior bomb-proof vault door and broke into a dead run, opening fire toward the Soviet KGB position where the corridor began on the far side of the huge vaulted room. The distance to the KGB riflemen was approximately one hundred yards. Spraying both rifles toward them in three round bursts, Rourke skidded on his heels, Natalia and Vladov catching up to him, Reed already running ahead with his own contin-gent and some of the Russians.
Behind them, Daszrozinski and one other man huddled beside the slowly moving sidecar of the M-72 combination, the RPK light machinegun blazing toward the KGB posi-tion as well, Daszrozinski’s AKS-74 assault rifle blazing. Rourke shoved Natalia ahead of him, running again—there was no cover. Ahead, one of the Americans went down — there was no sense stopping to check the body—the back of the head exploded with the hit. Natalia snatched up the dead man’s M-16 as she ran past, a rifle in each hand now, too, firing.
Rourke glanced back. The driver of the motorcycle com-bination was down, slumped across the handlebars. Daszrozinski pushed the dead man—the chest peppered with bullet holes—from the bike saddle, swinging on, driv-ing now. The RPK still fired, but the assault rifle fire from the KGB position was heavy.
Ahead, perhaps twenty-five yards still, was the farthest left corridor. The lead elements of Reed’s men had reached it. An instant later there was covering fire from the corridor mouth.
Rourke had heard what Rozhdestvenskiy had said over the PA system—mentally he had corrected the KGB com-mander. He—Rourke—had been an employee of the CIA, but was no longer. And he knew Rozhdestvenskiy knew that, but it made good copy to his troops. Rourke ran on, the M-16 in his right hand fired out, still pumping the trig-ger of the assault rifle in his left hand as he ran.
It too ran dry. He left both rifles fall to his sides on their black webbed slings. His right hand moved to his trouser band—the Metalifed Colt Government Model. He jacked back the slide, stabbing it toward the KGB position, firing, knowing that at the range it was virtually useless.
The mouth of the corridor was now fifteen yards. He ran, Natalia only a few paces ahead of him—the one article of clothing she had changed was footgear—the uniform boots she had worn with her attempted disguise had been vastly too large for her and stuffed with rags and paper. But she moved fleet footedly now, changed to her own boots.
The M-16 in her left hand was shot out now, but the one in her right still spit fire.
Ten yards, Reed’s men laying down a solid field of fire toward the KGB position, Rourke leaning into the run, his lungs burning with it, the .45 empty in his right fist.
Natalia reached the mouth of the corridor, Rourke skid-ding on his heels behind her—his borrowed uniform boots weren’t the greatest fit either, he realized, his left heel ach-ing. Rourke dropped to his knees, swinging the CAR-15 forward from behind his back, the Colt .45 stabbed into his trouser band, the slide stop downed. He telescoped the stock, pulling free the scope covers, stuffing them into his shirt pocket, putting the CAR-15 to his shoulder, firing. Semi-automatic only, with the Colt three power scope he picked his targets—a KGB lieutenant, a shot into the right side of the forehead; an enlisted man and a shot into the neck as he raised up to shoot; another enlisted man in the right forearm; another man—he couldn’t tell the rank—in the mouth as it opened—it never closed.
Daszrozinski and the M-72 were coming, the running man beside the car—the ammo bearer—jumping to the side of the sidecar now, Daszrozinski picking up speed, the RPK still firing, the gunfire from the KGB position less and less.
But from behind Rourke now, near the far end of the cor-ridor, there was gunfire. Rourke looked back—Vladov and his men had gone ahead and they were meeting resistance.
“Shit,” Rourke snarled. Rourke turned to Reed. “Keep covering Daszrozinski, then catch up to Natalia and me. Keep a small force as rear guard to back us up when those guys behind the electric cars start for the corridor.”
“Hey, who the hell made you the general?”
“You got a better idea?” Rourke smiled.
“Yeah, but I can’t say it in front of Major Tiemerovna. Go on—we’ll cover ya—and I’ll take care of a rear guard—go on.”
Rourke nodded, ramming fresh magazines into both of the M-16s, saving the CAR-15, pushing it back across his back beside his pack. An M-16 in both hands now, rasping to Natalia, “Come on,” he started to run again, the length of the corridor. Ahead, Vladov’s men weren’t falling back, but they were under heavy fire.
It was what he had said it would be—a shooting gallery, Rourke thought.
Chapter Forty-five
Pockets of KGB personnel were everywhere in the space be-yond the end of the corridor. Mezzanines, ranked like vineyard steps, terraced, were ranked one slightly above and rearward of the other at the far side of a vaulted assembly area, office doors to the right, large metal doors, like garage doors to the left.
Rourke estimated the number of guns trained on them and firing as over a hundred and growing.
He flattened himself against the corridor wall, the RPK fir-ing toward the tiered mezzanines, but Rourke realizing it would have little effect—the enemy numbers were just too high.
“Vladov, have your men strip out the five pounds of C-4 each of them has. Who’s got the Dragunov?” And he looked around. The GRU major carried it slung behind his right shoulder.
“Pick your best shooter, give him this. Have the rest of your men break up their plastique bundles into five equal increments, then have ‘em mold them into a ball—as quickly as possible.”
“What are you—” Natalia began, then her eyes lit, their blueness still something Rourke lost himself in as he watched her. “We throw the plastique like grenades, then we shoot into the plastique.”
“You got it,” Rourke nodded. “You use an M-16, I’ll use my CAR-15, and one of Vladov’s men on the Dragunov. Three guys throw, the rest keep us covered and them covered.” Rourke turned to the Russian SF-ers. “Okay, how
many of you guys have heard of the game baseball?”
Natalia laughed ...
Reed had joined them. The pitching roster included three Russians and four Americans now, the rest of the Americans and some of the Russians in the rear guard unit—and already the KGB
personnel from the earlier fight were closing on the mouth of the corridor behind them.
“Once things start to blow,” Rourke cautioned, “we head for that nearest garage door—the major here,” and Rourke gestured to Natalia, “and Captain Vladov will use some of the C-4 to can opener the door for us. Should be more of those electric cars inside—golf carts. That’s all they are. In an en-closed space like this you can’t use more than say a half dozen internal combustion vehicles and those have to be strictly con-trolled for pollutants and lead emissions. Maybe we’ll luck out and there’ll be a regular vehicle or two inside. Whatever, we get a vehicle, we can outdistance these people for a while before they get so organized that we can’t reach the cryogenics lab at all.”
“That’ll be guarded by now, so heavily we’ll need an army to get in,” Dressier groused.
“Well, fine, I’ll worry about that when we get there. And besides, Sergeant,” and Rourke looked at the white-haired man, “we are an army, remember?”
Dressier nodded, laughing. “All right, you men, I want those plastique charges ready on the double.”
They were being piled up like a stack of cannon balls at a monument, out of reach from all but the most bizarre rico-chets from the terraced mezzanines. Rourke had freshly re-loaded the magazine for the CAR-15 while they’d talked from the boxes of loose 5.56mm ammo in his pack. He rammed the fully loaded thirty round stick up the well now. Ready.
