by Jerry Ahern
He kept going, both pistols emptied—he let them fall from his hands—he would not need them in an anony-mous mass grave with his comrades. He drew the Smith Mini Gun in the shoulder holster under his tunic, firing, killing, another of his men down, a scream issuing from his throat,
“Long live the—” But he died before the word came out.
Vladov moved ahead, walking now, his pistol empty— he let it fall. He raised his empty rifle—
no time to load it, closing with the KGB, his bayonet doing its mighty work, hacking, slashing, killing. The rifle fell from his right hand as the fingers there were severed.
His men were dead.
He grabbed his knife with his left hand, unsheathing it, burying it in the chest of an Elite Corps Major—killing him.
He felt the coldness suddenly, not knowing for an in-stant if it were the blood loss, the shock, or the moment before death.
It was the moment before death he realized then, a bay-onet being ripped from his already wounded side as he fell.
But in Vladov’s left hand was the knife. The bayonet stabbed at him again, missing him, Vladov thrusting the knife upward, into the abdomen of his attacker. There was a scream.
The blades of perhaps a dozen bayonets hacked toward him and Vladov shouted the name given his men and him-self. “Fight!” One of the blades was coming at his throat and he didn’t turn his face away from it and ...
Chapter Sixty
Reed fired the last round from his .45 into the face of the KGB Elite Corpsman, shoving the body aside, pushing against the doorway—it didn’t give. But Dressier was beside him, rasping,
“Stay back, sir,” and Dressler’s M-16 emptied into the locking mechanism.
Reed threw his body against the doors, his left shoulder aching him badly, his left arm already drenched with his blood.
The doors gave and Reed half fell through, Dressier be-side him. They threw their bodies against the doors, closing them, the fighting still going on in the corridor outside, less than a half dozen of Reed’s men surviving it.
“Sir, you goin’ up to the particle beam weapons?”
“I’m gonna sabotage the controls. President Chambers told me what to do if I got this far—make the power build up in the system and blow the weapons up — “
“You gonna be needin’ me, Colonel. I’d sorta—well—the men outside there.”
“Gimme your plastique, Sergeant Dressier.”
Dressier reached under his fatigue blouse. “Here, sir—nice and warm. Malleable.”
Reed nodded, noticing for the first time that in the battle to get out of the smaller access corridor, Dressier too had been wounded — his left leg was drenched with blood and there was a wound from the right side of his neck, blood clotting there.
Reed gave his hand to Dressier. “Sergeant, God bless, huh?”
“You, too, sir, if'n you’re plannin’ to blow this door, you’ll never get out.”
“And they’ll never get in, Sarge,” and Reed made himself laugh.
“Be seein’ ya, Colonel.”
“Right—for sure—be seein’ ya,” and Dressier ripped the door open and was gone, Reed hearing the gunfire, then throwing his body against the doors. He dropped to his knees, molding the C-4
against the door frame—he had to cause part of the wall to collapse. This would block the door. A gunshot would be the detonator. He worked quickly—his men would soon be dead and the Elite Corps would be at the door—and at his heels.
Chapter Sixty-one
He had ridden the motorcycle up the ramp onto the small loading dock beside the cryogenics laboratory, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. He stopped the fire en-gine red Ninja, dismounting then, letting down the stand.
An M-16, selector set to full auto, filled each hand.
The truck brakes — he heard them and he glanced back— Natalia had backed the pickup to the dock.
He heard the door slam and looked back again—she was out — his CAR-15 was slung across her back, an M-16 was in each hand as she turned a full three hundred sixty degrees.
“Where are they, John?”
“Inside, maybe,” Rourke told her.
There had been no resistance as they had left the small corridor, no resistance as they had entered the huge concrete box which formed the chamber, the cryogenics lab. It had once been an ordinance lab, dominating the far wall.
“Perhaps they—”
“What?” Rourke asked her.
“All of their forces—perhaps they are committed there with Vladov and against Reed. Perhaps—”
“No, I don’t think so.” She had mounted the ramp lead-ing from the floor level to the loading dock. She stood back to back with him now.
“What do we do?”
“We go inside — what we’re expected to do, I guess.”
Rourke approached the double swinging doors, pad-locked from the outside. He loosed a burst from his M-16, the lock disintegrating. He took a step back, then two steps forward, a roundhouse double Tae Kwan Do kick to the center portion of the two doors, at the joint where they mated, the chain falling free, the doors swinging inward, only one swinging back. There was no gunfire, from inside, from anywhere.
“We’re walking into a trap, John.”
“We don’t have any choice, Natalia.” Rourke shoved the rifle in his right hand through the doorspace — nothing hap-pened.
He followed the muzzle of the rifle inside. “Stay here for a second,” telling Natalia.
The cryogenics laboratory’s lights were lit. There was no one that he could see.
He looked up—the false ceiling was ten feet from the floor—There was no one in the vast laboratory.
“Come inside and watch the doors from here,” Rourke called to Natalia.
Rourke started across the laboratory, both rifles ready in his hands.
The far wall was dominated by rows of shelves, three litre sized bottles there, the apparent color of the bottles a very pale green, like the color of Rhine wine.
“The cryogenic serum,” he said under his breath. His palms sweated. He walked toward it. To his far right, as he scanned the room, were wooden packing crates, some large, the size and shape of coffins. Some smaller, like the size of a bedroom-sized color TV portable. Some of the crates were open, most were not. To his left, running as far as the extent of the laboratory, were ranks of what he judged were cryo-genic chambers—translucent lids, open, some few closed, monitoring equipment rigged to them.
He started toward the cryogenic serum again.
There was a sound from above him—Rourke wheeled— the panel of ceiling overhead had slid open—the muzzles of automatic rifles pointed down at him. “Run for it, Nata-lia!” Rourke stabbed both M-16s upward to fire.
A voice, “Doctor Rourke, a moment, please!”
Rourke looked to his right. Near the cryogenic sleep chambers a man stood, having hidden behind them, Rourke guessed. Two dozen others stood near him, all armed. “You will die, my dear Doctor Rourke, but I first wanted to talk.”
Rourke licked his lips. Natalia stood at the entrance to the laboratory, both M-16s hanging on their slings at her sides. There was something that was not right about her, but guns were pointed at her from the ceiling above and from the area near the cryogenic chambers.
More of the ceiling panels opened, men dropping down from the ceiling now, M-16s pointed toward Rourke and toward her.
“You see, Doctor, however daring your plan, it was doomed to failure,” Rozhdestvenskiy smiled. “I won’t de-grade you both by ordering you to drop your weapons, you would not have time to use them.” Natalia was walking to-ward him, both fists balled at her sides, the KGB Elite Corps personnel falling back from her as though somehow afraid of her.
“And you, my dear Major, what a lovely creature you have always been. And how traitorous.”
“You are the traitor,” Natalia barely whispered. “You, and my husband, he was like you.”
“Oh
h, such a way to talk, Major, about someone who is dead and can no longer champion his good name.”
“His good name—his perversions, his evil, the way that he beat me—his good name indeed.”
“The affairs between a husband and wife,” and he smiled gesturing palms upward and shrugging. “These are not my affair, Major. But without him, there would have been no knowledge of the Eden Project, no knowledge of the cryo-genic serum which allows the cryogenic sleep to save lives rather than take them—without him,” and he gestured ex-pansively around him, “none of this. He was my dear friend—though I am aware of his shortcomings. But no one is perfect. Except perhaps for you and Doctor Rourke. And you shall both soon see what perfection can profit you.”
Slowly, Natalia had been moving her hands to the pistol grips of her rifles. Rourke still held both his M-16s in his fists, but a Shootout would have netted nothing, he real-ized. He waited for Natalia—she had something, he knew that, some play ready.
Her hands were nearly to her rifles.
Rozhdestvenskiy laughed, “Major, hold your rifles if you wish, point them at me even, you will not get off a shot be-fore you are cut down.”
Natalia’s hands closed on the pistol grips. “Thank you for letting me hold my rifles.”
“If you draw comfort from them in these, your last mo-ments alive, feel free, my dear. You see, we anticipated the arrival of yourself and the Doctor.”
“Who?” Rourke asked suddenly.
“Ahh,” Rozhdestvenskiy laughed. “Your American pub-lic television—the British television series—you have a ready wit, Doctor. But I’m afraid neither that nor anything else shall save you and the major from retribution,” and he smiled ingratiatingly, obviously enjoying what he was do-ing.
Rourke shrugged, “All my life, you know, I’ve never re-ally been able to make jokes, to make people laugh, I con-sidered it a character flaw. But just recently, I’ve been doing better.”
“Too bad you won’t have the time to develop the talent, Doctor.”
Rourke shrugged.
Natalia said nothing.
Rozhdestvenskiy continued. “We anticipated your ar-rival, as I indicated. The actual ceiling goes up some twenty feet. The false ceiling was installed for better temperature control. But we installed the ceiling to already existing girders which spanned the laboratory. So it was simple to position some of my men above you.”
“Yes,” Rourke nodded.
Natalia spoke. “You were very kind, Colonel, to let me hold my rifles at the pistol grips. Both rifles have their selec-tors set to full automatic.”
“My dear, it is useless, before you raise them toward me, you’ll be dead.”
“But I don’t have to raise them,” Natalia smiled, her voice like honey. “I anticipated this would be a trap. Do you re-member the C-4 explosives which we have used so effica-ciously against you?”
Rozhdestvenskiy smile started to fade.
“The muzzles of both rifles are packed with one pound apiece. All I have to do is twitch my finger against either trigger and the explosions will destroy the cryogenic serum for you. It is only perhaps fifteen feet away and I doubt the glass in the bottles will withstand the shock.”
“You lie—kill—”
“Try me!” She shrieked the words. No one moved.
“You would not —”
“Why not,” Rourke almost whispered.
“Even if your gunfire should sever my arms from my body, the involuntary nervous responses will cause the fin-gers to twitch against the triggers—your serum, your life—gone.”
“But—but yours, too.”
“We came here for some of the cryogenic chambers and monitoring equipment, and a supply of serum for our-selves. And to destroy your serum. So you’d die when the holocaust comes. We’ll settle for the first two—some of the chambers—we need six, we’ll take six along with the spare parts kits, the monitoring equipment. We’ll take six bottles of the serum.”
“Each recipient needs only a few ccs,” Rozhdestvenskiy began.
“We’ll take six anyway—we’ll leave the rest for you. Com-promise?”
“John!”
“Leave it, Natalia. It’s my plan now.”
Rozhdestvenskiy licked his lips. “You’ll never get out of here alive.”
“You have your boys play cops and robbers with us after we load up—in fact, have them load us up—but they don’t have to check the water and oil. We’re just fine and the truck runs great—and I love the bike—yours?”
“Yes.”
“I leave it for you. Ride around on it for the next five hundred years and have fun. I’ll walk toward the doors — and grabbing me will just make Natalia blow up the serum. I’ll keep an eye on the loading, make sure nobody tampers with the vehicles. And once we’re loaded up, I’ll aim my rifles at the serum until Natalia gets free—wouldn’t want half the bottles shot up, would you?
If we make a play for the rest of the serum, you’ve got nothing to lose by killing us. And why would we risk a gunfight after we have the se-rum and the chambers we need.”
“Then we will meet again in five centuries, Doctor. To re-sume the battle, you fresh from your Retreat in the Georgia mountains if you get there and me fresh from the Womb?”
“If you get there,” Rourke smiled. “And make sure your guys are real careful loading the stuff. We wouldn’t want to waste any of the serum, would we?”
Natalia stood her ground.
Rourke gestured with his M-16s to the KGB men nearest the serum. “Move away, guys. The lady’s gonna stand right there near the serum.” As Natalia moved slowly past him, Rourke winked at her.
Chapter Sixty-two
There had been a gunbattle with the weapons crew — four men. Reed had killed them all. He leaned heavily over the controls panels now — he had been shot three times in the abdomen and was dying.
He worked the controls, knowing just enough Russian and just enough about the mechanics of a laser charged par-ticle beam system to know which control to work, the infor-mation on the weapons system courtesy of Samuel Chambers’ best scientific guesswork. Reed hoped the man had been right.
There was a loud humming noise from the vault behind him, the vault extending for perhaps a quarter mile, mas-sive diameter tubes coiling back and forth. These were used to generate the speed for the particles which formed the beam.
He kept working the controls. There would likely be serv-ice personnel in the charging area itself—they would come to kill him. But he doubted they were armed, only one of the crewmen had been armed, and that only with a pistol.
He set the controls, using his bayonet to pry off the dials without moving the dial stems leading into the control pan-els. He crushed the plastic dials under the heels of his com-bat boots, then left the consoles, the humming a loud whine now.
He went to the entry doors, setting out more of the plas-tique—the last that he had—against the locking mecha-nism. He had destroyed the lock by hammering it out of shape with the butt of the dead Russian’s American pistol. The lock would have to be shot through to enter the control room—and a shot would blow the plastique.
He returned to the control panels, picking up the 1911 Al pistol again, using the butt to hammer out the faces of gauges and digital readout panels—the numbers had been climbing steadily. The gauges were gone.
A voice from behind him—a man. A pipe wrench in both hands like a club. Reed fired into his face with the .45, kill-ing him. Reed picked up the wrench, swinging it against the control panel, shattering the casings—the humming grew steadily louder. The fire control console—he smashed it with the wrench—there would be no way to fire and release the charged particle. Without putting a new control panel into place.
The humming, the whining was a roar now.
He wondered how long until the overloaded system would explode. Perhaps it would rip away the top of the mountain. At least it would destroy the weapons system ut-terly. He had read an intelligence me
mo about particle beam devices—similar to a neutron explosion—perhaps the life in the Womb would be destroyed as well.
He closed his eyes against the pain inside him—his abdo-men, his left arm.
Reed prayed Rourke and Natalia would have the time to carry out their mission, but there was no waiting now.
No time left.
He used the wrench one more time to smash out the glass ahead of and above the control panels, the particle beam weapons stretching skyward. It was nearly dusk he real-ized—the last night?
Awkwardly, blood spurting between his fingers as he held in his intestines, he dragged himself across the control pan-els and through the opening, breaking out the rest of the glass with the slide of his .45.
The rocks below were navigable. Then perhaps a fifty yard walk to the base of the nearest gantry-like structure which housed the particle beam weapon and raised it skyward.
Before he started down from the rocks, he felt under his fatigue blouse, through the blood feeling the plastic bag which covered the flag. There would be bullet holes in it. Blood on it.
But it wouldn’t be the first time. He started down the rocks and toward the gantry.
Chapter Sixty-three
The truck was loaded with six of the U.S.-made cryo-genic chambers which Rourke himself had personally in-spected as best as possible to determine their functional capabilities. Six spare parts kits. Six monitoring equipment kits, six spare parts kits for the monitoring equipment.
Five of the serum bottles, packed in wooden cases were aboard the truckbed, Natalia had let one of the rifles drop to her side and carried the sixth bottle now, Rourke stand-ing in the doorway, both assault rifles aimed across the lab-oratory toward the bottles of cryogenic serum as Natalia walked free.
Rozhdestvenskiy and a bearded man in a lab coat stood far to one side. The KGB Elite Corps flanked her on both sides, their rifles lowered.
