by Jerry Ahern
The air was cold, damp, and foul-smelling from the patches of fog still clinging in the shadows of the trees low along the ground. Rourke walked slightly stooped over, threading his way under low branches around bushes laden with two-inch-long thorns, bright-green-leaved brush swatting at his hands and thighs as he pushed his way past.
Judging he’d gone half the distance, he signaled a stop with his left hand, held a finger to his lips for silence and drooping into a low crouch, moved ahead. After what Rourke judged as another fifty yards, he stopped again, hearing the faint sound of voices. He moved laterally, trying to line up the sound of the voices with the approximate position of the clearing, stopped, hearing the voices more clearly, but still unable to tell the words, then started forward again.
He moved what he judged as slightly more than a hundred yards, stopped, and listened. There were orders being shouted. He thought he faintly recognized Korcinski’s voice. Dropping to the ground, Rourke signaled Rubenstein to do the same. Both men moved ahead on their knees and elbows, crawling over the rough ground, cautious to avoid snapping a dried twig or some other casual noise that might betray them.
Again Rourke signaled a stop, seeing the outline of the upper half of a uniformed man above a low-rising natural hedgerow. Rourke motioned Ruben-stein to stay back, handing him off the CAR-15 and palming out the Sting IA from inside his trousers, then on knees and elbows he inched forward.
Again Rourke stopped, the sentry clearly in view, an AK-47 at high port as the man stared over the hedgerow, Rourke beneath his line of sight. There was no chance of getting around behind the man, Rourke decided, pushing himself up slightly and scanning the woods as best he could for signs of other sentries. He picked one man on the far side of the clearing, opposite this man and turned back to the clearing, so far staying away from Rourke’s own position. Then Rourke spotted a third man, far to his left, standing beside the collection of Soviet vehicles. Korcinski’s staff car was there, Rourke doubted the man had spent the night in the open field in the woods. Perhaps he had returned to preside over the execution. There were more orders barked from the clearing, and now Rourke recognized Korcinski’s voice, in Russian, the colonel ordering the hostages be brought from the trucks where they were being held. Rourke spotted the fourth sentry far to his right by two large tents, these apparently set up to house the men who had guarded the hostages over night.
There was activity in the clearing, men grumbling in Russian as soldiers grumble in any tongue, the sounds of rifle actions being checked. The execution, Rourke realized, was imminent. He looked back to the sentry almost immediately ahead of him, still staring out blankly over the hedgerow.
Rourke edged forward, the Sting clamped in his teeth. It was risky, what he planned, but it was all he could do.
He was less than five feet from the sentry now, slightly to the soldier’s right.
Rourke got his knees up under him in a crouch, then scanning from right to left to see if he were being watched, he pushed himself to his feet, reaching out with his left hand, the arm extended fully, snatching his fist toward the right side of the Russian soldier’s face, his right arm lunging forward like a fencer, the black chrome Sting clenched in his right fist, his thumb braced against the grooved steel handle portion of the knife, the spear point tip of the blade punching in hard in the hollow behind the chin to cut the vocal chords and stifle any cry. The Russian’s eyes were wide with pain and horror as Rourke withdrew the knife, then raked it left to right across the man’s already bleeding throat, catching the soldier as he fell forward toward him, already dead, the look of puzzlement still in the eyes.
Rourke eased the body to the ground, wiping the blood from his hands on the soldier’s uniform shirt.
Rourke dragged the body under a bush, then stripped away the ammo from the man’s belt, and snatched up the AK-47, looking behind him, signaling Rubenstein to come ahead.
Rourke inched into the hedgerow, a full view now of the clearing showed perhaps a dozen Russian soldiers being formed up into a long single rank. The corners of Rourke’s mouth turned down as he squinted at the weapons the men held—the motley collection used by the Resistance people and Reed and his men.
Rourke looked to his left and saw Reed, the corporal, the other two men, Fulsom, and Darren Ball, and the twenty or so others who had survived the previous night’s fiasco being marched from the trucks parked at the far end of the clearing toward the center of the clearing. A tall stand of pines made a salient into the clearing.
The execution, Rourke realized.
Suddenly, Rubenstein was beside him. He started to speak and Rourke held up a finger to his lips, signaling silence and nodding to Paul that he too saw the preparations for the mass murder.
Rourke took back his CAR-15, passed over the spare magazines for the AK-47, then the gun itself to Rubenstein, pointing out to him the safety selector. Busily, Rubenstein stuffed the spare magazines into the belt cinched around his waist, nodding.
Rourke gestured to Rubenstein, then pointed out into the clearing toward where the firing squad was formed. The Resistance people were already straggling toward it. He pointed toward his own mouth and opened it wide as though shouting, pointed to the AK-47 in Rubenstein’s hands, then held his own hands, as if holding some kind of invisible submachine gun, then swept the imaginary weapon from side to side, then pointed back at the ranked firing squad. Rubenstein nodded grimly.
Rourke signaled with his fingers, a walking motion to Rubenstein and then pointed along the tree line. Again, the younger man nodded. Rourke snatched up the CAR-15 and removed the scope covers, then pushed himself up into a crouch and started off to the right, toward the stand of pines serving as the backstop for the firing squad’s bullets.
Rourke reached the trees, flattening himself behind one as best he could, glancing down to his weapon, slowly, as noislessly as possible, telescoping the collapsible stock, entwining his left arm in the sling—a hasty sling—looking right and left, then edging forward.
The Resistance fighters and Reed and his men partially shielded Rourke, he realized, from the view of the firing squad as he raced in a low crouch toward the center of the stand.
Rourke could hear the commands to the firing squad: “Ready!”
Rourke heard the actions of the strange assortment of weapons being worked, through the trees in the clearing beyond he could see the Russian guards who had escorted the hostages drawing back. He could see Korcinski, the greatcoat open, the swagger stick braced in his gloved hands, then slowly raising in his right hand.
“Aim!” another officer’s voice shouted.
Rourke could see the swagger stick at full elevation, watched the muscles on Korcinski’s face tense as Rourke settled the crosshairs beyond the face at the hand holding the swagger stick.
Rourke, on one knee in the densest portion of the stand of pines, shouted, “Reed, Fulsom, Ball—hit the dirt!” He fired, his first slug kicking at the swagger stick in Korcinski’s gloved right hand, Korcinski falling back. Rourke swept the scope to Korcinski’s head, Rubenstein’s gunfire with the AK-47 already mowing into the line of executioners, some of the men running and throwing down the unfamiliar weapons they held, some starting to shoot back.
Rourke fired the CAR-15 again, this time the 5.56mm solid punching in at the peak of Korcinski’s hat, the hat blowing off Korcinski’s head. Rourke shouted, “Next one kills you—call a ceasefire!”
He watched Korcinski’s head through the glass of the scope, bullets whizzing into trees around him, then above the clatter of gunfire Rourke heard Korcinski shout, watching the lips move through the scope; “Cease fire! Immediately! Cease fire!”
The gunfire slowly waned, Rourke, the rifle shouldered, rising to his feet, Korcinski’s head still under his crosshairs.
Rourke shouted, “Reed, you and the rest of the men get your weapons and gear. Disarm the Russians—move it!”
At the back of his mind Rourke realized the
gunfire might bring more of the Soviet troops down on him, or perhaps one of the Russians out there would take it into his head to become a hero and snatch up a gun and start shooting. “Hurry!” Rourke shouted hoarsely, moving slowly through the trees toward Korcinski, the scope never leaving Korcinski’s head. “Korcinski,” Rourke rasped, then in Russian said, “Tell your men that if there are any thoughts of heroics to forget them—you will be the first to die—I promise. A bullet right in the head.”
Korcinski, his jaw dropping, shouted to his men, “Do as he says!”
Rourke stopped walking, ten feet from the Russian, slowly lowering the rifle, collapsing the stock, holding it dead level on Korcinski.
He heard Reed’s voice, “All right—line ‘em all up so we can get out of here.”
“Kill ‘em,” Darren Ball shouted.
Rourke glanced to his left briefly, saw Ball raising an AR-15 toward the face of a Soviet lieutenant.
“Move and you’re dead,” Rourke snapped to Korcinski, then wheeled to his left, snapping off two quick shots with the CAR-15 splintering the black synthetic buttstock of the rifle, Ball spinning toward him.
Rourke shifted the CAR-15 to his left hand, snatching the Metalifed Government Model Colt from the hip holster and jerking back the hammer, the gun aimed at Korcinski’s midsection. Rourke’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men.
“What the hell you do that for?” Ball snapped.
“You were going to execute that man,” Rourke said, his voice low.
“So, what the hell?”
“So,” Rourke answered slowly, “murder isn’t any better if you’re doing it, or they’re doing it. Touch a gun to anyone and I’ll drop you—I swear it.”
“Mr. Good Guy, huh? Bullshit!”
Rourke stared at Ball’s eyes. “You’ve got a pistol in your belt; try using it.”
Ball’s right hand edged half way to his belt line, the shattered buttstock of the rifle in pieces at his feet. “Try using it,” Rourke repeated. If he and Ball were to have it out, Rourke wanted it now.
“No,” Ball rasped. “No, I heard why they let you go, what you did to Karamatsov—no, not now, not ever.”
Rourke turned his attention back toward Korcinski, the Russian, in English, saying, “Strange behavior for Varakov’s private assassin. Karamatsov was—what is the word?—a bastard, I think.”
“More or less,” Rourke commented, his voice low. “You’re no prince yourself, though.”
Then, turning and shouting over his shoulder, Rourke said, “All of you—split up in small groups, take off through the woods. Reed, you and your men stick with me. Fulsom too.” Then turning to Ball, Rourke told the one-legged man, “Darren, steal a vehicle, take about five or six men with you. Torch it under some bridge when you’re ready to get rid of it.”
“’Til we meet again,” the ex-mercenary smiled.
“’Til we meet again,” Rourke echoed, Ball already starting to limp away.
As the Resistance fighters began to disperse, Rourke had Rubenstein take over watching Korcinski, then helped Reed and his men and Fulsom load every Soviet weapon they could find aboard a truck. As they loaded the last machine gun aboard the truck, Rourke turned to Fulsom, “At least you’ve got some of the weapons you needed.”
“Was there a traitor with us?”
“No, higher up I think.” Looking at Reed, Rourke continued, “Captain Reed’s men kept radioing what we were doing—I think it’s somebody back in Texas.”
“No way, Rourke, that’s out of line—I call in directly to command headquarters. Only the top people know—”
“Then it must be one of the top people,” Rourke said matter-of-factly. “There was evidence of that when they so neatly snatched Chambers at the airfield, where he’d landed in Texas.”
“You mean Karamatsov had somebody when he gunned down that pilot?”
“Yeah,” Rourke rasped, “and to nail us last night, Varakov must have him now. There’s one sure way to know—only one.” Rourke turned to Fulsom. “Where’s Jim Colfax supposed to be?”
“Up in the mountains near Helen, Georgia—got a Swiss chalet-like house up there he inherited when his brother died. One of my guys spotted him still at the house two days ago. My man had seen him on TV.”
“Where exactly,” Rourke said.
“I’ll draw you out a map, and thanks, Rourke. We’ll look for your family. How do we contact you?”
“You contact Army Intelligence, I’ll contact them,” Rourke told Fulsom.
“What about the traitor?” Reed asked.
“We’ll know for sure there is one at your headquarters after today. Helen’s about two hours from here. I used to take Sarah and the kids there. Beautiful place. You have your man radio in just like he normally would. Tell them you expect to be up there in three hours. The Russians won’t pass up a chance to get Colfax and us all at the same time so they’ll wait, but we’ll be there an hour earlier.”
“Is that enough time?” Reed asked.
“I’m leaving now with Paul. The bikes can make better time. Have Fulsom give you another map like the one he’s making for me, then you follow in one of the Russian vehicles. Have Fulsom show you some side roads and possible alternates on your own maps. And we’ll rendezvous at Colfax’s place. Leave two of your men some distance off to warn us when the Russians begin to show.”
“Rourke?”
“Yeah?”
“Forget about that fight, huh? I owe you my neck.”
“What fight?” Rourke smiled, turning away and starting back toward Rubenstein, buttonholing Reed’s corporal to keep the drop on Korcinski after Rourke and Rubenstein left.
Chapter 41
Rourke ran through the woods, Paul Rubenstein beside and slightly behind him, both men stopping where they’d left the bikes camouflaged behind brush, stripping the brush away and mounting up.
“We’re going back up into the mountains?”
“Yeah, after the astronaut, Colfax. Should have the Russians right behind us—probably use helicopters to get up there—might be a lot of shooting,” Rourke added, looking at the younger man.
“So, I should be used to it by now?” Rubenstein laughed and Rourke slapped him on the shoulder, then looked at him. “What are you looking at me like that for?”
“You’re a good friend, Paul,” Rourke said quietly, turned away, and mounted his Harley.
It began to mist less than ten minutes into the two-hour ride into the mountains, and soon the mist turned into a driving, road-slicking rain. Rourke, with Rubenstein riding dead even beside him to minimize the spray of the wheels against the highway, was soaked through.
Because of the driving rain, their speed was cut just to keep control, and, as Rourke turned off the highway onto the side road Fulsom had indicated for him, he glanced at his watch. It had taken slightly over two and one-half hours and might well take Reed, unfamiliar with the area, even longer.
Rourke pulled in at the side of the single-lane, black-topped access road, turned to Paul Rubenstein as he pushed his fingers through his soaking wet hair, his eyes half closed against the downpour. “The Colfax place should be at the end of this road, then a driveway. There’s a wooded area behind the house. No suitable spot for the helicopters to land if the Soviets use Air Cavalry, but they might be able to rapel down to the ground. They’re going to want Colfax alive to get the information on the Eden Project—the same as we want. Come on.”
Rubenstein nodded, wet, looking disgusted, his glasses pocketed and his deep set eyes squinted, but unlike Rourke’s not just against the rain. Rubenstein, Rourke knew, needed the glasses to see properly.
Rourke started up the single-lane road, traveling slowly, Rubenstein behind him. The blacktop was slick and the ditches along both sides of the road were running to overflowing in the heavy rain, the water there a washed-out blood red from the clay.
At the end of the road was a graveled driveway and Rourke cut left, tur
ning onto it, exhaling hard in relief at the more stable road surface, the bike crunching over the wet, white gravel chunks, a house looking as though it had been lifted from the Bavarian Alps directly ahead.
The cuckoo-clocklike structure had a second-floor porch traveling the width of the house, shuttered windows and doorways facing onto it, below a smaller porch, ornamental, gingerbread style woodwork, brightly painted, adorning each cornice and corner.
Rourke stopped his bike ten feet from the house, kicked out the stand, and dismounted. The CAR-15—the muzzle cap in place and dust cover closed—slung muzzle down across his back, his upturned collar streaming water into his shirt. He pushed his wet hair from his forehead and walked toward the small first-floor porch, looking up at the second floor for some sign of habitation. The gravel crunched beside him and Rourke glanced to his right. Paul Rubenstein was beside him.
“Paul—go around back—I don’t want Colfax to duck out on us.”
The younger man nodded, his thinning hair plastered to his forehead by the rain, then disappeared to Rourke’s left around the side of the house. Rourke stepped onto the porch, the drumming of the rain on the porch above him intense, the sound of rushing water through the downspouts from the roof-line gutters like a torrent.
He fished into his wallet, pulled the plastic coated CIA identity card from it, then replaced the wallet in his pocket. He searched the door for a bell, found none and hammered on the fake Dutch door with his left fist. “My name is Rourke,” he shouted. “I’m with American Intelligence—CIA card here in my hand,” and he turned the card toward the curtained windows in case Colfax were looking through a slit.
“Jim Colfax—I’m here to help you,” Rourke shouted.
Then there was another shout, Paul Rubenstein, the voice clear over the drumming of the rain, the words though hard to make out.
Rourke glanced from side to side, pocketed the CIA card, and flipped the porch railing, his boots splattering down into the mud beside the porch, almost losing his footing as he ran around the side of the-house.
