by Ahern, Jerry
To his right and below, there lay a vast expanse of machinery—compressors, pumps, generators. And the
smell of the steam here made him think that the power base was geothermal, the entire complex located above or (more prudently) near some undersea volcanic vent. Above him, forming a tightly woven gridwork extending as far as he could see ahead or to either side, were pipes of various diameters, some simply servicing fiber-optic telephone systems, no doubt, or electrical wiring, but others transferring live steam to and from the maintenance complex to provide the power to run the machinery. Oh for an explosive device, he thought. He kept running, hitting the call button for another elevator bank and almost directly beside it finding the stairwell.
Rourke started down it, taking the treads fast, two at a time, the alarms louder here but as yet no guards blocking his way. The stairwell came to a landing, then another set of stairs, Rourke continuing downward, peering over the railing. Below him, more stairs. He kept going, to the next landing and beyond and then to the next, wondering if perhaps the boy he had interrogated had cleverly sent him into a trap. Finally, as he peered again over the railing, he saw an end and he quickened his pace, shifting the spare pistols to the rear of his belt so they would not immediately be noticed, holstering one of them, only one gun in his hand now, in his left fist, held behind his thigh, the gym bag in his right hand held by its handles.
He reached the base of the stairwell, quickly trying to orient himself. Ahead and left, he thought, a system of smaller tunnels opened before him. He took the one at the farthest left edge and ran some distance along its length, but it sloped downward and he doubled back, taking the center tunnel now and running. This one did not slope downward and he quickened his pace. The light here was gray, the walls a dully gleaming metallic hue. And as the tunnel took a bend right, he spotted what he thought was his goal. An electronic barrier like that used on the submarine’s brig, only vastly larger, more the size of the force field near the entrance to the military dome. Guards were formed on the other side of the barrier. Rourke made no move to evade them, but rather ran straight toward
them, shouting to them in their language, “The prisoner has an explosive device and is barricaded near the pumping stations!” And then Rourke thought of something that had been mentioned in passing at his “trial.” “He is from Mid-Wake!”
A senior noncom behind the barrier was pulled aside by an officer of junior rank, these men not Marine Spetznas but security. They seemed to confer for an instant as Rourke stopped before the electrical barrier. “Comrades, the destruction could be unthinkable!”
The junior officer and the sergeant ran toward the barrier, the sergeant shouting commands to shut off the power, one of the five enlisted men of the guard detail running into a lighted cubicle identical to the plexiglas structure Rourke had encountered earlier. Rourke watched the position of the guard’s body intently without appearing to, he hoped. Rourke started to limp with his left leg.
“Are you all right, sergeant?”
Rourke began to cough, not completely certain of the officer’s rank. But Rourke nodded, holding his leg. The officer shouted, “You and you, remain here! Call for assistance!”
Rourke stepped past the officer, inside the energy barrier, the officer, sergeant, and three of the enlisted personnel drawing their Sty-20s and racing along the corridor. John Rourke turned toward the two guards, one of them already starting into the cubicle. Rourke shot the man twice in the back of the neck, wheeling toward the second guard and shooting the man once in the neck and once, a miss, in the left cheek. Both men staggered, starting to fall. Rourke shoved past the one who had been entering the cubicle and stepped inside. “Barricade Control” was clearly marked and Rourke worked the lever, the barrier activating before his eyes. He ran from the cubicle now, the officer, noncom, and their men not yet aware they had been tricked. Rourke picked up the Sty-20s from the two guards he had dropped, then ran.
The corridor split in three sections and the prison, if his information were still holding out, would be in the center
section. Rourke had asked the young man where the crime laboratory was, and had been told that it was probably to the left. Rourke took the tunnel to his right. He needed his guns first. He kept running, the alarm sounds diminishing—apparently there was no need for outdoor alarms sounding inside a structure designed to prevent leaving rather than entering.
The corridor ended abruptly, double plexiglas doors lettered “Headquarters Forensics, Committee for State Security” blocking it. “Committee for State Security.” Rourke smiled. But it wasn’t the old KGB, because clearly here the Marine Spetznas were the power to be reckoned with. KGB here simply meant police.
Rourke stopped before the doors. He pushed against them and they opened into the walls, sliding away on either side of him.
He stepped through.
A man entered the inside corridor. He wore the uniform of the security police. Rourke shot him before he could draw, approached him carefully, shooting him again, then disarmed the man before he passed out. Tossing the Sty-20 into the bag, Rourke kept moving, reading the signs on the plexiglas-fronted doors, at last finding one that indicated evidence might be held inside. He went through.
A lab-coated technician looked up from what appeared to be a modern version of an electron microscope. “Yes, sergeant?”
“Excuse me, comrade—the weapons brought in with the male and female prisoner. Captain Feyedorovitch has requested that I examine them for a moment.”
The technician looked affronted. “The weapons will be examined in due course, sergeant.”
“But comrade, the woman has revealed that secret information is concealed under the grip panels of each of the handguns. Putting the individual elements together will provide us with valuable data that is vital to security of the submarine pens.” CIA had never offered a course in advanced, creative lying, but Rourke had worked with enough self-taught personnel over the years that he could
employ the technique when needed. The technician’s expression changed from irritation to puzzlement. “It is vital, comrade,” Rourke insisted.
“Very well. I have them here.” And the technician started toward a bank of plastic-looking locking cabinets. Rourke glanced through the plexiglas toward the corridor. No one was coming yet. The technician opened one of the cabinets. “They are here and I believe they are unloaded, but I can assume no responsibility for that. Weapons are not my department.”
“Certainly, comrade. The ammunition—ahh.” And Rourke stopped before the open cabinet.
The twin stainless Detonics .45s lay side by side. The magazines were withdrawn, but he could tell they were at least partially loaded, seeing brass through some of the upper witness holes. He picked one of the pistols up and jacked back the slide, raising the slide stop. He stuffed what looked like the fuller magazine up the butt. “What are you doing, sergeant?”
Rourke thumbed down the slide stop, the top round stripping from the magazine and chambering as he turned to face the technician. “I am pointing a loaded, five-centuries-old .45-caliber automatic at your testicles. Where is the rest of it?” Rourke jerked his head toward the cabinet.
“I do not—”
“Such a gun as this will not numb you or put you to sleep. It will rip your genitals from your body and you will die in considerable pain and not all too quickly. Where, comrade?” Rourke punched the muzzle of the little Detonics against the man’s crotch.
“The next cabinet!”
“Open it,” Rourke ordered.
Rourke turned around with the man, the muzzle of his pistol less than two inches from the man’s body. The technician opened the cabinet. Natalia’s revolvers. Her speed loaders. Her Bali-Song folding knife. Her holsters. His A.G. Russell Sting IA knife. His compass, the contents of his musette bag, the Sparks Six-Pak of spare
magazines for the little pistols.
“All is in order, comrade. Now—the prison—that way?” And Rourke g
estured to his left.
“Yes—that—”
Rourke smiled, then raised the pistol quickly, more quickly bringing it down behind the technician’s left ear, the man sagging to his knees, Rourke guiding him the rest of the way to the hard floor. He had, after all, been cooperative. Rourke set down his pistol, taking up the second gun, chamber-loading it, dumping both magazines and replacing them with fresh ones from the contents of his musette bag, not bothering to lower the hammers, merely using the thumb safeties. He tucked the partially spent magazines into a compartment of the musette bag, then quickly packed away the rest of its contents. His field medical kit, the snakebite kit, the other necessities he was never without. There were Safariland speedloaders for his Python, but the gun was still on shore. The ammo, however, could be used with Natalia’s revolvers. Rourke stuffed the Alessi shoulder rig into the musette bag. He placed the little Sting IA Black Chrome inside the boot top of his stolen footgear, using the chrome belt clip. He threaded the Sparks Six-Pak and his Crain knife onto his uniform belt. Natalia’s Metalife Custom L-Frame Smiths he placed into the gym bag, along with her holsters, speedloaders, and other personal items, pocketing her Bali-Song. He slung the musette bag cross-body from right shoulder to left hip.
John Thomas Rourke picked up his pistols, the twin stainless Detonics .45s feeling solid in his hands, the texture of the black-checkered rubber Pachmayr grips, now nearly worn smooth, somehow very comfortable to him.
Rourke looked at the sleeping technician. Being a doctor allowed him to use force without causing permanent injury. “Sleep tight—and thank you.” He smiled. And started for the door.
Chapter Seventeen
Michael Rourke was very much like his father—plan ahead, improvise on the plan as you go along, cautiously daring. Paul Rubenstein, slightly uncomfortable in his tight Soviet uniform, but for more reasons than its fit, was supposed to be the enlisted man, so it meant that he drove the half-track vehicle, Michael beside him in the truck’s front seat. Michael was uniformed as a captain. And the fit of Michael’s uniform was much better. Paul Rubenstein laughed. “What’s so funny, Paul?” Michael asked him.
“Before the night of the War, I saw a play once. A musical. ‘Man of La Mancha.’ About—”
” ‘Don Quixote’—by Cervantes. I read it.”
“Yeah—so did I. Play or book, though—remember the character of Sancho Panza?”
Michael Rourke smiled. “And?”
“I was just thinking—we sidekicks never get the best outfits, do we?” And Paul gestured broadly over his uniform.
“Sidekick?”
“You know—Tonto, Pat Buttram, Smiley Burnette, Sancho Panza—like that.”
“I know who Tonto was, of course—and Sancho Panza.”
“Same idea, I suppose.” Paul laughed. “I’m your dad’s sidekick, if you think about it. I never much thought of myself as comedy relief, though. More like Tonto—faithful.”
“He was an American Indian.”
“You didn’t know? The Indians were really Jewish. Braids instead of forelocks, that’s all. Look at all the ones
who wore broad-brimmed black hats.”
Michael Rourke started to laugh. Paul went on. “Yeah—your dad’s sidekick, his Faithful Jewish Companion. On loan at the moment to you. Think this will ever end, Michael?” And Paul caught the change of tone in his own voice.
“You mean the whole thing? The war?”
“Yeah. You know, I started keeping a diary, right after the crash there in New Mexico. Before that, really—on the plane when I figured I was probably going to die. And then your dad and I got together and he taught me how to ride and shoot—so what if they were motorcycles and automatic weapons instead of horses and sixguns. He’s a good man—the best. If he’s dead and we find out who ahh—who—you know … If he is, you’re gonna have to move awful fast to beat me to the bastard. You know what I mean, Michael?”
Michael Rourke only nodded.
Paul Rubenstein’s eyes returned to the track they followed, a road of sorts but only by dint of use, the snow all but gone here, the ruts deep. He imagined they would get deeper when the weather warmed if that ever happened. Winter had gone on forever.
And ahead now, he could see the gates in the outer deflection barrier. Michael called to Maria Leuden and Otto Hammerschmidt in the rear of the truck. “Watch out—we’re hitting the first guard post.”
Maria’s voice came back. “Are you sure you’ve got it right?”
“No—but we’ll find out, won’t we,” Michael whispered.
Paul began braking, the controls of the half-track truck at first difficult to master, a cross between the German mini-tanks and a standard truck in practice. But the vehicle was slowing smoothly enough.
Paul was suddenly seized with mild panic. Karamatsov’s army numbered in the thousands, but what if this guard post harbored someone who had a terrific memory for faces and didn’t remember seeing a captain who looked like Michael Rourke?
Paul’s palms were sweating as he finally brought the vehicle to a stop just a few yards from the passage through the first deflection barrier.
Two guards approached, the senior man saluting. Michael returned the salute smartly, but not too eagerly. Paul mentally shrugged. The guard asked for orders. Paul understood that much Russian. Michael relayed the command to Paul and Paul took the orders from the seat between them and passed them to Michael defferentially, Michael passing them out the window. Maria Leuden, claiming her reading knowledge of Russian was good enough, had read the orders, interpreting the contents as she went. Paul hoped her reading knowledge was as good as she thought.
The sentry seemed to be taking considerable time with the orders. Michael said something in carefully enunciated Russian which Paul only vaguely understood as being an insult. The sentry handed in the papers. Paul breathed. Michael gestured for the truck to be driven on, the sentry stepping back, not checking the rear of the truck—Maria and Otto were hidden behind crates of synthetic fuel there.
Paul eased the vehicle forward, not wanting to appear too eager. It started to stall and he backed off on the accelerator and then fed it gas again. The truck moved forward smoothly.
They were through, heading toward the secondary barrier—but there would be a perfunctory check there, observation having proven that during the intervening hours since they had first reached the camp. They were inside. He thought that it was probably true—the Lord watched over fools, drunks, and Irishmen. And add to that Jewish sidekicks.
Chapter Eighteen
There was another energy barrier, directly blocking John Rourke’s way into the prison complex at the center of the security level, three guards armed with Sty-20 pistols on the opposite side of the barrier. He approached at a brisk walk, both hands behind him, the twin Detonics mini-guns cocked and the safeties off.
“Halt! Identify yourself!”
Rourke doubted the Sty-20s would successfully penetrate the energy barrier, but was confident the loads in his pistols would—identical duplicates of the load that had been his favorite before the Night of the War, the Federal 185-grain jacketed hollow point. There was no time like the present to search for scientific truth, he decided. He stabbed both pistols toward the man who had spoken over the crackling energy barrier and fired, the barrier crackling maddeningly for a moment, the guard’s body rocking back and skidding across the floor, twisting over onto his front, a smudge of blood where the exit wounds had contacted the floor surface.
Rourke shouted to the two men left standing. “Comrades—lower the barrier and let me pass and you will not be killed. Now!”
Rourke could see the barrier control on the wall to his right, their left, no plexiglas cubicle here. The two remaining guards exchanged glances. John Rourke took a step closer to the barrier. One of the two men shouted to him, “If we do not lower the barrier, you will not be able to get
inside.”
“If you do not lower the barrier, you will not
live past the count of ten. Either of you. One … Two … Three … Four …” The guard nearest the barrier control hesitated, but the second man didn’t. He went to the barrier control and activated it. The barrier crackled and vanished. John Rourke stepped through, saying, “Close the barrier now. Do it.” The same man activated the control once again and the barrier crackled to life.
John Rourke thumbed up the safety on the Detonics .45 in his right fist, ramming it into his belt. He drew the Sty-20 he still carried in the uniform hip holster. He dropped the safety. “I am a man of my word, comrades. Sit—both of you. Hands behind your heads. Now—or it is this!” And Rourke gestured with the Detonics .45 that was still in his left hand. Both men sat, hands behind their heads. Rourke shot each in turn once with the Sty-20 and, as the men started to recoil from the impacts, shot each of them again to keep them asleep for a long time.
One of them fell back and, a second later, the second man fell.
Rourke safed, then holstered his own Sty-20, relieving the two sleeping guards of theirs, the gym bag that had been under his arm getting two more of the pistols. He went to the man he’d shot for real, taking the dead man’s pistol as well, placing it in the bag, which went back under his arm. Thoughtfully, the Russians had provided him with a map, a layout of the prison center on the wall beside the barrier control. Cell blocks, interrogation rooms, re-education centers, medical research. The last smelled. Rourke studied the map a moment longer so he could place its significant points firmly in his short-term memory, then started moving again—toward medical research.
