Survivalist - 15.5 - Mid-Wake

by Ahern, Jerry

  The tunnel was cooler and darker and damper, the sounds of their footsteps there like drums rapping some out-of-time tattoo, Rourke gradually getting those imme

  diately around him to quicken the pace.

  He knew they were being monitored, security cameras buzzing and whirring as they walked into their scanning range.

  They were nearing the end of the tunnel. “Could those APCs they have get down here?”

  “I don’t think an armored personnel carrier would make it.”

  “Sam, what’s the thing they’ll think we’d do?”

  “Escape to the perimeter of the city. Why?”

  “Let’s try to outsmart them.” Rourke turned to the English-speaking Chinese. “Ask our friend if there is a means of getting from this dome into the Institute for Marine Studies. And, if there is, where is it?”

  The Chinese translated as they walked, sounding slightly out of breath from the exertion. Rourke was inwardly amazed that some of these men had been able to walk even this far.

  After a moment, the man guiding them responded, the English speaker giving a running translation. “There is a service tunnel from the maintenance section above. It is very narrow. But when he was first brought here, prisoners were used in the maintenance service to replace piping sections which carried steam to the other domes, because the work was considered very dangerous. Some men died there. If a pipe were to break while we traveled through the tunnel, we could all die.”

  Rourke closed his eyes for an instant, exhaling, opening his eyes. “This is what we do. Since we haven’t encountered resistance so far, I’m going to assume, unless circumstances prove otherwise, that they’re waiting for us outside. In the open air, so to speak. If we get into the Institute for Marine Studies, is there a direct route into the sub pens? Does anybody know?”

  A woman’s voice answered. “Hey—I do!” And Rourke turned toward the throng following him, a short woman with short blonde hair shouldering her way to the front of the mob. “I know. When they brought me here, they took me past the shark pens and they hung me in the water—

  upside down. They almost drowned me—and then some of them—well …” And she drew a deep breath.

  Rourke nodded. “You came out in Marine Studies?”

  “Yeah—a lot of stuffed fish and a big marble hallway? Yeah.”

  “When we get that far, you lead the way. What’s your name?” “Martha.”

  “Martha—that good with you?”

  “Yes,” she agreed. Her cheeks were darkly bruised and part of her left earlobe had apparently been ripped or bitten off and the little finger of her left hand was twisted, as if broken and never set, just healed. He wanted to embrace her. Instead, he walked with her beside him.

  And he wondered what was happening to Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna… .

  Feyedorovitch had assembled some 1200 of the Marine Spetznas, so many personnel on duty with the fleet that it had been impossible to put together a larger force.

  He stood on the greenway near the hedges where the two disrobed Spetznas had been discovered along with the third, younger victim of this Wolfgang Heinz. Coming up the greenway from the road beyond, walking as he always did, as though he had filled his pants, was Viktor Metz, head of security, head of the KGB.

  “Boris. I must talk with you.”

  “Viktor, certainly. Never fear. The Marine Spetznas have the situation in hand.”

  Metz removed his black uniform cap and ran his left hand back across his thinning hair. “I consulted the Chairman. I asked him, Boris, why the Committee for State Security was not called in. This is a police matter, Boris.”

  “The missing man was a prisoner of Marine Spetznas.”

  Viktor Metz shook his head. “That is another thing, that only one man is responsible for such mayhem. Who is he?”

  “I am given to understand, Viktor, that his name is Wolfgang Heinz and he is a German intelligence officer. They must train their men well. But we have him trapped. Even if, as we believe, he has released the prisoners held in detention, not even their considerable numbers will have a chance against us.” And Feyedorovitch clapped his left hand against the AKM-96 assault rifle.

  “High-power weapons beneath the domes? Do you realize—”

  “I realize full well, comrade,” Feyedorovitch interrupted, “that I have a responsibility to the people and to my men. This Heinz, or whoever he is, has firearms. We know that. And he uses them with considerable skill. Tapes of surveillance-camera runs have shown that all too well. He should have in his possession at least four cartridge arms and a considerable supply of ammunition. Primitive arms, yes—they fire cased ammunition! Yet effective. It would take considerably more than a few stray rounds from our AKM-96s to puncture dome material. At least I should hope so.”

  It was warm today and he disliked Viktor Metz intensely and that only heated him more. And full battle gear was habitually uncomfortable under the domes because of the humidity.

  “Why have the police been excluded? I demand to know, Boris!”

  Feyedorovitch considered fleetingly what would happen to him if, by accident, his AKM-96 discharged and the resultant catastrophe claimed the life of the head of the KGB. “I act only on the orders of Comrade Major Kerenin. And I would assume, based on your remarks of a moment ago, that the comrade major has the approval of the triumvirate. Therefore, until I am notified otherwise, this remains a matter for the Marine Spetznas. Look—”

  And Feyedorovitch gestured beyond the greenway toward the ramps entering the tunnels. Armored personnel carriers were placed at regular, close intervals, men clustered around them, all armed with assault rifles. “No matter from what level they exit the prison, even if they go to the

  maintenance level above or the research level below, they will be trapped. The entire main dome is ringed. Then-only way out. If they wish to remain inside the prison for weeks, they can. But they will starve to death. And, lest you be concerned, I have dispatched teams of my best men to the walkway surrounding the maintenance level, to prevent full access to that level and any resultant sabotage.”

  “You did not allow firearms there!”

  Feyedorovitch grew tired of being patient. “They are armed with PV-26s. If they can kill sharks, they can kill men. But I have entrusted each team leader with one AKM-96, in the event its use is at once safe and necessary. Each man knows the penalty for bad judgment. So, my friend,” he said smoothly, “rest easily. Come. I have a field mess set up. We can perhaps have some refreshing drink while we await the inevitable.”

  Metz shook his head, grumbling, but Feyedorovitch started toward the mess shelter, knowing Metz would soon enough follow. The fellow had no choice… .

  John Rourke edged back into the stairwell, the men at its top having betrayed their presence with idle chatter. He withdrew into the main hall and joined Aldridge and the other de facto leaders of the escapees. “We have a problem. Not insurmountable at the moment, but a problem nonetheless. Guards posted at the top of the stairs. And so I would imagine there are guards posted on the walkway surrounding the maintenance level. They obviously don’t want us up there interfering with things, which is all the more reason to go. Probably just enough of a force to contain us down here, they think. Likely something similar on the research level below, perhaps not. If we wish to get to maintenance in order to sabotage the electricity and cut off their cameras and then utilize that tunnel, then we have to take out whatever force has been implaced there.”

  “How?” Aldridge asked.

  “Funny you should ask,” Rourke smiled. “Are you

  conversant with the concept of a ‘scavenger hunt’?” Aldridge didn’t answer immediately… .

  John Rourke had planned ahead. In anticipation of a situation such as this, with a confined space that was a corked bottleneck, he had formulated a strategy. All that remained was to find the necessary tools with which to bring that strategy to fruition. And the tools were arriving. With Aldridge and the Engl
ish-speaking Chinese and the woman named Martha as team leaders (he had spared the ill Chinese who was their guide the added exertion), he had commissioned expeditions into portions of the prison already secured. In the cellblock area, there had been a cage similar to the ones used in the research laboratory, but apparently for punishment, considerably smaller, as if designed to confine a man or woman in an upright position. Some of the escapees confirmed that it had been used in just such a way. Sometimes prisoners were simply placed in it in a normal standing position, at other times forced to enter the cage upside down, spending long periods inside the cage as a form of torture, leading to days of added misery after release as a result of the confinement.

  Along the corridors and in the cellblock area there had been what appeared to be chemical fire extinguishers, and this had been confirmed for Rourke as well.

  When the cage was brought back, Rourke realized its construction was perfect for his idea. Assigning Martha to oversee assembly, he had two dozen of the Sty-20 pistols secured between the vertical and horizontal portions of the grillwork grid, the butts of the Sty-20s wedged between the cage sections, then tied into place with strips of cloth from the already tattered clothing of the escapees.

  The haft of John Rourke’s Crain knife was bound with twenty-three feet of 180-pound test cord. A certain skill was required to wind the cord to form a handle surface, and he had learned that skill from Jack; but no skill at all was required to unwind it. He unwound a sufficient length

  of the it so that the cord could be passed through the trigger guards of each of the Sty-20s mounted together, four groups of six. Because of the stirrup-style triggers, like those found on a typical .45 automatic as opposed to the double-action revolver-style triggers found on such guns as the Browning High Power and Beretta 92F 9mms, the Sty-20s were ideal for the procedure.

  Meanwhile, Aldridge supervised preparation of a plexiglass-wall section taken from the guard cubicle near the energy barrier which was used to restrict entrance to the security level.

  Utilizing the web belts taken from some of the overpowered prison security personnel, the cage, fitted with the four groups of six Sty-20s, was secured to the plexiglas-wall panel. Other belts were improvised into straps bound round the plexiglas panel.

  The device constructed, John Rourke stood at the head of the mob of escapees. “Here is what we’re doing. I’m going into the stairwell first, using my pistols. I’ll lay down some fire to send them back into cover, allowing the people utilizing our little gadget adequate time to get into position at the base of the stairwell.

  “The ‘gadget,’ as I called it, is designed to function as both a weapon and a shield. The Sty-20 pistols were positioned in the cage gridwork so that they would be secure but also so that they would have sufficient clearance for slide operation. Four people will maneuver and fire the device. As these four people proceed up the stairwell, they will be protected from enemy Sty-20 fire by the plexiglas shield, but able to fire four separate batteries of six Sty-20s against our enemy. Once they reach the top landing, they’ll take up a defensive position and retrieve any additional Sty-20s from any incapacitated security personnel or Marine Spetznas—I didn’t see the uniforms clearly. The Sty-20s mounted on the device can then be reloaded as much as possible with fresh magazines.

  “Meanwhile,” John Rourke continued, “the fire-extinguisher brigade will move into position at the top of the stairwell. The device will be taken into the corridor for no

  more than twenty seconds, fired for a few volleys, and, as enemy fire starts, the device will be withdrawn. Any commander worth his salt will press the apparent advantage and close with the withdrawing force. That’s when the fire-extinguisher brigade goes into action. As soon as a substantial number of the enemy force is in the stairwell, open fire from that grillwork structure over the stairwell. And I’ll be up there too in case some of them start firing back, or in case there are any live-ammunition guns in the bunch. If they do start to employ live ammo, stay clear because the only chance we’ll have is for me to take out whoever is using the guns. Any questions?”

  One of the women from the center of the group—black, pretty, Rourke bet, when she wasn’t dressed in rags— called out, “Do you think we will bump into real guns?”

  Rourke looked at Aldridge. “Do they dare under the dome?”

  “Yeah—I think so. But they really love these Sty-20 things, so they’d probably only use them for backup. An emergency.”

  “Any other questions?” Rourke asked.

  There were none. “All right—four volunteers see Martha here and give using the device—” and he pointed at the plexiglas shield with the cage and the Sty-20 pistols “—a dry run. Check that the pistols are all empty before you do. Don’t forget to check the chambers.”

  As the mob started to break up, Rourke took Aldridge aside. “Sam—give me the operating characteristics on their assault rifles. Just in case we get hold of one, I want to know what to look out for.”

  “Right. It’s called the AKM-96, and it’s a short-action firing 4.86mm caseless projectiles. Kind of a slow cyclic rate. Which is good. The projectiles are armor-piercing and spin. I don’t know if you’re into old weapons besides those .45s of yours, but it’s like the M-16 assault rifle used five centuries ago, before they changed the rifling. The projectile turns into a little saw blade, basically. It’s what they used to call a ‘bullpup.’ There’s a thumbhole in the

  stnr>.1r and thp aptinn is set hank from thp trifororp.r oiiard.

  The carrying handle has a built-in optical sight.” “What’s the magnification?”

  “None—just a battle rifle, and it’s never used for sniping or for much of anything over two hundred yards for sure. Forty-round magazine and the magazines are disposable. Magazine attachment is nice and positive. It’s a good battle rifle. I like ours better, but theirs is good.”

  Rourke smiled. “If we get out of here like we plan, you’ll have to show me one of yours.”

  “Hell, doctor—I’ll buy one and give it to you. They owe me a coupla months back pay with hazardous duty and combat on top of it.”

  “You’re on,” Rourke grinned, clapping Aldridge on the shoulder… .

  John Rourke stepped into the stairwell, his right hand hurting maddeningly, but a stainless Detonics pistol in his right hand just as in his left.

  He edged toward the stairs, peering upward, wanting to start out with a clean shot—it would induce more terror, what he needed now. Shooting almost straight up was a poor proposition at best.

  He could just see one of the men posted at the top of the stairwell now, the right arm and right side of the chest cavity. Although Rourke was for all intents and purposes ambidextrous, he was still right-handed and, despite the injuries to his right hand, felt more confident of a one-shot hit with that hand considering the difficulty of the shot. His left thumb swung behind the tang of one of the pistols, upping the safety. He stuffed the pistol into his belt, shifting the other pistol from his right hand into his left, flexing the hand at once to work out the stiffness and to inure himself to the pain that he would experience when he made the shot.

  The bandage he had wrapped over the hand was soaked through with a mixture of blood and what smelled like pus. He shifted the little .45 back into his right fist, closing his hand over the nearly smooth Pachmayrs. He

  cupped his right hand into his left, closing his eyes against the pain for an instant, then edging further out into the stairwell.

  The target was gone. He waited.

  Rourke would periodically lower his pistol, periodically take his eyes off the height of the stairwell.

  Then … Rourke saw the man now, a Sty-20 held lazily in the right fist, the right arm over the railing, the right side of the chest cavity exposed.

  “Good-bye,” John Rourke whispered, his right thumb whisking down the safety, settling just below the mating of slide to frame, the first finger of his right hand starting to move slowly rearward, taking up
the slack. Because of the angle from the target at which he stood and the height of it over him, Rourke held high. If the bullet impacted the precise point of aim—which it most certainly would not— it would enter the right shoulder near the base of the neck. He was hoping for a center-of-mass hit to the chest.

  There was no more slack left and he held his breath in his throat. The normally mild recoil sent tremors of pain along his right forearm, his ears ringing from the gunshot in the confined space, a scream emanating from the top of the stairwell, a Sty-20 clattering along the stairs and down, angered shouts. Then the body came, tumbling, John Rourke dodging back, the man dead before he hit the floor, the body bouncing once, arms and legs flapping like wings from an injured bird, then still.

  Rourke drew the second pistol, firing both pistols now toward the height of the stairwell, a useless fusillade of Sty-20 projectiles peppering the base of the stairwell, Rourke emptying both pistols, shouting, “Now!”

  The team with the combination weapon and shield was already into position, and now they started up the stairwell, not firing yet, another fusillade of Sty-20 fire coming at them, the darts bouncing harmlessly off the plexiglas, the team already to the first landing. Beside Rourke now were the men and women of the fire-extinguisher brigade. Rourke started up the stairs, the fire-extinguisher brigade behind him. both his oistols reloaded. There was nrer.ir.nc

  little ammunition left for them, considering the enormity of the task ahead once clear of the prison. He took the stairs three at a time, hanging back as he reached the first landing, the team beneath the plexiglas shield opening fire now, the volley of Sty-20 fire launching toward the height of the stairwell, curses shouted in Russian, the static of a communicator briefly heard.

  Rourke took the communicator from his own belt. The idiots were using the same frequency. He shook his head in disbelief. He monitored the signal. They were Marine Spetznas at the height of the stairwell, apparently part of a larger unit that was guarding the maintenance level. And the Spetznas commander on the communicator now was calling for the AKM-96s to be broken out.