Survivalist - 15.5 - Mid-Wake

by Ahern, Jerry

  John Rourke started running up the stairs, three at a time, nearly dead behind the team operating the volleying Sty-20s from behind the shield, the height of the stairwell nearly clear now, Rourke edging past them, firing the Detonics pistols, dropping two more of the Spetznas, the last half dozen fleeing for the doorway, Rourke dropping two more of them. “Into the walkway now!” Rourke flattened himself against the wall beside the doorway, the fire-extinguisher brigade climbing up into the grillwork over the stairwell, readying their “weapons.”

  The team behind the plexiglas shield charged into the corridor, the thumping of Sty-20 darts against the plexiglas shield, then the sound of live gunfire. “Withdraw! Withdraw!” Rourke commanded, the shield team ducking back, Rourke noticing one of the team with blood coming from his right arm, the arm limp at his side. “I’ll see to it in a minute if we live that long,” Rourke told the woman. “Get some pressure on it. Martha! Take her position!”

  Martha came forward, getting behind the shield, some of the others reloading the Sty-20s as Rourke started clambering up into the grillwork. “As soon as they’re inside, get the hell away!”

  There was another burst of automatic weapons fire from the walkway/corridor outside, and Rourke hissed to his companions in the grillwork, “Wait until I open fire. And

  try to avoid hitting me with the crap in those extinguishers because I’m going down after the assault rifles. Be ready!”

  Rourke was loading the last of the magazines from his musette bag into his pistols. All he had left were the ones in the Milt Sparks Six-Pak and the spare box of fifty rounds in his bag. It could go fast, all of it.

  The first of the Marine Spetznas burst through from the walkway, chunks of wall surface breaking away under the three-round bursts from their AKM-96 assault rifles, another of the shield team hit, then another, this one going down, Martha shouting, “Break off now!” The shield team fell back. Rourke, a .45 in each fist, opened fire into the men below him, four of them with AKM-96s, Rourke backshooting them because it was the easiest way, one of them turning toward the grillwork to open fire, Rourke putting a double tap into the man’s wide-open mouth.

  His pistols empty, Rourke stuffed them into his belt, the slides still locked open, then dropped from the grillwork, the fire-extinguisher operators spraying white chemical foam over the Marine Spetznas below them, Rourke’s right foot finding the face of one of the Marine Spetznas, kicking the dying man into unconsciousness as Rourke’s hands wrestled the rifle from the man’s grip. There was a shoulder-slung bandolier of spare magazines and Rourke took it.

  Rourke found the selector, the weapon still on full auto as he started for the doorway, more of the Marine Spetznas suddenly filling it, but armed only as far as he could tell with the Sty-20s. Rourke opened fire, spraying the AKM-96 into the nearest bodies. Marine Spetznas fell, Rourke stepping over the dead, continuing to fire, the rifle equipped with what Rourke had grown up calling a “jungle clip,” a device clamping two magazines together.

  As Rourke emptied one magazine, he buttoned it out, not inverting, but shifting the spent magazine right, ramming the full one up the well, working the bolt release by guesswork and overall weapons experience only, then opening fire again. Darts from Sty-20s impacted the wall

  surface around him and he ducked back, firing again into more of the Marine Spetznas.

  And now Aldridge was beside him, one of the AKM-96s almost alive in the U.S. Marine’s hands.

  Together, Rourke and Aldridge advanced into the walkway corridor. Marine Spetznas were closing from both sides, most armed only with the Sty-20s, some few with AKM-96s. Rourke’s rifle was empty and he rammed the flash-deflectored muzzle into the eye of an advancing Spetznas, killing him. A fresh magazine from the bandolier. Rourke rammed it up the well as the spent one fell away, firing the dead man’s weight from him, advancing.

  Martha’s team with the plexiglas shield and volley-firing Sty-20s was onto the walkway now, flanked on either side by more of the escapees armed with fire extinguishers, more men and women filling the walkway behind him now as Rourke glanced back, some armed only with pieces of their cages, or using empty fire extinguishers like cudgels, some using the riot stick cattle prod devices and just beating at their enemy.

  The enemy AKM-96s were opening up from a defensive line formed along the walkway near steps leading down to the maintenance-level floor, Rourke shoving through the throng of escapees, advancing, Aldridge beside him again, advancing to reach the assault-rifle-firing Soviets before their weapons could do their work.

  One of the Soviets went down, then another, Rourke’s left upper arm feeling a hit tearing across the bicep. He kept going. Another of the Soviets went down, trying valiantly to hurtle his assault rifle out of reach of the escapees. Rourke sprayed him again, kicking the rifle toward the escapees so it could be picked up and used. Someone picked it up—he didn’t know who—because he heard the rifle opening up, more of the Soviets, now fleeing down the metal steps toward the maintenance floor, dropping.

  John Rourke reached the head of the steps, ramming a fresh magazine into his expropriated rifle, hosing the steps below him, Marine Spetznas turning to fire up at him,

  Rourke killing them before they could. Aldridge jumped the railing to the maintenance floor below, firing into the fleeing Soviets. Rourke, his left upper arm cramping on him, flipped the handrail along the steps, jumping only half the distance Aldridge had, coming out of it in a roll, firing out the AKM-96 into the backs of a half dozen of the Soviet defenders.

  His rifle was empty. No time to reload now, one of the Spetznas hurtling his body at Rourke, his bare hands going for Rourke’s throat. In his left fist John Rourke had the big Crain knife, and he rammed it through the man’s abdomen up to the double-quillon cross guard, then shoved the body away, ramming a fresh magazine up the well of the AKM-96, firing again.

  A good fifty of the escapees, some of them wounded, had made it down from the walkway now, some of them using the steps, some hurtling themselves onto the backs of Soviet fighting men below them. There were pockets of hand-to-hand combat everywhere, Rourke bracing his right foot against the stomach of the man he’d stabbed, wrenching his knife free. The knife in his left fist,’ the nearly fully loaded AKM-96 in his right, he waded into the thickest of the fighting, a short burst to one man, a downward slash from his knife to another.

  He kept going.

  Screams of death filled his ears, the escapees taking no prisoners as they finished the Soviets who had been their tormentors. As Rourke turned away from shooting one of the Spetznas who had been locked in combat with a woman escapee, he saw another of the escapees—a Chinese—ramming an electrified riot stick down the throat of his Russian adversary, the Russian’s face purpling, the Chinese kicking the Russian repeatedly in the face until the body stopped moving.

  Rourke stood where he had stopped. He looked from side to side. Some of the Russians were still being finished off. But the battle had been won.

  Bodies littered the floor, were draped over the walkway railings and over the handrails for the steps, prisoners and

  their former jailers as well.

  He had tried earlier to determine which pipes carried the electrical current that supplied the domes and which were the emergency circuits. He crossed toward the locked control panels at the center of the maintenance level, studying the piping in greater detail now. As he walked, he loaded a fresh magazine up the well of the AKM-96, let it fall back on its sling, then began reloading magazines for his pistols from the spare box of 185-grain JHPs in his musette bag. Six rounds to one magazine, then he loaded it up the butt of one of the twin Detonics pistols. Six rounds to another, then up the butt of the pistol. In turn, he worked the actions, chambering fresh rounds, lowered the hammers, and holstered his guns in the double Alessi shoulder rig he wore. He continued reloading magazines, some of the spares that were loose in his musette bag, taking from the rapidly depleting box of fifty, reloading partially spent mag
azines as well.

  He stopped before the locked control panels. Aldridge joined him. “Open that,” he told the black Marine captain.

  “Sure, doctor.” Aldridge stepped back from the panel doors and fired a burst into the locking mechanism, the thin substance, metal-like, that formed the cabinet cracking. Aldridge rifle-butted the lock away. Rourke approached the panel, studying it.

  “It looks like these control the main power supply for the domes and these control the emergency power supply. Now we’ll need emergency lights on to get through that passageway into the Institute for Marine Studies. That leaves two other systems—this and this. Now, if you look here at these diode readouts, only the main system is showing a fluctuation in power. And this one. The emergency system is just on and that’s all, ready to kick in. And this one—the one I mentioned a second ago—it’s got less leading out of it but is evidently in use. Must be for the electronic monitoring system. And having it on a different circuit board only stands to reason. Agree?”

  “Ohh. sure.” Aldridce lauabed.

  “All right. So—we cut this one and the main power supply is off and the emergency power supply kicks in. And I bet when we do, this other one that’s in reserve kicks on. If everything here is geothermal, they won’t be running anything off fossil fuels, synthetics or nuclear. You agree?”

  “Everything’s gect .rmal here. That I know.”

  “So—if the geothermal energy supply just cuts out, they’d be up shit’s creek without a paddle. Assuming they assume that won’t happen, then they need a power source, probably off batteries, that’ll allow them to have the power to restart their machines and generate power to restore full power. This should kick on then.” Rourke shut off the main system. There was sudden, inky blackness, but only for a second, and shouts and muted screams from the survivors of the b.-ttle. Emergency lights came on with an audible click, red like those used at night in submarines to allow for maximum visual acuity when going onto the surface. Rourke could see the panel again. “All right. Both of these reserves are activated. Now—we switch off this.” He closed down the one original panel that still had unchanged power levels. “And we kill the surveillance cameras. Now—watch which one of these goes to a higher reading and hope it’s the one for the emergency start-up power.”

  His gamble worked. “All right,” Rourke whispered. “Now—we kill this and they can’t restart their generators without a lot of fooling around and—more important for our purposes—they can’t see or hear us as we hit the trail.” Rourke shut down the third panel. The emergency lighting still worked.

  “Damn,” Aldridge whispered. “What now? I mean, all they gotta do is turn on those switches and they’re back in business.”

  “Nope. Help me follow this piping in and out. Then we cut through the piping—yeah, it’s not metal. Some sort of fireproof plastic substance. We cut through it with these,” and Rourke gestured to the AKM-96. “Got somebody good with electricity?”

  “Besides you?” “Yeah.” Rourke grinned. “Yeah.”

  “Good. Get whoever it is to crosswire the three dead panels so when they start connecting things they not only start connecting things wrong but they electrify the panel. Get my idea?”

  Aldridge laughed. “You wanna job in the Marines when we get back?”

  “No—but thanks anyway. I’m too old to enlist.”

  “You thirty-five or so?”

  “Add five hundred years to that and you’re almost there,” Rourke told him, then started walking the piping, Aldridge doing the same. Tracking the piping took almost ten minutes, but when they were through, Rourke was satisfied and Aldridge went off to find his electrician.

  Rourke took the communicator from his belt. He walked away from the area near the panels, getting as far away as he could from the moans of the injured and dying. His doctor’s instincts told him he should be treating these people, but other instincts told him that if he didn’t secure what remained of the operation as best he could, all of them would be dead and he would have helped no one.

  When he was a sufficient distance away, he opened the communicator, depressing the push-to-talk button. Aldridge joined him and Rourke touched his finger to his lips to signal the Marine officer’s silence.

  Rourke spoke into the communicator. In Russian. “All dead here. Some kind of—of chemical weapon. Coming to surface by way—by way of—of research level tunnels. Followed them.” Rourke coughed into the communicator. “Stop them—stop them, comrades.” Rourke left the circuit open for a moment longer, breathing heavily into it, then released the push-to-talk button.

  “I speak Russian. That was cute.” Sam Aldridge grinned. Aldridge’s left arm was bleeding, but not badly, the cut long but not appearing deep. Rourke realized it was the first he had noticed it.

  “Yeah, well—hope they believe it. Let’s do what we can quickly for the wounded and then get the hell out of here.”

  Aldridge nodded, starting back with Rourke.

  As they passed the electrical controls, gunfire was starting, the pipes which carried the electrical feeds being severed. Rourke noticed a woman, as disheveled-looking as any of the rest of the escaped prisoners, but pretty nonetheless, working to crosswire the panels.

  As they returned to the base of the steps leading down from the walkway, there were still moans, cries for help. John Rourke found the nearest of the seriously injured and tried to do what he could. All around him, men and women from among the escapees were either caring for the injured as he was or arming themselves from the weapons of the fallen.

  Rourke glanced at the face of his Rolex. Time was running out for them to escape—and perhaps too for Natalia. “We move out in five minutes!”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Michael Rourke returned the salute, walking purposefully but not quickly toward the half-track truck where they had left Maria Leuden hidden among containers of synthetic fuel, Paul Rubenstein and Otto Hammerschmidt walking at his left in descending order of apparent rank. It amused Michael slightly that the only one of the three of them who was an actual military officer wore the lowest rank. He had noticed that Karamatsov’s army seemed rank-heavy, and in a quick conference in hushed tones Captain Otto Hammerschmidt had confirmed that deduction.

  The sky was darkening, not from the hour but from what appeared to be an approaching storm. And in the comparatively short time since they had left the truck, the temperature had noticeably dropped.

  Michael walked on, nearing the truck, whispering to Paul beside him. “We’re going to have to take turns watching the command tent until my dad and Natalia show—” But he was cut off, an officer of major’s rank approaching, Michael stopping, his blood turning colder than the air temperature. Michael came to attention, saluted, the major hurriedly returning the salute, barking orders that were totally incomprehensible, then leaving as abruptly as he had come, Michael saluting again, the major not returning it at all this time.

  “What the hell was that?” Paul whispered.

  Hammerschmidt, coming nearer, his voice a guttural hiss, said, “I didn’t like the sound of it.”

  Michael shrugged, starting for the rear of the truck. There were other vehicles parked in long ranks on either side of it and behind and in front of it. It would take some jockeying to move the vehicle and he was grateful that at least it looked as though the truck could be moved when needed.

  Michael looked from right to left. There were people running throughout the encampment, vehicles starting up. He was beginning to get bad vibes. He threw up the tarp covering the rear of the truck and started to clamber up. Then he heard Maria Leuden’s voice. “Michael—if I understood that voice out there, he was ordering Paul and Otto to the assembly area at the front of the camp. Some emergency and he required personnel. I think. And if I’m right and they don’t show up—”

  Michael Rourke cut her off. “Hang on.” He threw down the tarp.

  Paul looked at once nervous and resigned. “If we’ve gotta hang ar
ound here for maybe another six hours or so, we don’t have any choice, Michael. Next time that officer sees me or Otto or you for that matter, we’re in deep shit with him and all of a sudden the center of attention we can’t afford.”

  “You are suggesting we go?” Hammerschmidt asked, his voice tinged with urgency.

  “I don’t see a heck of a lot of choice in the matter, Otto. Michael?”

  “You don’t speak Russian—what the hell are you gonna do?”

  “We’re just enlisted guys, right? Whose gonna ask us anything?”

  Hammerschmidt answered for Michael. “Other enlisted men—that is who. This could be suicidal. But I agree, we have no choice. Michael?”

  Michael Rourke licked his lips. “Yeah—but check it out. If it goes sour, have a way out. Don’t get in over your heads. It looks like …” And Michael glanced toward some of the running men. They were in full battle gear. There was appropriate equipment in the truck for Paul

  and for Hammerschmidt. “They may be planning on being gone for a while, guys.”

  “If we hide in the truck and that major realizes we didn’t show up or sees us after he gets back—ohh, boy.” Paul’s eyes were pinpoints of light.

  “Go for it—get your gear.” Michael looked around them to be certain they were not observed, Paul and Otto Hammerschmidt disappearing into the rear of the truck. Michael clambered in behind them. Hammerschmidt was stuffing his German service pistol under his uniform tunic. Paul was checking the battered old Browning High Power he habitually carried—had carried, he had told Michael, since that first battle near the crashed jetliner when Paul had first joined with Michael’s father—how long ago?

  Maria Leuden, in the gray half-light there in the rear of the truck, looked sick with worry. She hugged Hammerschmidt, and then Paul. “This is madness.”