by Ahern, Jerry
Rourke stepped back, letting the submachinegun fall to his side on its sling as he drew both full-sized Scoremasters from his waistband, thumbing back the hammers. From near the cliff face, he heard Paul Rubenstein shouting to him, “Trigger control!”
Rourke called back to his friend, “Touche!”
When he’d taught Paul how to use firearms in the immediate aftermath of the aircrash which united them on The Night of The War, he taught the phrase-trigger control-to Paul as a mantralike watchword against spraying an automatic weapon empty, as Rourke himself had just done.
Shaw was to his knees, grumbling, Tm all right.”
Rourke took Ed Shaw at his word, then started forward, joining the Tac Team and SEAL Team personnel who battled the SS commandos here on the beach amid the foaming surf.
Rourke’s eyes squinted against the light, but rolling in fast over the water were the dark thunderheads. Rourke advanced along the beach, the Detonics Servicemaster in his right fist bucking once, a shot into the throat of one of the SS men who stood over the body of one of the SEALs. The Nazi was about to finish the Navy man with a diving knife.
Rourke turned to his left, firing point-blank into the chest of another of the SS men, this one charging toward Rourke, assault rifle spraying into the sand. Original eight-round Detonics extension magazines were up the well of each Scoremaster, giving Rourke nine rounds per gun with the chambers loaded, one round now spent from each. Rourke kept moving.
Rain began, not falling, but driving in icy wind-driven sheets which rolled savagely over the beach. Rourke was immediately drenched, his clothes plastered to his body. He fired both pistols at two of the SS men running for the cover of one of the black volcanic rocks-most were of enormous proportions-strewn about the higher ground of the beach. Rourke dropped one of the men. The second man hurled a grenade, Rourke shouting the alert, “Grenade!” Then Rourke threw himself down to the sand.
The explosion came and went, Rourke’s ears ringing with it, a shower of sand assaulting his body amid the torrent of rain.
Rourke looked up, wiping his left forearm across his face to clear his eyes. He fired both pistols simultaneously, killing the man who’d thrown the grenade.
Within the explosion’s kill radius, several men lay dead or dying, at least half of them from among the SS commando party.
Rourke was to his feet, thumbing up the safeties on both Scoremasters, grabbing up a weapon from the sand, one of the German assault rifles.
Rourke stabbed it toward a knot of the SS men, firing a controlled burst, then another and another, then another still, putting five of the SS commandos down dead. A man charged toward Rourke from his left and Rourke wheeled toward him, fired, killing him, the assault rifle empty.
Two men came at Rourke now from the rocks.
Rourke spun toward them, stabbing one of the men in the face with the assault rifle’s flash hider. Simultaneously, Rourke’s left hand freed the Crain Life Support System X knife from its sheath. Rourke raked twelve inches of steel across the chest and throat of the second man.
John Rourke was all but surrounded now.
He hammered the buttstock of the rifle into the face of one man, rammed the LS-X knife into the chest of another. Rourke
hurled the empty assault rifle at still a third. Rourke’s right hand reached out, catching a fourth man at the side of the head, by the left ear, then slamming the man’s head downward as Rourke’s right knee smashed upward. Rourke wrenched the knife clear of the man he’d just stabbed, hacked it across the shoulder of the man he’d kneed in the face and severed the sling of the assault rifle the man carried. Rourke had it now, scooping it up from the sand, firing it as he rose to his full height, killing three more of the commandos.
Two of the powered hang gliders swept through the rain, skimmed the surf, their pilots firing into a group of fifteen SS commandos trying to escape the beach. From the far left edge of Rourke’s peripheral vision, he could see Paul, rallying some of the Tac Team men, cutting off the rest of the commando force.
Rourke discarded the emptied Eden assault rifle, slicing the sling of another free from the dead man to whose body it was still attached. Clamping the rifle’s buttstock against his side to steady it, Rourke advanced, closing in from the rear of the commandos who were in flight.
There was nothing left but killing.
In more than six centuries, John Rourke was inured to it; but he prayed he would never come to like it, no matter how long he lived.
5
Emma Shaw, changed into a man’s sized extra-large pink T-shirt which came down to her knees and nothing but her panties on underneath, sat cross-legged on the old-fashioned overstuffed sectional sofa. These days, so much furniture was air filled, but she’d grown up with furniture like this and liked it still. Her eyes were focused on the video panel set into the wall of her little house in the mountains. She was rarely off duty enough these days to use the place, but she had a lot of leave time coming and decided to use a few days and get away, to take advantage of what would probably be the short lull before a long war. She needed to think.
Snow lay soft and white on the giant pear-shaped leaves of the magnolias outside her front windows, beyond the small porch. In the days Before The Night of The War, some actual cold weather training exercises were run in the Hawaiian Islands by the Marine Corps, but the weather was nothing like this. Of course, it was rarely cold enough in the Islands for snow to stick to roadways (it did not now), but often cold enough in the higher elevations for the snow to form a beautiful icing on the magnolias, the pines, the palms and the rest of the lush vegetation here. The pineapple growers always groused about it, but there was never a hard enough freeze to cause them more than some anxiety.
On the other side of the island, everything grew better, of course, denser and greener because of the vulcanism which over the centuries periodically renewed the soil. She had chosen this spot because, if she lived to be a hundred (which
lots of people did these days) no volcano (unless a new one emerged) could touch her here.
Emma Shaw’s eyes drifted back to the early evening news broadcasts. It was footage from a remotely piloted SkyVid that she watched now, flying over the beach where only a comparatively short while before John Rourke and her brother and a lot of other good people-some of them dead-had repelled an amphibious assault by troops “as yet unidentified, but rumored by official sources to be Nazi commandos in the employ of Eden. Eden’s ambassador to the United States, Doctor Ernst Wiley, was unavailable for comment. Those same officials, speaking on condition of anonymity, indicate that Doctor John Thomas Rourke played an important role in foiling the attack.
“Doctor Rourke, the almost legendary survivor from more than six centuries ago through the use of experimental cryogenic technology, holds the rank of Brigadier General in the j United States Armed Forces from the period more than one j hundred years ago when Mid-Wake, our progenitor state, 1 fought against the forces of the then-Commumst-dominated I Russia. Due in large part to Doctor Rourke’s heroic efforts, J the United States and its allies defeated the Soviet Union as j the culmination of a war which lasted for more than five f centuries and all but wiped out human life on the surface of the planet. i
“Channel Three’s Jaquie Warren caught up with Doctor Rourke as he exited a Naval helicopter after the successful mission involving Navy SEAL Team personnel and the Honolulu Tac Team.”
The video flickered. There was toothy, big lipped, platinum blonde surfer girl Jaquie Warren buttonholing John as » he exited a chopper, assault rifle in hand, hair odd-looking and wet, his face a mask of exhaustion and exasperation. “Doctor Rourke. Fm Jaquie Warren from Channel Three Up { Close News.” )
“How nice for you,” John told her, smiling.
Emma laughed. Jaquie Warren didn’t.
“Doctor, I understand that you spearheaded the counterattack against the commando force sent against the Islands this afternoon and-“
“The men
of Commander Washington’s SEAL Team and Ed Shaw’s Honolulu Tac Team were a pleasure to watch. It’s a rare treat to see such shining professionalism.”
“But, I understand Doctor Rourke that you-“
“Yes, I was right there watching the whole thing. They were magnificent. You’ll have to excuse me.”
Emma Shaw flicked channels to MTV.
She knew the real story, because her brother, Ed, had called her to assure her that he wasn’t seriously injured, thinking she might have heard that his glider was shot down and his flame retardant suit had caught on fire. She hadn’t heard, but breathed a sigh of relief. “That John Rourke, and Rubenstein, too. Talk about two terrific guys to have on your side, Emma! Whoa! I was on fire-the synth fuel was all over me and burning-and the damn heat was getting at me through my suit, see. Doctor Rourke gets all these guys off me, then decks me with a tackle-coulda used him when we used to play football, Sis-and puts the fire out, then-so help me!-he takes out better than a half-dozen guys singlehandedly! One tough guy, lemme tell ya. But I’m fine, Sis.”
When Emma Shaw closed her eyes, she could see John Rourke. She even dreamed about him when she slept. Football. She laughed. She used to play football with Ed and her dad, and they used to let her win just because she was a girl. One time, she almost broke Ed’s arm and then they stopped letting her win and she enjoyed it more. When she’d make a play and do it right, she could really feel good about it.
Emma Shaw stood up, got up off the couch and walked across the large single room which was her “Great Room.” The A-Frame, a combination of synth-stone and synth-wood prefab units, had a fourteen-foot vault at the height of the
ceiling where the joists met. It looked like a mountain cabin should look, a real fireplace that could burn real wood as well as synth-logs, the whole nine yards. Barefoot, she walked up the three steps to the level of the little hall and turned left toward the kitchen. Her phone was resting on the counter and she picked it up, started walking back toward the couch, touching the numerals for the Pearl Harbor Base Locater.
She got John’s number and had herself connected. To her surprise, no answering unit cut in. It was John himself. “Hello?”
“John, uhh. It’s Emma Shaw.”
“Yes?”
Tm sure you probably don’t want to, but would you like to come up into the mountains to my place for dinner? I’m not half bad cooking.”
“Sure.”
Emma Shaw dropped the telephone. “John!” She was on her knees on the steps. “You still there?” I
“Yeah. Sure it won’t be too much trouble?” j
“No! No, nothing I like better than cooking!” There were I several things she liked better than cooking, including flying j and some things she wasn’t about to mention to John Rourke over the telephone. “Easy to find my place. Just come up Highway 1 to the turnoff for Darkwood Way. Follow Darkwood Way until you’re up into the mountains. You’ll see I a sign for Theodore Roosevelt Drive. Take that up, north. j YouU see my box.” Why did she say that? “My delivery j box, I mean. Just come on up the drive. Shouldn’t take you j more than thirty minutes.” :-
“What time?” John asked her.
She looked at the clock on the vidscreen. It was nearly seven and she’d have to take a shower, fix her hair, dress, . make dinner. “Eight-thirty? That’s too late, isn’t it?” |
“No, that’s fine.” ;
“Just dress comfortable, huh?”
“Sure. Should I bring anything?”
She thought for a minute. She’d grocery shopped and had plenty of booze. “What do you like to drink?” It’d probably be the one thing she didn’t have.
“Well, I used to be partial to Seagram’s Seven.”
What the hell was that? “Uhh, John?”
“Yes?”
“What is that?” She should have watched more old movies when she was a kid, not the westerns but the spy and detective flicks. But she’d always liked the westerns.
“Blended whiskey.”
She sighed her relief audibly. “I’ve got plenty of that! See you, then.” “Looking forward to it.”
She hung up. What if he’d wanted to say something else? Had she cut him off?
Emma Shaw spun on the balls of her bare feet and looked toward the kitchen. “It’s microwave time!” She went into action …
John Rourke had just walked in from debriefing when Emma Shaw caught him on the telephone. As soon as she rang off, he called Commander Washington for a recommendation on getting a car. Washington said it would be all right to check out an FOUO electric car from Pearl’s motor pool. Then Rourke called the hospital, checking again on Michael. Natalia, who’d been looked at, was fine; she was with Michael, who was sleeping and doing well, too. Then he called Paul, telling him, “Remember Emma Shaw? She asked me up to her place for dinner. Tell Annie, huh? See you tomorrow.”
Emma Shaw was a pretty girl, but more important than that she was intelligent and gutsy; he enjoyed talking to her and could use some relaxation.
After making his phone calls, he changed to a new flint in the battered old Zippo windlighter he always carried and re
filled with synth-fuel. These days, lighters were either the disposable kind, but synth-fueled, or more commonly electric. He preferred what he was used to. The Germans were working on self-renewing metals, something about which he hadn’t read sufficiently to understand fully. But, if he had it right and could get them to make flints for him, he’d never have to change flints again.
But, that would be too perfect; without work, what was life?
He cleaned his guns, too, reasoning that after he got out of the shower there would be no sense getting his hands all covered with lubricant. Emma Shaw implied she was a good cook; a homecooked meal and some good conversation would be a treat…
The robot vacuum, thank God, was back from the shop and working. While it sucked its way over the floors, she’d gone about the house in its wake, trying to keep up, grabbing up everything small enough to be conveniently moved, giving a lick and a prayer with the ultrasound duster, then moving on …
John Rourke scrubbed at his hair to get out the blonde dye he’d washed in to accompany what he considered his less than inspirational performance as a German tourist. He hadn’t had the time to wash it out before going off with the SEAL and Tac Teams. He smudged off the steam on the crystal of his Rolex. A couple of minutes to dress, then a quick walk down to the motor pool and off …
Emma Shaw was running out of time even before she got out of her T-shirt and panties and stepped into the shower. Once the water was on, she scrubbed shampoo through her hair with one hand while she lathered her body with the other, sort of like whistling, jumping up and down on one foot, and rubbing her tummy at the same time. She told herself to calm down. Regardless of the time (she refused to look at her wristwatch, at the same time reminding herself to get it off her wrist when she dressed because the timepiece was too clunky and mannish looking), she stood under the warm water, the conditioner rinsed out of her hair, no other purpose for standing there naked and wet than that it felt good.
But her mind was not idle.
She was about to entertain a living legend, a twentieth-century adventurer who was, in a technical manner of speaking, still married and despite the fact that she tried to ignore it, who outranked her considerably. And he was terrific looking, with just the right sprinkling of grey in his dark brown hair, those gorgeous brown eyes so full of soul and meaning and-I “You’re losing it, Emma,” she told herself. If she kept think-; ing about John Rourke, she’d need another shower …
I John Rourke, hair combed, stood naked in front of his two black ballistic nylon bags. There’d been no opportunity to organize his lodgings and, at any event, clothes these days didn’t wrinkle so there wasn’t much concern over keeping them in his bags. He took out a grey tweed sportcoat, black
short-sleeved knit shirt, black slacks, black socks, a pair of underpants, a handkerchief and
one of the two dress belts he owned. The belt, lined, was made for him Before The Night of The War by Milt Sparks. He’d treated the leather each time before taking The Sleep and each time after Awakening. A little Brasso (he had the Germans reproduce the venerable old product for him) and the brass buckle looked as good as
I it had the first day he’d gotten it. But now, the buckle polished, he didn’t even need the Brasso …
*
Emma Shaw, her terrycloth bathrobe cinched at her waist and her hair wrapped in a bath towel stood, feet planted firmly in pink scuffs, staring into her closet. At her BOQ, she had a couple of civvie dresses, blouses and skirts, some jeans and whole bunches of uniform-related items, everything from dress whites with A-line skirts and funny hats to battle < dress utilities and flightsuits. In this closet, however, reposed the bulk of her wardrobe. There were four bridesmaid’s dresses-one pink, one purple, one yellow and one baby blue-each of which she had worn exactly once, discounting j fittings. From there, ritziness went downhill quickly. ■
Twentieth Century women dressed in a style anywhere ] from Donna Reed’s to Madonna the singer’s. Emma Shaw’s closet contained neither demure-looking full-skirted shirtwaist dresses nor erotic-looking corsets and garter belts. What would a six-hundred-year-old Twentieth-Century man of the j world (God, how many women would he have, have, whatevered with?) expect her to wear? Her watch-the one that was waterproof, shockproof, antimagnetic and just about everything else she needed for combat-was still on her left wrist. She looked at it now. It was eight o’clock and her hair was still wet and dinner was only started, not done.
There was a system she could use if she had to: close her eyes and reach into the closet and wear whatever she touched. With her luck, it’d be one of the awful looking bridesmaid’s dresses. And, boy, would that be subtle, she thought…
John Rourke slipped his feet into the pair of black leather loafers and picked up his double Alessi shoulder rig. He slung it on, the twin stainless Detonics miniguns already secured. Inside the waistband of his trousers, clipped to his belt, was the A.G. Russell Sting IA Black Chrome. He put on his tweed sportcoat, a spare magazine in each side pocket. He got his wallet, his money (the necessity for money again after all these years was an odd experience), the battered old Zippo, his cigars. The entry card key to his quarters was inside his wallet. He grabbed three items which he clipped into the left inside breast pocket of his jacket: the smaller of the mini Mag-Lites, a brass Heckler & Koch ballpoint pen and a B&D Grande pen-shaped folding knife.
