Survivalist - 12 - The Rebellion

by Ahern, Jerry

  “This isn’t a normal lock, John. I don’t think—”

  “You’ve got to,” Rourke told her quietly.

  She looked up at him. “Yes, I do, don’t I?” She exhaled loudly, peering again at the lock, working the probe. “Wait—wait a minute. Maybe—yes.”

  Gunfire again. Mann shouted, “Herr Doctor, I can’t

  hold them much longer. Hurry!”

  Rourke didn’t answer, securing the dressing in place with tape.

  Natalia was twisting the pick. “This could take hours, but—I don’t think—I don’t think that it will.” She withdrew the pick and twisted the probe once, the lock popping open. “Five points,” she said, smiling, “for the KGB’s Chicago espionage school, hmm?”

  Rourke leaned across Bern’s unconscious body and touched her face with his hands. “I love you very much. Remember that always. I don’t know what’s gonna happen, but remember that—now help me with him.” Natalia put away her picks as Rourke pried the collar open and slowly removed it from Bern’s neck, lest some booby trap were present even Wolfgang Mann hadn’t known of.

  None was.

  Natalia threw down Mann’s bag, Rourke reaching into it for the web harness, slipping it onto his shoulders, Natalia straightening the straps. It gave him a feeling of deja vu— the rescue of Paul from the burning helicopter. How many days ago?

  The harness strapped across his chest, he eased the frail-seeming old man from the cot, propping him up, Natalia taking his weight then as Rourke stooped. Rourke hauled Bern up, onto his back, Natalia buckling the straps as Rourke settled into the added weight.

  “Hurry,” she hissed, running toward the opening in the wall, Mann’s bag slung again at her side.

  She was already clambering through the opening, the rope in her hands—and she swung away.

  Heavy caliber fire from the ground below—Rourke looked down to the crew-served weapon. Some sort of recoilless rifle, Rourke realized. “Natalia!”

  But she was already climbing along the wall, upward, the weapon discharging again, a chunk of the wall surface blowing away under the impact, mere feet from her body.

  Rourke tucked back, Bern’s weight heavy on his back.

  He peered through the opening again. Natalia was nearly to the parapets, the recoilless rifle discharging again, another chunk blowing out of the wall.

  Natalia—he looked up—was gone, but the rope snaked down. Rourke reached for it, the crack and whine of the recoilless rifle from below. Rourke drew back, a chunk of wall two feet to the right from the hole blowing away. The rope snapped back, Rourke reaching for it and catching it. He locked it into the rings at the front of the harness, then climbed through the hole, ducking lest he injure the unconscious man on his back.

  He tugged at the rope, feeling it draw upward as he swung out, his hand gripping it through his synthetic BDU leather gloves. The winch from the bag Mann had carried and Natalia had taken from him. He could hear it cranking upward, then the crack and whine of the recoilless rifle again. Chunks of brick and mortar were pelting him as he shielded his eyes, but faced the explosion to protect Deiter Bern with his body.

  The winch—his body wrenched with it—but he was nearly to the parapets, Natalia’s arms reaching down to him, his hands taking hers. She threw her weight back and he half fell over the parapets, to his knees.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Think so,” Rourke breathed, Natalia already freeing Bern of the harness. “You stay,” Rourke told her, shrugging out of the harness as he stood, Bern safe for the moment unless the accurate range of the recoilless rifle could make it this high. They were on the roof of the tower, one of the highest points in The Complex, the parapets protecting them from view. He began feeding the winch rope down through his belt.

  Rourke ran to them now again, taking the single rappelling rope, knotting his hands into it, then vaulting over, rappelling downward, toward the opening into Bern’s cell,

  kicking away, slamming back, then kicking away again, feeding out the rope, the gloves starting to fray with it. Leather was better than any synthetic for gloves, he thought absently.

  He was down, to the level of Bern’s cell, and he swung out now, along the wall laterally, for the first opening Natalia had cut, the second rope attached through his belt still. The recoilless rifle fired again.

  But he was nearly to the first opening. He pushed away again, swinging toward it, his right foot near the opening— he walked it off, dropping through, hooking one hand into the rope which had taken him down, one of the Scoremasters in his right fist, the thumb safety wiping down as he fired into the SS security force barricading Mann into the cell from which he could not escape. One security man down, then another and another, Rourke tucking back along the wall as gunfire hammered toward him. The first rope was drawn in after him and he released it now, ramming a fresh magazine up the butt of the Scoremaster, plaster flying around him. A fresh-loaded pistol in his right fist, a nearly loaded one in his left, Rourke stepped forward, firing, cutting down more of the SS security personnel. “Wolf!” Rourke shouted. “Run for it!”

  The Scoremasters empty, Rourke stuffed them into his waistband, and as each hand became free, drew one of the twin Detonics Combat Masters, firing into the knot of security men. Mann was coming now, running along the corridor, dragging his left leg, firing the machine pistol behind him. Rourke reached to the floor, grabbing a handful of empty shell casings from his .45s.

  Mann passed him, half diving for the rope at the opening. “Use the double rope for the winch,” Rourke shouted as Mann disappeared through the opening. Rourke fired out his pistols, men going down, reaching for the single rope, grasping it, hurtling himself through the opening, the recoilless rifle firing again, chunks of the wall

  surface powdering under the impact.

  Mann was swinging free, the rope going taut—the winch was working.

  Rourke rappelled along the surface of the wall, laterally, reaching the second wall opening. Mann was nearly to the parapets above now, the double rope trailing behind him.

  Rourke took the handful of brass from his BDU trouser pocket, hurtling it through the opening into Bern’s former cell, the cartridge casings flying toward the invisible lattice web that would trigger the poisoned wire fragments—he heard explosions, screams of SS security personnel too close to the door opening.

  The double rope snaked downward, Rourke catching hold of it, his arms nearly wrenched from his sockets as the rope was winched upward. Gunfire beneath him—Rourke glanced back and down. One of the SS security men was firing his machine pistol through the first opening.

  Rourke held to the rope with his left fist, drawing the Python with his right hand, double actioning it downward, two slugs into the face of the SS man, the body tumbling through the opening and downward fourteen floors.

  Rourke reached the parapets, hurtling himself over, rolling to the momentary safety of the rooftops.

  “John?”

  Rourke looked at Natalia and smiled. “So far so good, huh?”

  Rourke began feeding fresh magazines into the .45s. The Scoremasters were freshly loaded now. Then the Combat Masters. He dumped the cartridges from the Python, using a speedloader to replenish the cylinder, casting aside empty brass, pocketing the four still-loaded ones.

  “Now what?” Natalia asked.

  But Mann was already answering the question, a pocket transmitter in his hands, in German almost shouting over the roar of the recoilless rifle, “This is the Wolf—attack. Attack! Send in the Condor! Attack!”

  There was an opening on the roof from below. Rourke knew what to expect, catching Bern—the old man was beginning to stir—up into his arms, running with him toward the far edge beside the parapets, air conditioning units built into the roofline, a small shed as well. He secreted Bern beside the best cover he could find.

  Natalia was helping Wolfgang Mann, whose left foot was dragging badly now.

  Rourke settled the Python in both fi
sts, waiting for the inevitable.

  “We are ready, Herr Lieutenant!”

  Kurinami nodded, settling back, giving the webbing harness of the seat a good luck tug. Elaine Halverson was shouting something to him from beyond the perimeter of the mini-copter’s rotor blades. It sounded like, “Be careful!”

  He had every intention of that.

  He spoke into the headset’s teardrop microphone. “Colonel Mann—the Condor is flying!” He pulled on the throttle and the rotor speed increased, the mini-helicopter airborne suddenly, skimming over the grassy plain where Mann’s troops had stayed—and they were already moving ahead, Kurinami flying low over them, toward the main entrance of The Complex. It would be the most intricate flying of his life. He had studied the plans for The Complex on the flight down from Argentina, memorized the height of every building—and the width of the opening.

  He was nearing The Complex entrance now, fighting on the ground below him, men dressed in the steel-gray BDUs of SS security but with white arm bands, fighting hand to hand with men dressed identically except for swastika arm bands.

  Groundfire was being aimed toward him, the wind lashing at his face now, tearing at his skin. If he slowed, he’d

  have a better chance of threading the needle and getting through The Complex doors. But if he slowed, the ground-fire would have a better chance of getting to him.

  He heard a ricochet against the framework for the fabric body of the fuselage—his decision was made. Kurinami throttled out all the way, threading the needle. He breathed, judging he’d missed the wall surface with his rotor blades on the portside by less than a foot.

  Ahead—the twin towers, what looked like a recoilless rifle firing up toward the one on his left, fighting visible on the rooftop.

  The Python fired out, Rourke hammered it down across the skull of one of the SS men. Natalia’s knife flashed open, a scream as steel contacted flesh. Wolfgang Mann fired a machine pistol.

  Rourke found the butts of the Scoremasters, the Python fallen from his grasp—he fired both pistols simultaneously point-blank into two SS security personnel.

  Natalia sprang past him, rolling, catching up an assault rifle, her right hand hurtling the Bali-Song—it buried up to the hilt in the chest of an SS man coming up onto the roof.

  Natalia, to her knees now, firing, the assault rifle spitting death from her hands. The Scoremasters in Rourke’s hands were empty now and he smashed one of the pistols into the forehead of an SS man charging for Natalia’s back.

  He stabbed both pistols into his belt, drawing the twin Combat Masters, firing simultaneously with both hands. Bodies fell.

  Natalia was to the roof hatch, firing an assault rifle from each hand down the ladder leading from the fourteenth floor below them.

  Rourke looked skyward—the mini-helicopter. Kurinami.

  Rourke ran toward Natalia, snatching up one of the German assault rifles, firing down the ladderwell at the SS personnel, Natalia firing beside him.

  He heard an explosion from the courtyard below. Gunfire—automatic weapons.

  Beneath them, SS men were fleeing now—downward.

  Rourke stepped back, kicking closed the roof hatch. He threw the empty assault rifle to the roof surface.

  He walked backwards away from the hatch, Natalia wrenching her Bali-Song from the chest of a dead man, wiping the blade clean against the man’s fatigue blouse, then flicking it closed.

  She began speedloading her revolvers.

  Fresh magazines for the .45s—two guns loaded, then all four.

  He picked up his Python from the roof surface. It seemed unscathed. He speedloaded it, dumping the emptied Safariland unit into his musette bag.

  Kurinami—the mini-chopper dubbed Condor was coming, hovering now.

  Rourke ran across the roof, Natalia guarding the hatchway, a captured assault rifle in each hand.

  He dropped to his knees beside Deiter Bern. He had given Bern a B-Complex shot, then a mild stimulant, guessing at the overall state of the man’s health. Too strong a stimulant could have caused death. Bern was stirring now, talking as though half asleep, Mann cradling the old man’s head in his arms, speaking soothingly to him in German. “We’ve gotta get him airborne,” Rourke cautioned.

  Rourke looked overhead—the Condor was settling.

  In the jump seat behind Kurinami, Rourke finished tightening the restraint harness, the semiconscious Deiter Bern talking incoherently. Rourke rolled back the eyelids—

  the eyes were nearly closed. He tapped Kurinami on the shoulder. The Japanese turned his head, nodding as Rourke jumped back, falling into a crouch. The machine started airborne—Natalia was still near the hatchway, Mann lying on the roof beside where she stood, a machine pistol in each hand, Natalia with an assault rifle in each hand.

  Natalia smiled.

  Rourke reached up, the helicopter hovering, his hands closing over the skid as the helicopter lurched fully upward, his arms feeling momentarily as if they would be wrenched from their sockets. Suddenly nothing was below him except the street, more than fourteen stories below, the wind of the slipstream tearing at his face, his hair, the collar tabs of the BDU blouse lacerating his cheeks and his neck.

  The communications building loomed ahead, the Condor beginning to drop, downward, downward—Rourke jumped clear, landing on the flat tarmac of the roof, rolling, coming to his knees, then to his feet, a Scoremaster in each hand as he ran to get clear of the landing helicopter.

  The chopper was down.

  Rourke looked away for a moment, toward the street six stories below him—fighting—but civilians were joining now, joining to fight beside the uniformed men with the white arm bands who fought for democracy.

  Rourke ran back along the roof, toward the landed helicopter. Kurinami was already free of the pilot’s seat, unbuckling Deiter Bern. “Starting to regain consciousness, John!”

  “I hope he does in time to at least talk,” Rourke shouted back.

  The wiry Japanese naval lieutenant caught the frail Deiter Bern up into his arms. “I’m ready,” Kurinami shouted.

  Rourke only nodded, running now toward the roof egress, the artificial lighting of the dome of The Complex several hundred feet above him casting eerie shadows on the rooftop, giving his stainless steel .45s a dull, coppery glow.

  He reached the doorway—a double tae kwan doe kick with his left foot at the glass of the doorway, the glass shattering. Rourke reached through, hammering down the panic bar and wrenching the door open outward.

  The communications center.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Paul Rubenstein had taken what he considered the direct approach—with the Browning High Power Madison had found for him in the truck, he had approached Dodd just as word of Madison’s stealing the truck had reached the Eden Project commander. He had put the muzzle of the High Power to Dodd’s head. After that, it had merely been a matter of keeping it there while Dodd had ordered the truck loaded with provisions from John Rourke’s second pick-up truck, the gear in the tents they had used and, most important, the weapons.

  The cammie-painted pick-up truck was less than eight feet from him now, Michael already aboard in the back of the truck, Madison with the truck started. It was simply a matter of walking eight feet with the gun to Dodd’s head.

  Paul Rubenstein started to walk—and Christoper Dodd’s right hand slapped toward the pistol. Paul turned, recovering his balance, but started to fall, the sickening feeling in his stomach that suddenly all was lost.

  But as he fell, he heard a clear, German-accented voice.

  “You will not move, Captain Dodd—or you will be shot.”

  Munchen.

  “Doctor Munchen, stay outa this,” Dodd snapped. “We need these people’s vehicle, their weapons. We may need them if your German friends attack again.”

  Paul Rubenstein turned his eyes away, a dust devil rising as Doctor Munchen fired a three-round burst from his machine pistol. “The next time, Captain Dodd, you w
ill be dead. As ranking officer here, I represent the interests of my commander. And hopefully also, the interests of reason. No helicopter can be spared to aid them—this is a military necessity. But it is a moral necessity that they be allowed to try—to rescue Annie Rourke. Help Herr Rubenstein to his feet, Captain—and do nothing which will provoke your death.”

  Dodd’s eyes flickered in the lamplight from the nearest tent pole—and then Dodd, very slowly, began to move. He reached down, stopping, Paul Rubenstein holding the High Power in his right hand, his left arm going over Dodd’s shoulders.

  To his feet. With Dodd half supporting him, Paul moved toward the truck, reaching it then, shaking his left arm loose of Dodd, Madison reaching down to him. Paul clambored aboard.

  As he settled behind the wheel, he told Madison, “Keep your rifle on Dodd—he moves, kill the son of a bitch.”

  “Yes, Paul.” She nodded, thrusting the muzzle of the M-16 through the open passenger-side window.

  Paul Rubenstein released the brake, putting the Ford into gear. He shouted past Madison and through her open window. “Doctor Munchen. God bless all of you—I hope you find what you want.”

  Doctor Munchen pulled himself to attention, then curtly bowed his head, nodding. “And to you, Herr Rubenstein— this God, may He bless you as well in your endeavors. I am sorry that no more can be done to help.”

  “I know that.” Paul nodded, then cut the wheel hard left as he eased clutch pressure, turning out of the lamplight and toward the night. Annie …

  Annie Rourke had made her decision. She watched now as Forrest Blackburn loaded supplies aboard the helicopter. When he made his move, she would make it seem as though she realized there was no choice but to surrender to his desires. She would not make it obvious. Tears—they would help.

  And he would undo the straps which bound her. She would hesitate, then pretend that she would accept him.

  From the gear he had found cached, she had noted several objects of interest. Two M-16s. A full flap military holster of some fabric material, inside the holster a pistol. She had watched him as he had checked it, cleaned it of the cosmolenelike substance that had protected it. It was something she recognized from her father’s arms locker—a Beretta 92SB-F, the military 9mm adopted just before The Night of The War. But the object of greatest interest lay in the sheath on the opposite side of the belt—a bayonet for an M-16.