Survivalist - 15 - Overlord Page 10

  “Only figuratively speaking.”

  “Ahh —I find the dynamics of your language fascinating— Feces creek. I must remember this.”

  “Yes — hopefully you’ll have the chance. Tell me how these Mongols fight —I mean, hand to hand fighting styles.”

  Han seemed to consider this, shifted his eyes toward Michael for an instant, then resumed watching in the likely direction of attack. “You have familiarity with the various fighting styles of—”

  “The martial arts. To a considerable degree, yes. I had two fine instructors.” First his father, and then a few lessons from Natalia.

  “These men are experts at killing with the bare hands, and with exotic edged weapons. What is it exactly which you propose, American?”

  Michael considered his words before uttering them. Then, “We crawl off directly opposite our friends out there — “

  “Our enemies, yes?”

  “And once we’re far enough away, we start to circle around them and find the men farthest out from the main body. We kill them however we can. Silently is best. We keep whittling down — “

  “The sculpting technique where special knives are utilized to form figurines and the like from wood. I have read of this.”

  “Right —well, we sculpture them down until we reach their main concentration, then just open up with all the

  firepower we have. We sneak up on them and murder them, basically. Hopefully. You got any problems with that?” “When?”

  Michael Rourke felt the corners of his mouth raising into a smile. “I like you —now!” He slipped the assault rifle’s rusted magazine into position and handed Han the spare Glock 17 pistol. Loosening the knife old Jon the swordmaker had given him from its sheath, he started into the night, Han beside him …

  Otto Hammerschmidt raised his head, the pain no better and the stiffness worse, but his body adjusted to the cold. He realized he was going to die.

  It was imperative that he find a means of getting free long enough to kill Fraulein Doctor Maria Leuden. Better that than leaving her to be the sexual toy of these barbarians. He had been working to free his wrists throughout the day. He was nearly there …

  Maria Leuden could see the great yellow tongues of the bonfire around which the men who had captured her now sat. They had dragged her nearer to the fire and for that she was grateful. She had ceased wondering when it would happen. The five drank something which smelled like rotted garbage from huge animal skin bags they passed around the fire. If they were saving her as some sort of prize for someone, their resolve might vanish with their other inhibitions—one of the men was dancing around the fire and waving his sword like some sort of madman. She was terrified. And no help would come. She had begun wishing that she had this religious faith that Michael and the Rourke family seemed to possess —she could have prayed that he lived. She decided to try it anyway …

  If they had been detected, there had been no sign of this by the ten or so men who awaited in the night to kill them. They had belly crawled through the snow for a distance of what Michael estimated as an even two hundred yards before changing direction, the greatness of the distance an added margin of safety in the event they should be spotted. None of their attackers had impressed Michael with astoundingly accurate marksmanship.

  The slightly sloping expanse was barren of any real cover or concealment except for the occasional stands of pine and low brush, some of their attackers hidden in similar stands, others hidden behind their fallen mounts.

  It was in one of these stands, some three hundred yards from their original position that Michael rose wearily to his feet, the Chinese agent, Han, joining him.

  “This is tiring work, American,” Han observed. , “Are there more of these guys in close proximity to us?”

  “I do not understand — but wait — yes — there are other units from the Second City which move in this area.”

  “I had some companions. I tried reaching them by radio.”

  “Unfortunately, your radio and the communications system of the First City are not even similar.”

  They had tried altering the frequency of Michael’s radio in the late morning, after Michael’s first unsuccessful attempt to contact Maria Leuden and Otto Hammerschmidt.

  Han spoke again. “You fear they were waylaid or met with some misfortune.”

  “Waylaid more likely.”

  “A woman among them. That could indeed be very bad. Perhaps she was killed instantly. Some of us in the First City are Christian. I assume that you are as well. Pray to Jesus that she died quickly. Otherwise — ” and the Chinese let the sentence hang.

  Michael was not about to pray for Maria Leuden’s death.

  “When we get this business over with,” Michael said, his

  voice low, almost a whisper, “I’d like to see this First City of yours. But if it means going to the Second City itself, I’ve gotta find my friends.”

  “I will help you. But you walk a path which can only lead to tears, American.”

  “I’ll walk it with you or without you.”

  The Chinese clapped his left hand to Michael’s shoulder. “With me, then.”

  There was little danger of running out of the cover of darkness, the night just begun little more than an hour before. But Michael had no desire to prolong the task ahead of them. He decided they could risk a run when the few clouds which were moving in from the west would pass in front of the moon. He gauged the time as perhaps a minute before then. He turned to face Han. “We’ll make a run for it to that stand of pines roughly parallel to their position. As soon as the clouds cover the moon.”

  “And what if the enemy lurks in the trees there?”

  “Then we won’t have to worry about looking for them, will we?”

  Michael checked the luminous face of his Rolex, then glanced skyward, checking the watch again. He made it at roughly ninety seconds or so until the clouds which would soon be covering the moon would have moved off, roughly ninety seconds for the run. He didn’t try estimating the yardage. They would either make it or get caught in the open. There were no other options. There were few other clouds.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes, American.”

  Michael had made it his play and it was not the time to let the Chinese make the first move. As the leading edge of the clouds obscured the three-quarter full moon, Michael ran from the cover of the trees and started into the open, the Chinese assault rifle banging against his right side, in his left hand the copy of the five centuries old Crain knife old Jon the

  swordmaker had given him. His father had one just like it, only larger. But Michael was content with his copy, as his father seemed to be with his longer-bladed original. His father had told him the story of the knife. A long-standing friend of the maker, Jack Crain, John Rourke and Crain had often spoken of designing the ultimate survival knife. It was the era for survival knives, every movie hero —Michael had seen some of the films—with this new one or that new one. And John Rourke, always the survival expert, had decided that indeed such a knife was a wise thing to possess, but that it should be the ultimate of its breed. He had always respected the basic design of Crain’s Life Support series, but valued a longer blade for its psychological impact as well as its physical impact against an opponent. And John Rourke had always favored a style of knife fighting more similar to the art of Kendo, but Kendo was done with a sword. Hence he had required a longer haft which would allow the use of two hands when needed, but a haft not so long as to require two hands to use the blade effectively. They had called it the System X.

  Michael Rourke’s left fist balled more tightly to his knife, the bracken of trees and brush nearing, his feet hammering down the snow, sometimes slipping, Michael manipulating his body weight to keep his balance, sometimes a near thing. He didn’t glance skyward, running at full speed as he was, the stiffness of the cold, the stiffness from crawling those hundreds of yards gone, replaced with a rush of energy, a pounding of the blood. But h
e would know if the clouds passed from in front of the moon—because he would be immediately visible for the enemy to see and fire upon.

  A hundred yards, he judged it. He kept running, the smaller man, Han, beside him. A good runner, Michael Rourke decided. They were racing each other, he suddenly realized, Han trying to pull ahead of him, Michael Rourke almost starting to laugh which would have broken his stride. Instead, he used the last of his kick, the left fist with the knife

  in it extended at his left side, his right hand holding the muzzle of the rifle away from him, his head back and high, shoulders thrown back, mouth gulping more air than he should have, he knew.

  The snow was washed with light. They reached the trees, Michael sagging against one of them, his lungs aching with the cold air he had sucked in. He was breathing so rapidly, he could feel his heart thudding in his chest and there was a moment of lightheadedness and then terrible chill. The lightheadness passed, but not the chill. Han was beside him, smiling.

  Michael had won the race.

  The next question dealt with staying alive, he thought ruefully, considerably less fun and vastly more difficult. He heard movement at the far side of the stand of trees, both he and Han so consumed with the run that neither he nor Han had swept the area for sign of the enemy they hunted. Michael Rourke edged to the side of the tree against which he had sagged, stripping away the assault rifle, passing it to the Chinese. Han took it, Michael making himself disappear into the snow laden trees, the snow falling from the pine boughs, dusting his face and chest and hair and shoulders. He shook some of the snow free and pulled up the hood of the parka against the cold. He kept moving.

  He heard movement, from the same direction as before. He stopped moving, listening.

  The sounds were of two men. He had learned how to use a knife —for killing and for many other purposes — from his father. And then Natalia had taught him refinements in the use of a blade for killing or disabling an opponent. Even his father conceded that Natalia was the vasdy better of the two of them with a knife.

  Michael shifted the knife to his master hand, flexing the fingers of his left hand against the cold, tightening his right fist on the knife, waiting.

  Someone whispered something in a language sounding

  unintelligible to him and he assumed it was one of the Mongols rather than Han speaking to himself. Michael waited. The sounds seemed to shift their pattern, as though one were moving to his right and one were moving to his left. He would have to rely on Han to take the one on the left, who would be nearer to the Chinese at any event. Michael Rourke began moving, dropping to his knees to stay below the level of the pine boughs and the noise they might make if he brushed against them and dislodged snow.

  He kept moving, as swiftly as he could, more swiftly he judged on hands and knees than the Mongol would move on two feet. He heard betraying sound again, a twig breaking. The Mongol was almost even with him. Michael leaned against a tree trunk, beneath the level of the branches, closing his eyes for an instant, evening his breath. When he opened his eyes and looked to his left he saw the Mongol, coming, dodging pine boughs, his pistol in his left fist, a long, curved blade sword in the other. The curve of the blade was more pronounced than that of a saber, yet less so than that of a scimitar. There would be no wisdom in matching the man blade for blade, though Michael would have trusted the strength of his own knife over any blade except perhaps the one his father now carried. And the noise of a fight would betray their position.

  He wished for Natalia and her Walther PPK/S and silencer, but he had neither. The Germans were good at that sort of thing. He made a mental note to see if they could build a sound muffling device that might work with one of the Berettas he regularly carried, but it would require a slide lock because of the open design of the slide. And he disliked contraptions which complicated the blissfully simple. He shelved the thought, returning to the tactical problem at hand. He would have to kill the man instantly. The question was how. He could think of no comparable situation related to him by his father. Michael Rourke looked at the knife in his hand. The first time he had ever taken the life of an

  enemy he had been but a little child, and he had used a boning knife that was simply a very sharp kitchen utensil and stabbed a man who had been about to sexually assault his mother. The kidney.

  Michael closed his eyes for an instant, summoning all of his energy into his imagined center, to transmit it to his right hand and the knife. He opened his eyes, the Mongol dead even with him. If he could penetrate the neck at the spinal column and then quickly move to so immobilize the gun as to avoid a death spasm triggering a shot —

  He lunged forward, the Mongol starting to turn, Michael’s knife thrusting into the rear of the neck, a crack that sounded almost as loud as a pistol shot. But it was bone. Michael let go of the knife and reached for the pistol, dodging as the sword swiped toward him in the Mongol’s spasm of death. But his left fist closed over the gun, the hammer falling against the web of his hand. Michael followed the dead man down, his right hand recocking the hammer—it was an old Government Model .45 with Chinese markings or a copy of one. He wondered if he were holding something which dated to World War II, ancient history to him. He raised the hammer, freeing his hand, then freed the gun, then lowered the hammer. He shoved the pistol into his belt, not desiring any spare magazines for it, simply getting the gun under his control rather than leaving it for someone else. He took the sword from the dead man’s grip. The sword seemed unremarkable. But he took it anyway. He freed his knife from the dead man’s neck, then made a quick search of his clothing. A picture of a naked girl that smelled vaguely like someone had ejaculated on it. “What a prince,” he murmured. He unlimbered the assault rifle. It was like the one Han and the others carried, and if anything in worse condition. He wiped his knife clean of blood on the dead man’s clothes, then wiped the knife clean of the dead man’s clothes with snow. He held the knife in his left fist, the inferior but longer sword in his right, the assault

  rifle slung across his back, muzzle down. He had heard no sounds, which either meant Han and the second Mongol had not yet met or that one of them was very good. In the event it wasn’t Han, he was doubly alert. He reasoned that had it been the Mongol who was very good, there would have been no need for silence and so he would have heard the fight. Unless the Mongol were really good.

  He moved slowly, crossing a small path through the pines and stopping abruptly. Han stood bent over a dead Mongol, a long, thin bladed dagger in his right fist, literally dripping blood. It was apparendy Han who was good. Or at least better …

  His hands were free of the ropes, had been for, as Otto Hammerschmidt reckoned it, at least fifteen minutes. He had been massaging his wrists and flexing his fingers, at first painfully, ever since.

  His feet were still bound and the feeling in his feet and legs was such that he doubted he could move very rapidly if at all. But his hands and arms would be all he needed now.

  One of the five men —they all danced about a fire now some distance from him. He had seen Maria Leuden as they had taken her toward it. But one of the five, who had taunted him several times during the day, hooked the tip of a knife blade in Hammerschmidt’s nose, laughed, punched him, slapped him. This would be the man Hammerschmidt would eradicate to get a weapon. He would be sure of that death at least before he took Maria Leuden’s life. And Hammerschmidt, in that instant, questioned his own resolve. To kill Fraulein Doctor Leuden would be inexcusable, but to let her live for the fate these barbarians offered would be worse.

  He wondered if he were a victim of the old thinking, that some beings, however human, were unremittingly inferior. He had tried to purge himself of these doctrines even as they had been taught to him under the old Nazi rule, ever since

  his earliest childhood memories in school, in pre-military training. He had somehow known this thinking was wrong, immoral. But these men who had taken him and Fraulein Doctor Leuden were human beings only because they walk
ed about on two legs and could speak. But they were without any of the qualities which made humans human.

  He was not a superman destroying a racial inferior, but a man destroying vermin for a cause that was good —to save Fraulein Doctor Leuden. And in killing her, he was giving her the gift of mercy.

  Otto Hammerschmidt felt himself ready. He began to bend to work at the knots which bound together the ropes encircling his ankles, and the sudden change in posture made him lightheaded and he nearly fainted.

  There was no hope of escape. Only to do what had to be done. With fingers that shook from cold and still felt thick from the constriction of blood, he began to work at the knots at his ankles, forcing himself to stay conscious. He must …

  They had crossed from the pines to a large outcropping of rock, expecting that some of the Mongols might be hidden here, but there were none. Now, on knees and elbows, Michael Rourke, Han beside him, crawled the distance separating the rocks from the next pine bracken.

  The enemy would be there. How many, how few. It was of no importance. He would fight and win or fight and die. And if he won, he would find —he realized that what he felt for Maria Leuden was more than friendship and he resisted this. He told himself he was tired, horny—love was something he had experienced once. He would not experience it again.

  He kept moving, the liberated assault rifle strapped to his back, the one he had field stripped and reassembled and at least marginally cleaned in both fists now, at the level of his head as he crawled. He had seen the few movies his father

  had on tape which dealt at all with the theme of war, and in one he had seen men crawling beneath barbed wire during training, holding their rifles like he held his. His father had told him that live ammo was fired over the heads of the men. Michael had thought that sensible for realistic training, if somewhat reckless. It had seemed unpleasant to do. Experiencing it now, minus the machinegun fire, it seemed no more pleasant. They were nearly up to the pines, Michael starting to move into a standing position, taking cover at the farthest edge, Han beside him then.