Survivalist - 20 - Firestorm Page 13

  Michael tried pulling away, got to his left knee, reached for the sting with both hands. As he looked up, he saw the face which belonged to the gloved hands. And he saw the hands more closely.

  The hands were half-gloved, half-wrapped in human skin and the face was nearly obscured in a frozen mat of beard and eyebrows and long hair which almost hooded the head, eyes glowing out at him

  from the center. As Michael twisted at the sling, something impacted his right arm and he fell left, realizing as he fell that not his arm had been struck, but the rifle stock. A club-it was a human femur-swung through the air and downward toward him.

  Michael let himself fall, the pain at the left side of his neck where the sling pressured against him excruciating. He told himself he’d lived through worse as his left hand found the butt of the knife made for him by old Jon the Swordmaker. He ripped it from die learner and arced it left to right, slicing through the tensioned web fabric sling, his bodyfalling all the way back now that he was free of it, the femur passing inches from his eyes and nose.

  He slipped back through the snow, down along the rocky defile which had been his path to the Soviet half-track truck, spreading his arms and legs to slow himself, feeling returning to his right wrist and hand, with it pain.

  The second neanderthal-like man-he was a Wild Tribesman, obviously one of those who had turned to cannibalism for survival-threw himself forward, diving, impacting the snow inches from Michael as Michael skidded into a wall of granite, his left shoulder impacting it hard. He nearly lost the knife.

  The Wild Tribesman was to his feet, the first one running through the snow as if it weren’t there, he moved so quickly. Michael’s right hand worked well enough and he reached to the flap holster at his side, tearing open the closure, his fingers clutching for the rubber grips. As the first Wild Tribesman-now brandishing the M-16, but inverted, holding it by the muzzle to use as a club - came within striking range, Michael had the four-inch barreled .44 Magnum clear of the leather, firing it from chest height, double actioning it once, then once more, then again, all three 180-grain jacketed hollow points connecting; he could see the bits of ragged military uniforms and pelts of human flesh covering the Wild Tribesman spraying away under the impacts.

  Man followed gun, the M-16”s butt plowing into the snow, the Wild Tribesman’s face and torso just after it.

  As Michael Rourke wheeled to take the second man, something hit him from the left, the full force of another human body, a third Wild Tribesman crashing down on him from the rocks against which Michael had impacted seconds earlier.

  Michael’s revolver discharged, the second Wild Tribesman’s human bone club flying upward into the snow, lost in the darkness as me bullet hit the Wild Tribesman’s right shoulder. Michael Rourke fell back, sprawling into the snow, but still clutching his knife.

  The Wild Tribesman who had tackled him tackled him again, Michael rolling across the snow with him, the man’s weight crushingly heavy as they stopped, Michael beside the edge of die pathway downward toward the truck, the Wild Tribesman’s snarling face over his, the Wild Tribesman’s right knee on Michael’s left forearm, pinning the knife down as well. Michael smashed upward with his right elbow, contacting bone, the Wild Tribesman rolling off him, but Michael’s right arm numb.

  To his feet, regrasping the knife old Jon had made for him.

  The Wild Tribesman, from beneath a ragged Soviet arctic parka, likely the “skin” of a former prey, drew two Soviet Elite Corps bayonets, charging toward Michael now, both bayonets held clumsily like daggers.

  Michael Rourke ducked left and down, slicing the knife in his hand through a snowdrift, scooping snow onto the blade flat, hurtling the snow into the face of his attacker. The Wild Tribesman’s head snapped back and his eyes blinked. Michael lunged into a half-right turn, his knife held like a rapier, stabbing toward the carotid artery of the Wild Tribesman. The Wild Tribesman’s right shoulder flexed and Michael’s knife deflected across the shoulder muscles and over the Hppermost right side of the back. The Wild Tribesman spun toward him, driving both bayonets downward. Michael dropped, rolled left, his legs scissoring outward and around the right leg of the Wild Tribesman. There was a snapping sound in the cold air, the Wild Tribesman’s right leg caving in as a hideous scream issued from his hps.

  Michael rolled away, the Wild Tribesman throwing his body mass toward Michael, both bayonets driving downward.

  Michael Rourke came up to his right knee, lunging forward with the full extent of his left arm, driving the copy of the five centuries old Life Support knife edge upward into the Wild Tribesman’s groin, then letting his own body weight drag the blade upward until it locked against bone.

  Michael rolled left as the Wild Tribesman collapsed, blood geyser-ing from the arteries Michael’s weapon had severed. Michael breathed. There was a sound half like a snarl, half like a

  scream. To his left. The Wild Tribesman he’d wounded, die one who’d been coming at him with the human bone club, charging toward him now, barehanded, right arm limp at his side.

  They were evenly matched, the Wild Tribesman and Michael Rourke’s right arms both useless to them. To his feet. The Wild Tribesman came like some charging locomotive. Michael edged back. There was no time for a weapon. As the Wild Tribesman threw himself toward Michael, Michael wheeled right in the trampled flat snow, his left leg rising, his numb right arm going out for balance, his left foot impacting the Wild Tribesman against the already injured right arm. The Wild Tribesman screamed.

  As die Wild Tribesman stumbled, nearly past Michael, Michael finished the turn he’d started, the Wild Tribesman reeling, Michael Rourke jumping upward, drop kicking die Wild Tribesman in the injured right shoulder and right side of the chest, Michael’s body vibrating with die impact. Michael fell. The Wild Tribesman swayed like an axed-through tree, then fell away, over die side of the path, in die next instant the sound of safety glass shattering.

  The Wild Tribesman had impacted the cab of the Soviet half-track truck below.

  Michael Rourke lay there for an instant, catching his breath, sweat bathing his body beneath the arctic gear, suddenly freezing cold. His right arm was still numb.

  Despite the cold, Michael opened his parka enough to access the Beretta 92F under his right armpit with his left hand, snapping it free, thumbing up the ambidextrous safety.

  To bis feet. He stumbled, caught himself.

  Things to do. Close the parka. Check the other two, making certain, although there was little doubt about the one with the knife in his crotch.

  His father and Paul would be coming, might have heard the sounds of die fight over the open radio transmitter in his right outside pocket-unless it was smashed. But they would have heard the sound of the gunfire at any event.

  And so would any Russian patrols in the area.

  Michael moved toward the edge of the path and looked downward. He could see the legs of the Wild Tribe cannibal, twisted, protruding upward through the cab of the half-track truck.

  He spotted his revolver in the snow and started toward it.

  Michael Rourke reached the revolver. Shivering now, he placed the Beretta under his limp right arm, caught up the revolver, shook some of the snow free from it, then thrust it into his belt. Again, he regrasped the Beretta.

  The next task was the M-16.

  But that was higher up along the trail.

  He started to look for it, knowing that if he didn’t keep moving until the sweat dried gradually from body heat, he stood a chance of freezing to death. Michael Rourke kept moving.

  wound in the man’s left shoulder.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The man from the charred helicopter was little more than a boy, a lieutenant in Wolfgang Mann’s command by the uniform insignia he wore. But the head wound was so severe that Annie marveled at the fact he’d been able to make the transmission at all. She said as much to Natalia, kneeling there beside her in the meager shelter of the gunship as they fought to stabili
ze his condition to the point where it might be possible to get him back to die facilities at the Retreat, and there, just perhaps, save his life.

  “He didn’t make the transmissions. Fd be willing to bet on that,” Natalia said, keeping her voice so low that Annie could barely hear her over the keening of the wind. This is a trap. He is real, all right, and the injuries certainly are. But there’s something wrong, Annie.”

  Annie Rourke Rubenstein looked around them. There were no signs of booby traps in the wrecked gunship, but that could have meant there really were some. There had been no footprints outside the machine, but with the blowing and drifting of die snow, any such markings would have been erased within seconds of being made.

  “Are you sure?”

  Tve seen enough head injuries in my life to know this man couldn’t have been talking on die radio. This head wound would have made him unconscious-like he is now-instantiy. Someone else sent the transmission and left this poor man here for us to find so everything would look genuine.”

  To get us out here? But why not-“

  “Strike now?” Natalia looked up from her work. “Whoever it is, wants all of us. That means getting inside the Retreat.”

  “But we can’t not take him back. He’d die. WhafO we do, Natalia?”

  “Fm working on that,” Natalia answered. Annie could see her eyes smiling where the snow goggles were pulled down. And Annie Rourke drew her M-16 closer to her before continuing to dress the shrapnel

  John Rourke stood beside his son as Paul walked back from the Soviet half-track truck, the location Vassily Prokopiev had given for the capsule containing the data on the Particle Beam technology quite specific. Paul opened his gloved right hand and John Rourke opened his, the capsule dropping from one hand to the other.

  “How do we read this?” Michael asked, Rourke glancing at him. Michael was rubbing his right arm near the wrist. After as thorough an examination as circumstances allowed under such severe weather conditions, John Rourke was quite confident there was no serious damage.

  “Fd think ifs some sort of microfilm, possible microdots. In either case, we should be able to find a means of reading aboard the Atsack. Which is the next order of business, gendemen” Rourke said, looking at his son and at his friend. John Rourke slung his M-16 slighdy forward as he secured die capsule carefully into an inner pocket of his parka. “If anything happens on die way, tliis has to get through to New Germany and to Mid-Wake.

  “Why both?” Paul asked. “For the obvious reason?”

  And John Rourke smiled, nodded. If they both have it, neither one will have the edge. I don’t want to have one war lead us into another. Come on.” And he pulled up the snow goggles as he tightened the snorkel hood closer about his face.

  Herr Colonel. You are the finest officer under whom I have ever served or could hope to serve.” “WeH, then?”

  Hammerschmidt shrugged his shoulders-“Checkmate, Herr Colonel.”-and moved the white queen.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  There seemed to be two classes of these J7-V aircraft, Jason Darkwood noted, and this was evidendy one from the luxury class. Colonel Mann’s J7-V had a full bathroom, everything included, even a small stall-type shower, much like those on Soviet Scout Class submarines.

  Jason Darkwood, the pain in his head and neck throbbing only moderately, took the container of pills given him by Doctor Munchen and opened it. He was to take one every four hours and have the prescription renewed at New Germany. And yes, Doctor Munchen had told him, the drug they contained reacted with adrenaline, in some patients more than others; but, die reaction was not harmful. Jason Darkwood also realized that there were two definitions of the word “harrnful.” To him, as a Fleet Officer in the United States Navy, a little pain was better than a lot of impaired judgment and a nervous reaction which prohibited normal activity.

  He spilled the contents of the bottle into the chemical toilet and flushed it. He looked at himself in the mirror, noticed he was smiling.

  Jason Darkwood felt better already…

  Otto Hammerschmidt realized he was faced with the horns of the proverbial dilemma. He was a captain. He played chess with the ranking field grade commander in all of New Germany, Colonel Wolfgang Mann. There were general staff personnel, of course, but they never ventured into the field. The dilemma was that he could checkmate Colonel Mann on the next move.

  “And what are you waiting for, Captain?”

  Hammerschmidt looked up. “Herr Colonel?”

  “Do you have so httle respect for me, Hammerschmidt?”

  Otto Hammerschmidt replied, “I have the greatest respect for you,

  Horst Hammerschmidt remembered the time he and his older brother, Otto, had run afoul of three boys in the Youth. The boys, schoolmates of Otto’s, had pressed after Otto for several months to join and abandon his school athletics. It was because Otto was so good in intramural sports that it was not compulsory for him to join the Youth. Horst Hammerschmidt had perfected his athletic abilities so he could achieve the same exemption.

  In those days, there had been no question-at least among the younger people of New Germany-to the leader’s near mfallibility and the preeminence of Nazism over all other philosophies, had any others even been openly available for study. But the Youth were fanatics, many of them.

  The three boys had followed Otto and Horst home from a track competition in which older and younger boys were competing. Horst had competed in the triple broad jump, the 220 and the 440, not against his brother, but against students his own age and year. Otto was master of the 220, but excelled equally at the mile and the high jump.

  On the way toward die main entrance to the city from the playing field, the three boys from the Youth had intercepted them. Their leader, Hugo Goerdler, an older boy who, it was said, worked with the Youth simply to satisfy his unnatural sexual appetites, insisted then and there that Otto and Horst quit athletics and join the Youth.

  Otto’s word was law with Horst then, the beginnings of the respect he had always held for his older brother. Otto had looked at him. Then Otto looked at Hugo Goerdler. “I will not, Hugo. Nor will my brother, Horst. Now, leave us.”

  That was when the fight began.

  Hugo Goerdler stepped back and told the other two boys to show the Hammerschmidt brothers the error of their ways.

  Despite the fact that the Youth boys carried clubs made from heavy sticks, the Hammerschmidt brothers prevailed.

  Then Otto turned to Hugo Goerdler, who stood there, almost paralyzed with fear. Otto said to him, “Fight me, Hugo.” “I will not fight you.”

  Otto walked up to Hugo Goerdler, wiping blood from his lower lip where one of the stick clubs wielded by the two Youth boys had connected. Otto punched Hugo Goerdler in the mouth. It was a fast up-percut and knocked Hugo Goerdler flat on his rear end. As Hugo Goerdler fell back into the grass, he began to cry. Otto hauled Hugo Goerdler to his feet. Goerdler begged for mercy. Otto told Goerdler, “If you ever bother my brother or me again, I will beat you until you have no tears left. Remember that.” And Otto let go of Hugo Goerdlefs uniform front and let Goerdler fall back into the grass.

  It had been warm in the sun as Horst Hammerschmidt and his big brother, Otto, walked home together, exchanging anecdotes about the fist fight, singing each other’s fighting skills, laughing-but a little hollowly as Horst Hammerschmidt remembered it now - at the tragically pathetic character of Hugo Goerdler.

  Horst Harnmerschmidfs mind focused on that warm spring sunshine of years ago.

  Because he was dying now, freezing to death …

  Jason Darkwood was in dress blues. He remembered Maggie Barrow, when she’d helped him pack, telling him, “What are you going to need dress blues for?”

  “A Fleet Grade officer may be called upon-“

  “Oh, well, excuse me, Captain, sir!” And she saluted him. She looked kind of funny saluting him because she was wearing one of his shirts and nothing else. They’d just made love, for trie first t
ime in a long time. In a way; Jason Darkwood wondered if that was part of what had unnerved him. Had she made love to him because she thought she’d never see him again, as a parting gift?

  He had to find out, because if she hadn’t, he wanted to convert some of his United States Savings Bonds into cash and help her to start a civilian practice at Mid-Wake. Married women could serve in the Navy-as doubdess Maggie would as a Reserve Officer-but not sea duty.

  He loved her.

  He straightened his tie as the fuselage door opened.

  He stood.

  Colonel Mann, his cap at a slightly jaunty angle, Otto Hammerschmidt, die epitome of spit and polish, Sam Aldridge, boots shined to mirror brightness-Jason Darkwood stepped up to stand beside Colonel Mann. They were of equal rank, but Darkwood stood to the left.

  He recognized the song being played by the military band. And he had spotted the counter-snipers surrounding the air field as they’d taxied.

  The song was Deutschland Uber Alles …

  The meal, veal, vegetables, pasta, things Jason Darkwood couldn’t even recognize added in for good measure, was beyond the point of satisfying, nearly orgasmic.

  Now, smnVing cigars, along with Colonel Mann, Sam Aldridge and Otto Hammerschmidt and a rather unprepossessing older fellow named Deiter Bern, Jason Darkwood sat in a beautifully panelled library. Paneling was a novelty to him-real paneling-because at Mid-Wake, there was no wood of course.

  A knock came at the doors and Colonel Mann turned toward it, as did Deiter Bern, the headman of New Germany, Darkwood unsure of his proper tide beyond “Doctor.”

  A junior grade officer, uniform creases sharp enough to cut a tough shark steak, entered die room, saluted Colonel Mann (despite the fact both were uncovered) and even bowed slighdy.

  Colonel Mann returned the salute, took the message handed to him and read it.