Survivalist - 20 - Firestorm Read online

  Then he walked over to Otto Hammerschmidt. He spoke in English, Darkwood realized out of politeness. “Your brother, Otto, he may be gravely injured. Sergeant Schlabrendorff, whom I believe you know, has just arrived at one of our distant mountain outposts with reports of an attack by the Soviets utilizing some type of energy weapon. An expedition is being mounted even now to reach your brother. You would care to go, of course?”

  “Yes, Herr Colonel.”

  Otto Hammerschmidt looked halfway between death and tears…

  Jason Darkwood’s dress blues would need attending to. There had been no time to hang them up, simply change to batde gear-black BDUs-and grab his weapons and move to the waiting helicopter gunship.

  And they were off.

  Trees, everywhere beneath them, a veritable Biblical Garden of Eden.

  And, he now understood now why the surface dwellers fought as fiercely as they did. The surface was Paradise.

  The story of the Garden of Eden had not been apocryphal, but instead a prediction, a prediction not of the Fall that had been, but the Fall to come. The Night of the War was the Fall. And. now, desperately, men were trying to reclaim their heritage, their future too.

  Paradise was worth dying for.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Paul Rubenstein sat at the main control panel of the Atsack, snow falling so thickly the wiper blades and defrosting system could barely keep pace in providing acceptable visibility.

  Michael came forward and stood beside him. “Want me to spell you for a while?”

  The Atsack was lumbering over a ridgeline toward a plateau they’d crossed enroute to the area where Vassily Prokopiev had told them he’d wrecked the Soviet half-track truck. The snow was deeper, of course, and the erratic winds altered the drift pattern. Because of that and the inherent ruggedness of the terrain, it was necessary to constantly monitor the headsup display showing computer translated readouts from the all-side sensors. Despite the comparatively enormous wheel size and base, the Atsack could get stuck. And no group of human beings, no matter how resourceful or physically strong, could ever hope to push it out without mechanical aid.

  “Paul-you want me to-“

  “Yeah-as soon as we get someplace where if d be safe to change hands on the controls.” Michael leaned over Paul’s shoulder. “Can you talk?” “Sure. Whafsup?”

  “There were a series of microdots. Dad’s got them under a microscope now. Seems to be a full set of plans for both the Particle Beam weapons themselves and the power source.”

  “Great. At least well have what they have.”

  And then Paul heard John’s voice behind him. “Not that great. I don’t think ifs intentional, probably simply because Antonovitch didn’t have enough scientific training to realize. I can barely read the materials. But it seems that the system for linking the power to the weapon in such a way that there isn’t instantaneous discharge-which would atomize the weapon and anything or anyone anywhere near it-it seems that that’was omitted. We’re going to need to get

  our hands on one of the guns themselves in order to make a working prototype from these plans, unless the scientists of New Germany or Mid-Wake are a good deal farmer advanced than available data suggests.”

  “Shit,” Paul observed. The ridgeline was levelling out onto the plateau, and he could already envision himself getting out from behind the Atsack’s controls for a while. He was starting to get a headache. “How do we get one of the guns? Why did I ask that?”

  He heard John Rourke laughing behind him.

  Michael said, “Well, the obvious thing that suggests itself is stealing one, right?”

  John answered, the laughter gone from his voice, replaced by a timbre which suggested some difficulty in speaking, as if emotion were bottled up behind the words. “Logically, Fd suppose what we saw at that Wild Tribes relocation village was a field test for one of the weapons. Before World War Two, gas was tested on defenseless Ethiopians. The Spanish Civil War was in many ways a proving ground for Hitler-the Condor Legion. Let me contact Captain Hartmann at the base. See if there are any more reports of an energy weapon being utilized. Well hurry.”

  As John Rourke finished speaking, Paul Rubenstein noticed something on the headsup display, long range radar data showing incoming vehicular traffic from both the norm and the east. “We’ve got trouble, maybe.”

  The next instant, John Rourke was sitting beside him at die secondary console, Paul Rubenstein able to see him at the far right edge of his peripheral vision. “Looks like three vehicles from the norm and another three from the east, Paul.” He could hear John Rourke’s fingers working over the computer console, summoning data. “Got it. The radar configurations match those of Soviet Armored Personnel Carriers, full track vehicles roughly thirty-five feet in length. Troop capacity is thirty-six, plus a two-man crew. All the data is tentative because they’ve just been introduced into the field.”

  “Great,” Paul observed, not meaning the word the way he had meant it the last time he’d used it. “They’re closing fast. How big are the treads, John?”

  “A meter in width. They should be able to roll over almost anything. Michael?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Climb up into the gun turret. And beep something mind, Michael”

  “What, Dad?” _c “If they’ve just been introduced into the field, these new APCS,

  they might have been introduced with the new armament. Thafd

  give us six Particle Beam Weapons to face.” Paul Rubenstein could feel his armpits starting to get wet with

  sweat.

  The headsup display showed the vehicles moving into some sort ot attack formation. “You got it, Paul?”

  “Long as you want me to, John. Think we can outrun them? or at least outmaneuver them?” “I have a feeling well find out very shortly, Paul.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Otto Hammerschmidt sat staring out the window set in the helicopter’s sliding door to the portside of the fuselage. He said nothing, only stared. The window material was bullet-proof, of course, and slight distortion was evident in the image beyond it.

  The dual (analog/digital) display Steinmetz on Darkwood’s left wrist showed they’d been en route for a little bit more than an hour. These helicopter things were very fast, but Jason Darkwood had to admit they almost seemed to stand still by comparison to the J7-V vertical take-off jet fighter bombers of which the Germans seemed so justifiably proud. If he could get a submarine to move that fast-He smiled at the thought, but a glance again toward Otto Hammerschmidt, in fear for the life of his younger brother, forced the smile away.

  Colonel Mann, tall, straight, his face open and friendly as it always seemed, the eyes clouded in thought or some problem that needed resolution, came aft and sat down beside him. “Captain Darkwood.”

  “Colonel.”

  “We will be reaching the rendezvous site in approximately seven minutes. From the information I have been able to obtain, it would appear that some sort of energy weapon was used by the Soviet personnel who attacked the Commandoes of the Long Range Mountain patrol. Sergeant Schlabrendorff, Lieutenant Hammerschmidt’s senior non-commissioned officer, was worn and tired, not having slept for better than forty-eight hours, still insisting that he be allowed to return to the aid of young Hammerschmidt. He has been brought along, partially sedated. The two men are friends, you see. Rather like you and Captain Aldridge.” Colonel Mann gestured toward Sam Aldridge, Aldridge asleep in the rear of the machine, snoring softly.

  “Is there much chance young Hammerschmidt survived?” “Very little, but he is a good soldier, so we shall not count him among the dead yet.” And he clapped Darkwood on^wigte^T realize you are the veteran of many combats, but there cooM be intense fighting here. We must leave the machines and travel on foot for approximately two kilometers. If the KGB Elite Corps raiders who attacked the Long Range Mountain Patrol are still in the area, there could be considerable difficulty.”

  Jason Darkwoo
d smiled. “I threw away the pills your friend Doctor Munchen gave me. My head aches like someone hit it with a rifle butt, but at least my head’s my head again, if you know what I mean, Colonel.” Colonel Mann smiled, then started to rise. “Good man!”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Michael Rourke’s eyes hurt from staring and he forced himself to blink.

  On the horizon, becoming visible out of a swirl of snow from the north, he saw three of the six Soviet armored personnel carriers.

  If his father were right (and that was usually a foregone conclusion), these might well be armed with the new Particle Beam weapons. What possible defense there could be against them was simple and obvious: run.

  Running was exactly what Paul Rubenstein, still at the controls of the vehicle Michael’s father had dubbed the “Atsack,” was doing now. But in case that didn’t work-Michael Rourke’s hands moved over the dorsal gun’s targeting computer controls, another headsup display showing targeting data appearing in the bullet proof glass dome beneath which Michael sat. All six Soviet APCs were visible to the computer’s sensing devices and, eyeballing the snow for visibility, Michael assumed that the second three would be visible to the naked eye in under sixty seconds.

  He had only test-fired the Atsack’s guns prior to leaving the German base where Vassily Prokopiev was hospitalized, but this test firing much like racking and firing a burst from the Lewis guns mounted on World War One vintage bi-wing aircraft. Yes, the gun system worked.

  As to how well the gun system worked, he would shortly find out, Michael Rourke thought. He ran the computer for updated status on the guns, number of rounds, spacing of electronic tracer rounds.

  And his palms sweated…

  ing upward then, to the windshield and the headsup sensor display there. All six Soviet APCs, perhaps fitted with the new Particle Beam weapons, were closing, boxing them in on the plateau.

  Snow dispersed grudgingly before the Atsack, the all-terrain vehicle’s three meter high wedge of titanium assaulting the drifts as if the snow plow and the snow were living things, locked in mortal combat spawned of hatred. But the wind blew at such velocity and the snow fell so unremittingly, that despite the titanium plow’s tenacity each inch of ground taken from the wind-sculpted drifts was a major engagement.

  The headsup display showed more activity now, new Soviet T-91 tanks closing from the west, the Soviet armor so huge that were the Atsack and one of the tanks to be side-by-side, the Atsack, for all its immensity, would be dwarfed. There were at least a dozen blips on the headsup display identifiable as T-91s, more blips farther away to the west, still not fully identifiable, the readouts on giving probability ratios, the percentages for correct identification rising: a weapon-system German intelligence overflights had only recendy confirmed, its capabilities still not fully known, tactical missile launchers, designated AV-16s.

  Suddenly John Rourke stood up, shouting to Paul Rubenstein, “Stop dead and kill all heat emitting systems and anything that makes noise or an electronic impulse. Do it now! It’s our only chance.”

  John Rourke sat beside Paul Rubenstein, watching the younger man’s hands move over the Atsack’s controls, Rourke’s eyes glanc-

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  He was not the victim of acrash. Of that, Nataha was certam from the first The shrapnel wound in the young officer’s left shoulder clearly showed evidence that the metal fragment-about three inches in length and better than aninch wide-had been stabbedm,likeaknifewouldbe. But the head wound was the most d^rrming evidence. She had seen men beaten before, and he had been beaten, struck severalty area of the head, befiind the left ear, with the proverbial blunt instrument It was doubtful he had regained consciousness since. And, of course, there were die effects of die terrific cold to consider. He suffered from frostbite, hypcttherrnia, shock.

  He was in trouble. But they were in worse trouble, she knew.

  Tve got him as bundled up as I can,” Annie whispered, kneeling beside her m the meager sheltered the gutto^

  Then here’s what we do,” Natalia began, rearranging her head coverings against the cold. Til leave you here. Theyllthinkrm going backto the Retreat to get help to bring him in. So, theyflfoUow me ami they’ll leave some of their people to watch you. Unless they’re stupid, they won’t move against you, just in case they lost me, they’d warn to be certam that whenlbringbackhelplwon’t suspect something is wrong, ni lead them in the general direction of the Retreat, then turn off and wah for d^ catch up. Youl just have to have faith I haven’t lost my touch,” Natalia smiled.

  Annie looked at her, pushing her hood back for a moment, tightening her scarf. “You’re like Daddy. You were bom with die touch,” and she reached out and embraced Natalia.

  Natalia smiled again. If it works, rn come back, circle around into the field out there and try to pinpoint their location.”

  “Ifs Rausch, isn’t it, flat man who wants tokfll my mother?”

  “Yes. I think so. From what your mother said, he must be very good, so we shouldn’t underestimate him. He led your father on a merry chase and eluded him. Ordinary men dont slip through your fathefs fingers” Then she looked at die injured pilot. “Keep him as warm as you can. Thafs all we can do. If we can do this fast enough and well enough, maybe well get him back to the Retreat in time to save his life.”

  Natalia touched at the young man’s face. He was a beautiful boy, and probably younger than she thought.

  Then she looked out into the darkness as she rjuUed the scarf up over the lower portion of her face and tightened her hood. The men who had beaten this boy were hardly to be called men at all. And they were out there. She felt a queasiness in her stomach, wondering if srje still did have it.

  And blowing there was only one way to findout…

  Jason Darkwood’s knowledge of horses was limited to movie and television videos with such legendary stars as John Wayne, James Stewart, Clayton Moore, Jay Silverheels, Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. They rode proud animals, many with silver mounted saMes and names steeped in courage and romance-Silver, Scout, Trigger.

  He’d asked if the horse he rode-neither a partly Arabian albino, nor

  brown and white paimrioragolctenPalo^ He was told

  he could call die animal “Fritz.”

  No silver mounted saddle either, merely soniething that looked reminiscent of the McClellan saddles John Wayne and his men had ridden in afl those cavalry versus the Indians m m^placecaUedMonurneiityiey girl who was quite the student of film and televisionmthedecaate to the Night of the War and me trivia attendant to these rjroductions had made interesting conversation at times). As they rode, Wolfgang Mann at Darkwood’s right and Otto Hammerschmidt immediately behind mem, Darkwood found himself humming Elmer Bernstein’s famous theme from The Magnificent Seven.” But, in fact, there were forty of them, a thirty-six man Reinforced Long Range Mountain Commando Group, die colonel, Hanmierschmidt, himself and a doctor skilled at treating for exposure, hypothermia and the like.

  And they didn’t ride to some distant village to save the people there from marauding bandits. Their goal was approximately ten minutes farther ahead, a high mountain plateau, a man who was probably dead and-somewhere out there, marauding to be sure-a KGB Elite Corps Commando Unit armed with a weapon that seemed too frightening to contemplate but, nonetheless, so frightening it could not be ignored.

  “You are humming under your breath? A song you like?”

  Darkwood looked at Wolfgang Mann, nodded, only just then aware mat the theme had become audible. “Yes, but from very far away.”

  Centuries.

  Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna walked as deliberately as she could, ncwr turrung to lookback, riever taking her rig^ stick and shirring it to the pistol grip of her rifle (as much as every fibre of her being wanted to), her palms fjerspiring slighdy inside her gloves.

  She focused her mind away from me drudgery of the walk thr^ shifted high snow, away from the rx>ssibihty that at an seen enemies would strike, preem
pt her own planned attack.

  She thought abcrtJohn Romke, brt of him, as some unattainable romantic ideal, butasacomrade, someone she had learned a great deal from. His motto, of course, was “plan ahead.” And she had done that as best she could. Her revolvers were visible to her watching enemies over her coat, as was the rifle, but the suppressor fitted Walther PPK/S .380 in the Null shoulder holster beneath her parka was not, and lashed with dressmaker’s elastic to the inside ofher left forearm so she could get athquicldywitiiher right hand (butcouldworkit free withher left, ifneedbe),wast!ieWee-Hawkblade Bali-Song Iockknife.

  She kept walking, the Retreafs main entrance, its access already drifted over with so much snow mere was no sign that it was a human habitation, clearly in sight for split seconds at a time as the wind would shift for an instant and the blowing snow would dissipate.

  John Rourke had planned ahead there, too, because the rough road

  leading uptotheRetieatforked and she walking past safety

  andsecurny-theRetreatwasaU-brt

  along the height of the mountain. There was a niche of rockthere, perfect for her purposes. If she could get that far…

  John Rourke and Paul Rubenstein dropped into snow that was chest deep, the wind which blew it across the high plateau like a knife edge slicing through cfothing and flesh to the bone, despite any preparations against it.

  The Atsack was, for all intents and purposes, dead, although ready to instandy revivify, all systems off. And John Rourke was banking on a minor miracle. With the intensity of the snowfall, the constandy shifting drifts and die Atsack, once stopped sinking into the snow as snow, blown against it, walled around it, any radar profile might be obscured enough to be missed. The only system which was operable aboard the Atsack was the radar countermeasures package, computerized, calculating the frequency and strength of any incoming enemy radar emission and instantly duplicating it, in effect absorbing the radar signal rather than bouncing it hack to its origin, then broadrasting an identical signal so there would not even be a radar shadow.