Survivalist - 13 - Pursuit Page 15

  Madison looked again at Natalia — Natalia smiled at her as Natalia arranged the shawl on her lap. Madison wondered where Natalia had hidden her knife and at least one gun —because she knew Natalia well enough now that she knew Natalia would not be unarmed.

  Madame Jokli began again to speak. “It is fortuitous that Major Tiemerovna was able to join us, because the subject of this meeting is the unfortunate state of war between the surviving war machine of the Soviet Union and our new-found friends. We have been given to understand that as the Eden Project space shuttle crafts began their return to earth, Soviet military helicopters were waiting in ambush to destroy them. Yet, our proximity to Soviet territory has never once brought us in contact with this military order which we are told rules there. Dr. Hakon Lands and myself would like to put this question openly before all of you.”

  Natalia stood, her shawl in her hands —she set it down in her chair. “I believe I can shed some light on this. As you know, Madame President, Doctor Lands, prior to The Night of The War, I was an officer with the Committee for State Security of the Soviet, the KGB. I remained with the KGB until shortly before

  what has been variously called the Great Conflagration, The Fires Which Consumed The Sky. The man whom we discuss here, the leader of the Soviet forces, is my husband.”

  Madam Jokli, already seated, leaned back heavily in her chair. Doctor Hakon Lands’ hands outstretched toward the center of the table. Madison looked from his hands —massive, large-boned, the hands something that instinctively she felt would hurt her if they touched her —to Natalia’s face. In a book at Father Rourke’s Retreat, Madison had seen a photograph of a doll, the face delicate, exquisite, the eyes wide, the cheeks slightly flushed, fragile-seeming. Natalia was that photograph now, Madison thought.

  “My husband is a man of consummate evil. Whether we battle the surviving Russian people or merely battle my husband’s forces is the pertinent question here. It seems obvious that he is in a position of vast power with the Central Committee —as I am sure there must be. He has likely promised them the domination of the earth which again likely he thought would merely mean the destruction of the unarmed Eden Project fleet as it returned from its elliptical orbit to the outer edge of the solar system and back. My husband Vladmir is not a military commander, yet he functions as the supreme commander of Soviet forces, it appears. I would say that Vladmir somehow managed to take this underground complex which was built for the survival of the Soviet people and turn it into his personal fiefdom, his military headquarters. I speak only for myself—but I see your world here in terrible potential danger. Should Vladmir Karamatsov somehow be victorious, he will come, and he will destroy you — as he has always tried to destroy what is good and bring war where there is peace.” She reached behind her, stooping slightly, taking up the shawl and hugging

  it against her abdomen as she sat down.

  Madison looked toward the head of the table as she heard Captain Hartman’s rather higher pitched voice, higher pitched than a man’s voice normally would be. But he seemed like a good man, and a competent man. And she had learned one thing since becoming a Rourke: A person was judged by their deeds rather than by some label attached to the person. “Madame President. The Fraulein Major has put the situation most clearly, I think. It is imperative to your survival, your nation’s survival, that the Soviet forces under the leadership of the Karamatsov fellow be stopped. My own country sees this as a historical imperative. I propose, as I have been so authorized to do by my government, that your country should cooperate with the German people and the Eden Project survivors, should their leadership also agree, to eradicate Colonel Karamatsov and his forces for once and for all. I am sure Herr Doctor Rourke would agree.”

  Madison looked at Father Rourke. Father Rourke remained expressionless.

  Captain Hartman continued. “To this end, I have been instructed to propose the following: That the government of Lydveldid Island and the government of New Germany agree to the temporary positioning of a military base here that could be used as a staging area against final prosecution of the War with the forces of Colonel Karamatsov. In exchange, totally independent of the already-agreed-to exchange of scientific data, New Germany would pledge to the defense of Lydveldid Island against aggressor forces.”

  Captain Hartman sat down.

  There was silence. Madison was pinching the fabric of her dress in her fingers, looking alternately from Michael beside her to Paul, to Annie, to Natalia, to Sarah —then to Father Rourke.

  Father Rourke began to speak. “Various expressions come to mind—‘Times change, people don’t’—perhaps that’s the best. But perhaps not. Perhaps the best is something attributed variously over the years—Those who fail to learn the lessons of history shall be forced to relive them’—perhaps that’d be most appropriate here.”

  Father Rourke did not stand. His eyes were closed and his face turned toward the high ceiling of the room, the ceiling here higher than any she had seen in any of the other buildings in Iceland. “Iceland was spared five centuries ago. Perhaps it was the scientific anomaly it is considered, perhaps a miracle, perhaps both. None of you in this room, with the exceptions of my wife, my son and daughter, my friends Natalia and Paul, and myself can actually remember what the old world was like. And Michael and Annie’s memories of it are sketchy at best. Paul lived in New York City —a city in the United States of both unparalleled beauty and unparalleled ugliness, a city in some places given over to savage elements who preyed upon the weak. Natalia lived in many of the large cities of the Soviet Union. And her work, as did my work, took her around the world. Sarah and the children and I had a home well away from any large city, the nearest one Adanta. But all of us—it was a common sight to see people. How many tens of thousands there may be on earth today—well, there were billions. We’d been told for decades that overpopulation might someday prove to be the undoing of us all. Maybe that was true. Too many people. Too many nations. To try to arrive logically at the causes of World War III would consume our collective lifetimes and we might be no nearer the truth than we would be in the next instant. But it seems to me that wars, crime, all the things that humankind seem at once to loathe and yet go out of their way to avoid stopping, are all stemmed from one basic human

  failing: apathy.”

  Madison shifted her eyes to Sarah, Sarah in her high-necked white blouse, her hair held back at the nape of her neck with a bright blue ribbon — Sarah’s eyes were turned upward to Father Rourke, and Madison saw in them what she saw in her heart when she thought of Michael. Love. Adoration. Father Rourke continued speaking. “It is very easy to say that evil is the concern of someone else. Very easy but very stupid. Evil is everyone’s concern. If you are out of its reach, beyond its grasp, it doesn’t mean you have no responsibility for stamping it out. The plain facts, ma’am” —he looked now at Madame Jokli— “are these. We will eradicate Vladmir Karamatsov because he must be eradicated. I shot the man once, five centuries ago. Like us —those in my family —he is a living anachronism.” Madison’s eyes flickered to Natalia — Natalia’s eyes seemed tear-rimmed. Her body seemed rigid. Her hands were balled in tight little fists on the table in front of her. “I shot him, thought I had killed him. Each death he brings about is because of my inability-“

  “No!” Natalia was to her feet, the shawl falling from her lap onto the table, then slipping out of sight —to the floor, Madison thought. Natalia’s hands were still clenched in tight fists —but at her abdomen now, as though something inside her was about to burst and she was trying to hold it inside her. “He’s a devil. He is what he is because he’s a devil. Inside himself—he had to always be evil. He used his evil, let his superiors in the KGB use it. He’s the devil and he wanted to be your God!”

  Father Rourke stared at her, Natalia still standing, her body trembling as Madison’s eyes flickered back to her. She watched Natalia as Father Rourke almost whispered, “Perhaps that’s the question here today.
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  Will we try to create Paradise or something close to it, or hide, wait —and let Karamatsov rule us in Hell?”

  A voice —one she had not heard. It was Hakon Lands speaking and Madison looked along the table, past Michael, toward the man. He stood. “It would seem we have the opportunity to prove that our ideals of these past five centuries have value, have worth. Or, the opportunity to prove that we have no ideals at all, but have merely withdrawn into our philosophy of harmony out of fear. Madame President —I request a called meeting of the Althing at which time it should be proposed that Lydveldid Island join in alliance against this evil. It is only by this means that we can remain true to our beliefs.”

  Captain Hartman stood, his heels clicking together. His head nodding curtly. “Sir!”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The second remote sensor began to transmit a few hours before dawn. Major Ivan Krakovski had instructed that he be awakened.

  He sat in the prefabricated shelter, the synth-fuel heater glowing brightly, but he was still cold. Visibility outside the hut was near zero. With the aid of a powerful hand torch and by clinging for life to the guidelines set about the camp connecting hut to hut, he had fought his way against the wind and the driving snow. His body still shook with it. The helicopters had been lashed down hours before. “Word from Kutrov?”

  “There has been none, Comrade Major. Only the very weak transmission which stated that the second remote sensor was operational and that the blizzard conditions were intensifying and that the comrade captain and his detail were attempting to make their way down. That was ten minutes ago,” the technician said.

  Krakovski nodded, watching as the technician returned to adjusting the ball dials for the viewing modes of the remote sensors. The first transmissions from the first sensors had not sufficiently penetrated the steam clouds that filled the inside of the crater of Mt. Hekla. When the steam clouds parted, the tantalizing lavender lights would wink through, then disappear. A civilization—here. It was incredible.

  But the transmissions from the second sensor — Krakovski had instructed that the sensor be planted one hundred yards inside the cone and the leads be dropped to maximum depth. And now, as the technician fine-tuned the adjustment, the computer-enhanced fiber-optics images were clear.

  Buildings.Greenways. German helicopters.

  They had located the Russian helicopter that had been the source of the distress transmissions. There were signs there that a camp had been made, then remade. He wondered —was it the man whose destruction so obsessed the Hero Marshal? Was it Rourke?

  The radio operator at the far end of the hut called out, interrupting Krakovski’s thoughts. “Comrade Major! A transmission from Comrade Captain Kutrov.”

  “On speaker,” he said dismissively, still studying the fiber-optic image.

  “This is Kutrov — Kutrov to forward base —come in. Over.”

  Krakovski heard the radioman responding. “This is forward base. Reading your transmission. Much static. Over.”

  “This is Kutrov. One man down —feet frozen. Cannot go on. Second man injured during fall —broken leg and possible internal injuries. Has situation changed? Can we be picked up? Over.”

  The radioman made no answer.

  Krakovski turned to look at the radioman, telling him, “Express my regrets — personal regrets. But to go airborne now would only alert the German helicopter force of our presence. Tell Captain Kutrov that he and his brave comrades shall be remembered for their heroism should they fail to reach safety.”

  The radio operator just stared. “But —Comrade Major —could not a rescue party — “

  “You have my orders,” and Krakovski turned away,

  refocusing his attention on the screen which showed the German helicopters in some sort of idyllic-looking setting in the base of the volcano. “How are the other sensor readings coming?” he asked the technician, whose short blonde hair was visibly bristling on the back of his neck.

  The technician turned to face him. “Comrade Major—you are murdering those men —Captain Kutrov and the others.”

  Krakovski stood up. He would have shot the man except the possibility existed of damaging the equipment should a bullet overpenetrate. He reached to the technician, hauling the man from his stool, to his feet, the stool overturning, Krakovski backhanding the man across the face, again and again, the man’s mouth bleeding, Krakovski throwing the man to the sectioned, prefabricated flooring. The man just lay there. Krakovski glared down at him. “Consider yourself fortunate you are not dead.” Krakovski retook his seat. “Now —to your work. I require the geologic profile, thermal readings, the results of the audio discrimination program. Be quick about it.” There was, after all. an attack to plan …

  Annie was sitting cross-legged, Indian fashion, her honey-blond hair to her shoulders, her cheeks tear-streaked. She sat in front of the television, though it wasn’t on.

  John Rourke saw her there in the recreation room, walked toward her, dropped to his knees beside her, then imitated her posture, crossing his legs. He didn’t say anything for a little while. Annie smiled at him.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “What’s the matter, baby?”

  “Nothin’ —I told you,” she said petulantly, sniffing loudly.

  “You’re sitting here in front of the TV with nothing on the TV and you’ve been crying.” “I wasn’t crying.”

  “Ohh —you bet. What’s this?” And Rourke daubed his right index finger along her cheek, tracking the tear streak in the dirt.

  “Nothin’”

  “Sure-tell Daddy.”

  She looked at him and began to cry, and Rourke picked her up in his hands and settled her in his lap and gave her his handkerchief and she blew her nose hard and it sounded a little funny and he started to laugh and through her tears she started to laugh and she blew her nose again and hugged his neck and said, “I love you …”

  John Rourke opened his eyes.

  He sat up in the darkness, Sarah sleeping beside him.

  He looked at the luminous black face of the Rolex Submariner on his left wrist—juxtaposing Eastern Time with Icelandic time, it was four in the morning.

  He shook his head, swung his legs out from beneath the covers and his feet to the floor. Naked, he started across the smallish room toward the bathroom at the opposite end from the bed. He raised the lid and the seat and did what he had to do, his eyes already accustomed to the darkness, no need for a light. He lowered the seat and the lid and flushed and walked from the bathroom. He stopped, halfway back to the bed, turned to his left and started for the window.

  He drew open the heavy privacy drapes and looked out. The purple lights of the grow-lamp arclights. It made the gardens, the paths, the other buildings he could see here from the third floor of the dormitory-like

  structure where he had first spotted Annie — all of it — seem unreal. And it was unreal to him.

  He opened the sliding door, no one about that he could see, and stepped out, naked, onto the small balcony. He stood well back from the railing, near the sliding glass doors, watching the night that was as bright as the day. In the distance now, from this vantage point, he could see the helicopters, see German soldiers on guard near them, the guard only two men, one to keep the other awake, and merely as a precaution.

  He suddenly realized he had dreamed.

  He hadn’t dreamed since the awakening from the cryogenic sleep.

  Perhaps his body, his mind —perhaps they were settling back to normalcy, he told himself. It was normal, healthy to dream. And he had been very tired, the conference having moved from Madame Jokli’s library at the government house to the University where members representative of the Hekla community in the Athling had been assembled, the matter of the proposed alliance against the Soviets discussed until after midnight.

  But again, what Rourke considered reason had prevailed — that to remain neutral was self-deception of
the worst possible and most dangerous kind.

  There was a knock on the door. He heard Sarah turning over in bed. “John?”

  Tm right here. There’s someone at the door. Go back to sleep.” he told her, stepping back inside, closing the balcony door, letting the drape fall closed.

  The knocking again. “Just a minute,” Rourke said, not knowing if whoever it was could understand English. Rourke grabbed up his Levis, skinning into them, zipping them, leaving his belt open. From the nightstand beside the bed, he took up one of the twin

  Detonics stainless mini-guns, working the slide, leaving the hammer at full-stand, upping the thumb safety. The pistol behind his back in his right hand, he opened the unlocked door.

  The man in the corridor was one of the German noncoms, a face he recognized. In German, the young man began, “Herr Doctor —Captain Hartman has instructed me to inform you that radio transmission signals have been recently intercepted which seem to indicate the presence of a Soviet force of possibly some considerable size to be present nearby. Captain Hartman requested that you come at once, Herr Doctor.”

  “Where?”

  “Herr Doctor? Ahh! To the presidential mansion, Herr Doctor.”

  “I’ll be only a minute,” Rourke nodded, closing the door.

  He leaned against the door in the darkness, mechanically lowering the safety of the little Detonics, then safely lowering the hammer from full-stand, letting the hammer come to rest over the chambered round as was his customary carry. He settled the pistol into his hip pocket, pushed away from the doorway, and walked on bare feet across the floor to the bed, sitting on its edge. His hands found Sarah, his eyes again accustoming to the darkness.

  “Sarah?”

  “You were speaking —German, wasn’t it?”