Survivalist - 15 - Overlord Read online

  “You say they came from the sea,” Michael pressed. “In ships, I presume?”

  “No. They literally come from the waves.”

  “In scuba gear,” Michael volunteered.

  “Self-contained underwater breathing apparatus — the acronym, yes.”

  “When was the latest attack?” Maria Leuden spoke. Michael looked at her, smiled.

  The chairman spoke again. “Five days ago. Some among

  us thought that you might be part of these attackers. I argued against that.”

  “If Karamatsov had sea power,” Michael mused aloud, “I’d think we would know about it. Are there markings on the scuba gear taken from the dead?”

  “There are none. Nor on the weapons, which are very sophisticated, I am told. So, you see, we fight a small but bloody war with an unknown enemy, and a continuing battle of harassment with the Second City. We need no more war, but I fear it has been thrust upon us. Tell your people —these men of Iceland, these new Germans of Argentina and the people of your Eden Project.” Michael had explained the Eden Project and the use of cryogenics, including his survival and that of his family. The chairman had seemed amazed, but accepting. “Tell them that they have an ally in the People’s Republic of China, here in the First City. This, indeed, was the topic of the meeting for which I left so hurriedly. I shall dispatch Han to accompany you.”

  Han had not joined them in the chairman’s apartment.

  Michael decided now was the time. “We came by helicopter. You are familiar with these devices, I am sure.”

  “The term is not unknown to me, though I have never seen an aircraft of any type. I suppose our engineers have the abilities to construct such machines, but we have consumed their talents with other, more pressing concerns.”

  “Our helicopter dropped out of radio contact about the time Doctor Leuden and Captain Hammerschmidt were taken prisoner. It is possible your enemies from the Second City are responsible. I would like to request that you dispatch a modest number of troops with us when we attempt to return to the helicopter. And I would further like to request that Captain Hammerschmidt be allowed to remain here until he is fully well.”

  “But of course. Then you will carry our embassy of good will to your allies?”

  Michael, his voice low, nodded as he said, “I will be

  honored, sir.”

  And he noticed Maria Leuden was looking at him …

  Akiro Kurinami had found the second knot to be more difficult than the first and he felt certain that he had loosened at least two of his teeth. But he told himself that they would tighten. He had to wait until the heater, thermostatically controlled, flared again in order to have light, needed for the third knot. But then the third and last knot had come out easily and, still by the light of the flaring heater, he unbound his ankles.

  He had strained muscles he had not been aware of having, and he had not stood on his own two feet for—how long? he wondered.

  But he stood, having crawled to the nearest wall and used the wall to support him. As he touched the surface of the wall, Kurinami realized he had been taken to the construction area. And he knew the construction area well.

  The heater’s level dropped and there was little but gray haze through which to work his way along the wall, partially because of the darkness and partially because of his unsteadiness. But he found the airlock hatchway. He summoned his strength and found the wheel-like handle and began to turn it. The door had not been sabotaged, the wheel turning freely and, as he wrenched against it, the door opened and he half fell over the flange.

  It was only these outer compartments which would be entry ways which sealed in such a manner and precious few of them were finished, but Kurinami had still contended that to shelter here against Russian attack would have been a wiser choice by far than their tent village.

  And he suddenly wondered if somehow there was a motive behind Commander Dodd disallowing the use of the facility.

  There was stronger gray light here and he started along the access tunnel which would upon completion, have its

  own massive airlock, the airlocks and all of the construction site modular sections having been buried five centuries before and the pieces transported from the central storage site in what had been South Dakota to here by the German forces. But because of their war effort, the supply of cargo helicopters available to the task was erratic. Logic might have dictated moving Eden Base to South Dakota, but it was above the permanent snow line.

  He moved along the corridor, the light intensifying as he neared the exit to the outdoors.

  The airlocks, the very design of the prefabricated city they were building, had been conceived as insurance against a hostile atmosphere and severe weather. The planning had been well-conceived.

  Kurinami was very near the mouth of the tunnel now, the tunnel itself like a massive, sectioned storm drain, the temperature colder here; Kurinami, freezing already in his sweat and waste stained coveralls, had no idea what had become of his arctic gear. He had known better than to even consider the fate of his M-16 and Colt Government Model .45.

  It had seemed odd to him during the brief firearms familiarization course he and the other members of the Eden Project corps with prior military service had been given, that there were two Government model pistols in the inventory of the United States, the Colt 1911A1 .45 ACP and the Beretta 92F 9mm Parabellum. But then one of the Americans had told him that indeed there were .38 Special Smith & Wesson revolvers and various other handguns, all to lesser degrees, that were, in a manner of speaking “Government Models.” He wished he had any of them now. Soon, the men who had attacked him—he thought two of them, but perhaps three — would be returning. And what he did would determine if Elaine and he lived or died. And more importandy, he realized, even than the life of the woman he loved and his own life, the fate of Eden Base.

  Near the entranceway, snow falling heavily outside, swirling in what seemed like a strong wind, the howl of it filling the tunnel mouth, he found what he had sought.

  And now if the battery for the bulldozer was not too cold …

  The motorcycles had been designed for uneven terrain, drifted snow, for traction on ice. John Rourke had taken the best features of twentieth century motorcycles with which he had been familiar and conferred with German engineers, the same team which had designed their mini-tank, and they had produced something beyond which he had thought possible.

  Four of them to be precise, he thought, three of them here now, the fourth in Argentina being tested for improvement before actual production.

  The German engineering team had asked him what he wished to have the motorcycle called. He had deferred to them to decide as the persons who had taken ideas and hastily sketched drawings and hastily listed specifications and turned all these into reality.

  They had simply called the motorcycles “Specials.”

  They were that. /

  John Rourke was the last to mount, Natalia and Paul already having climbed aboard. “Remember,” he cautioned, “on level terrain when it’s dry, these things will do 160 or better which is a lot more speed than you’ll ever really need.”

  “If I find any dry level terrain, I’ll remember that,” Paul Rubenstein observed.

  Rourke started to laugh.

  Word from Captain Hartman was that heavy snow was falling, slowing the advance of Karamatsov’s army, which was good. And that six gunships, obviously heavy laden, had lifted off into the worsening blizzard conditions and headed toward Manchuria.

  As yet, the storm, which was moving eastward, had not reached here, but the temperatures were dropping, the wind velocity increasing. There would be little time to follow the hoofprints left in the snow before the wind obliterated them all or new snow filled them in.

  Rourke mounted his machine. It was the same general size as his Harley, but in his heart it would never take its place. It was built to run on synth fuel and was more fuel efficient than conventional machines which had bee
n built to run on gasoline. The faring was contoured to body^shape, protecting the lower body, armored as was the high rising windshield, the windshield fitted with defogger coils, the fairing on each side fitted with twelve-inch barreled hybrid “machineguns”, like submachineguns in their size, but firing the major caliber caseless round utilized in the German assault rifles, the firing mechanism concealed within the handlebars. Storage capacity for gear was located both behind the saddle on both sides and, to a lesser degree, in compartments incorporated into the fairing. Behind the rear storage compartments were two compartments which were capable of launching, from the left, high explosive mini-grenades and, from the right, smoke or gas grenades.

  When he had first explained the concept of the new machine to Paul and Natalia, the younger man had said, “It sounds like something James Bond would have used in a movie.” Natalia had remarked, “It sounds like something our Research and Development people were working on at the Chicago espionage school in the Soviet Union before the Night of The War.” In either case, Rourke had not been certain the comments were complimentary. He had ordered the prototypes, as these three of the total of four were, to be color coded. Natalia’s was a dark green, Paul’s a medium blue and Rourke’s own, of course, a gleaming jet black.

  He had tried the machines, each of them, in Iceland before returning to the Eurasian Front, then ordered them transhipped. They had sat in storage crates ever since.

  The tires, the entire bodywork of the machines was armored against conventional small arms ammunition. The suspension was self-adjusting for highway or flatlands use or for steep or rugged terrain.

  It was as close to the perfect means of overland transportation as possible, able to go places where no vehicle could go, in theory, and outrun most conventional vehicles as well.

  His parka hood was down, the black helmet, which had been built specifically to accompany the motorcycle, in his hands. He pulled it on, electro-chemical energy of the body powering the short range radio headset built into the helmet, enabling him to speak at will to anyone similarly equipped or hear them within maximum distances of four miles.

  He had designed the machine despite his natural dislike for things less than straightforward. Such a machine had been necessary. And, using it now to overtake the horsemen who had captured the pilot of the helicopter, he would find out if the machines were practical.

  He almost whispered into the microphone built into the helmet’s rigid chin guard, the visor having started to steam but the same electro-chemical energy of the body which powered the radio powering the visor’s defogging system. It was already working. “All right — everybody hear me?”

  The system was multi-band, enabling two speakers to be heard at once. Natalia and Paul spoke almost simultaneously. “Gotchya,” Paul said, Natalia whispering, “Affirmative.”

  Rourke spoke again. “All right—remember, these things are fast and it’s slippery. Be cool.”

  “Be cool —with the windchill, the temperature must be forty below.”

  He told Paul, “Instruments aboard the J-7V indicate a windchill closer to minus fifty. Let’s go.” Rourke revved the machine and gradually let it out, starting away from the German aircraft, the security team and the pilot and copilot staring after them as Rourke looked back once. At his right,

  Natalia, at his left Paul Rubenstein. The machines were vastly different than the Harleys stored at the Retreat, but the feeling was the same. With the two best friends he had every had, riding …

  Akiro Kurinami huddled beneath the dashboard of the bulldozer and he saw them. And his heart sank. Three men, carrying M-16 rifles. And between two of the men, their rifles slung across their backs, he saw a body being carried by wrists and ankles, as though dead. The body was Elaine’s body.

  She was clad in her arctic gear, which was green unlike that of the three men, theirs covered with white snow smocks. He fought thinking that she was dead, because to keep his head, if she were alive, was the only way to keep her alive.

  The third man walked at the head of the file, his rifle carried in his right hand by the carrying handle, like someone might carry an attache case and just as casually.

  They would have to pass within ten feet of the bulldozer.

  He had started the machine, let it run, elevated the shovel, moved the machine slightly closer to where they would walk. Prayed they would not notice the changed position of the machine.

  Less than a dozen yards to go now, one hand on the starter, the other on the control which would drop the shovel.

  And he realized his hands trembled. If he miscalculated or the shovel did not drop instantly, he might crush Elaine.

  Less than a half dozen yards, his grip tightening on the release lever for the shovel. He inhaled, waiting, released part of the air, the lead man just beneath the shovel, almost past it.

  Akiro Kurinami hit the starter and it turned over and his other hand worked the shovel release as he flung himself off the right side of the open-cabbed machine, the scream that

  had started from the leader dying as the steel of the shovel slapped against the concrete floor. Kurinami dove over the shovel and toward the forward-most of the two men who carried Elaine slung between them, his muscles not responding as they should, he knew, the jump short, his hands barely reaching to the shoulders of the man who was his target, his feet slipping in something like glue which he realized inside himself was bodily fluids from the man he had crushed beneath the massive shovel.

  His right fist curled into the fabric of the man’s snow smock and suddenly both of them were slipping into the ooze which seeped from beneath the shovel, Kurinami realizing only split seconds were left before the last man opened fire.

  Kurinami’s left hand moved for the throat, his fist closing over it as he wrenched his body sideways, throwing his entire weight behind his hand as they slammed into the puddle of oozed human remains. There was a scream from the man’s throat, Kurinami’s right hand grabbing for the head, the man’s hands pummeling him, Kurinami twisting his body away from the man, still grasping throat and head. There was an earsplittingly loud snap and the body went limp under his hands. He was on his knees.

  Elaine had been thrown down like a discarded rag doll, the last man struggling his rifle forward on its sling. Kurinami summoned all the strength inside him, as he had been taught to do when he had been taught the martial arts by his grandfather. He hurtled himself to his feet and then forward, his head impacting the last man at the abdomen, his hands going for the knees, behind the knees, ripping, the man’s body toppling rearward, Kurinami rolling over him.

  As the third man came to his knees, his assault rifle coming up, Kurinami, on his right side, snapped his left foot up and out, into the throat, then into the face. The body toppled back, Kurinami throwing himself over the man, hauling his right fist up, snapping it downward into the exposed throat as the rifle discharged beside him,

  Kurinami’s ears ringing with it.

  He fell over the third man, collapsed, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

  He closed his eyes.

  He forced himself to roll free of the man, disentangling the man’s neck and right ‘arm from the sling. He held the M-16 in his right first, on his knees, crawling now, to reach Elaine.

  He pulled her hood back. He ripped the toque from her face, his ear going to her lips. She was breathing, shallowly but evenly. He curled back her left eyelid, the eyes glassy looking, the pupils dilated.

  “Drugged,” he gasped.

  He fell back on his haunches.

  Beside him was the second dead man. He pushed back the hood of the snowsmock and the parka, tore the white toque from over the face.

  The face belonged to a man he had never seen before. Not Eden Project. Not one of the Germans.

  Who, he almost whispered …

  The wind had erased the hoofprints in all but those areas which were sheltered from its force by natural windbreaks — rock overhangs, narrow gaps. The helmet rad
ios proved invaluable as they would split up, making ever widening interlocking circles, searching in the likely areas for the next scattered sets of hoofprints, then at last finding what they sought, then moving ahead, only to repeat the laborious process time and time again.

  The last set of prints — Natalia had found them —seemed deep and fresh. The darkness and the swirling snow had made finding them consume nearly two hours.

  Rourke, Natalia and Paul Rubenstein flanking him, sat aboard his Special and spoke into the headset microphone. “They must be stopping for the night soon. If they build fires

  typically like the remains of the one we saw near the helicopter, well spot them. Unless we stumble right on them, let’s stick to the plan.”

  Both Paul and Natalia uttered their agreement.

  Rourke started them ahead, into the night …

  He had been told there was a snowstorm outside. But inside the petal of the First City, all was serene and the artificial light was unchanged.

  He had felt Maria Leuden’s eyes on him all night.

  After the drink with the chairman and his ambassadorial charge, he had taken Maria into the corridor where her apartment could be found and then left quickly, going to see to Hammerschmidt’s condition.

  Michael Rourke had found his way to the monorail and to the right stop for the hospital without incident, searched out the equivalent of the charge nurse — he had encountered the term in a book or videotape — and asked concerning the welfare of the German commando captain. He had been told that Hammerschmidt was progressing extraordinarily well and, though no miraculous overnight healing could be expected, Hammerschmidt rested comfortably and the burns seemed less severe than originally thought.