Survivalist - 13 - Pursuit Read online

  Finally, Rourke broke the silence, turning to Paul beside him. “When we get out there —I want you to do me a favor. Keep an eye on Michael and Annie and Madison for me. Sarah handles herself pretty well in a fight —almost as well as you and Natalia and I do. But Michael and Annie and Madison are kinda new to this stuff.”

  “Gotcha. Do we have a plan, or are we really playing it by ear?”

  “If we develop any useful intelligence, we can send our friend in green” —and Rourke nodded ahead of them toward Rolvaag —“back with a note. Otherwise, what I’m thinking is we infiltrate the camp and use the element of surprise. Open up on ‘em —maybe get one of their helicopters airborne, then call in Hartman’s people. According to Hartman, if the Soviet base is anywhere within five miles of the cone, we should have

  help in under five minutes. No matter how good that Soviet sensing equipment is, they can’t have exact numbers, can’t know for a fact that the community inside Hekla can only defend itself with swords. If the Russians had been that confident, they would have struck already, regardless of the storm.”

  “Do you think it’s Karamatsov?” Paul asked, rubbing his right first finger alongside his nose —Rourke had noticed this as a habit with which Paul seemed to be compensating for the fact that he no longer wore glasses, no longer needed to be constantly pushing them up from the bridge of his nose.

  “Not likely,” John Rourke almost whispered. “Probably one of his senior officers. Maybe not even from Karamatsov’s camp at all, wherever it is. Might be from the city they have in the Urals.”

  “How the heck did they know we were here —or did they?”

  “I tend to think that the Soviet helicopter Blackburn used had some sort of distress signal. Either Blackburn got to it after Annie stabbed him or Annie inadvertently activated it when she was working to get the radio on. The distress signal might have been very powerful. Who knows who picked it up? But I’d bet that’s the reason we have Russian company out there. If it’s a large force, we’ve got real problems. The Germans can’t have enough ordnance with them for a prolonged battle and our lines of supply are too long. Chances are, it’s a small group of long-range helicopters and a token force. I hope.”

  “You and me both …” Paul Rubenstein murmured.

  Ivan Krakovski stood beside the sensing monitors, speaking to the assembled group of officers and senior

  noncommissioned officers there inside the communications hut. “You have seen the tape of the computer enhancements. This Mt. Hekla’s cone is riddled with tunnels, Comrades. By the use of heat-, light-, and sound-sensing equipment, and comparing data with computer models, it seems evident that some tunnels are fully large enough for a small force of men to utilize to penetrate the city, which is in the flat base of the pit crater.” Small puddles of melted snow and ice were enlarging about the feet of some of the men, their eyebrows, their shoulders, the skirts of the officers’ greatcoats dark with the dampness. “It will be the task of the small force that I will dispatch to penetrate this city, locate the seat of government and seize control of it, then immediately summon our helicopter forces which will be waiting in readiness. Surprise, Comrades. We shall take this Mt. Hekla and from there we shall make systematic aerial surveys of the island, locating and systematically conquering any other enemy positions until all of Iceland is under our control. To the military mind the purpose of this plan is obvious —use of Iceland as a northernmost staging area for the occupation of North America. These people have apparently mastered the control of climate and environment within their city. Such scientific data can be useful to our overall goals of repopulating the earth, enabling our workers and our scientists to survive within even the most harshly cold environments for the extraction of valuable mineral elements, and to maintain outposts everywhere regardless of climatic conditions and prevailing weather. The value of this operation cannot be estimated. I require two officers, two senior noncommissioned officers as well. Volunteers?”

  All the men stepped forward.

  Ivan Krakovski placed his hands on his hips, allow

  ing himself laughter. “Excellent. Excellent. The loyalty all of you have expressed, Comrades, to the Soviet people whom we serve shall not go unmentioned to the Hero Marshal.” And he gestured with his left hand. “Captain Salmonov. Captain Ulyani. Select your noncommissioned officers. The rest of you, Comrades, are dismissed.”

  Krakovski turned away, to study the current imaging from the sensor which revealed the interior of the crater — all seemed as it had since the first pictures had become available. They suspected nothing. It had been, after all, the best choice to sacrifice Captain Kutrov and his two corporals. A hard choice, but hard choices were often the best choices.

  He listened only partially as his captains selected their senior noncommissioned officers, while the remaining officers and noncoms filed out into the storm.

  There would be two penetration teams —to double the chances for success.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, turning around quickly, “there will be two teams, through the two most likely seeming of the tunnels. Each team will function independently of the other. Should one be delayed, blocked in a tunnel that may have collapsed, the other team will proceed in identifying the objective and seizing the objective. If both teams make it through, again both teams will act independently. In the event of a perfect linking of your teams once you have gotten inside the crater, Captain Salmonov —you will assume command.”

  “Yes, Comrade Major!”

  “Each of you will take twenty volunteers. Equip them however you like from our stores. Utilize a primary radio and a reserve unit. We can leave nothing to chance. If possible, when securing your final objective, keep the head of the government alive to facilitate

  surrender of their forces. As you progress to your objective, gather whatever useful intelligence data may present itself, segregating intelligence of an immediate useful nature for transmission following the attack signal, maintaining the remaining data for after the attack. Insertion into the tunnel areas will be by means of helicopter which will drop you and your men approximately a mile from each tunnel entrance. After that, you are on your own. Distance through the tunnels, which shall be designated tunnel number one and tunnel number two, are respectively estimated at seven kilometers even and six point three kilometers. Captain Salmonov — you will utilize tunnel number one. Captain Ulyani —you will take your team through tunnel number two. Good luck, Comrades. You have twenty minutes before departure.”

  He turned away —to look again at his pictures. It was a brilliant operation he had planned, and he was already composing just the right phrases that would discreetly reflect this brilliance for his reports, and, more importantly, for his ongoing history of this final war for domination of the planet.

  Major Ivan Krakovski wondered at times if his military abilities which seemed only to enhance themselves, might someday overshadow his literary talents. But he was, as he had often considered himself, evaluated himself, a truly Socratic man, the last of a vanishing breed.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  They had paused to rest. The temperatures, as the distance from the interior of the crater increased, decreased. Rourke shifted off his pack, beginning to remove the snowpants and parka that were lashed to the pack. “Daddy? Should all of us suit up?”

  “Yeah —I think so, Annie,” Rourke told his daughter. “It’s not going to get any warmer.” As if to punctuate his remarks, his breath steamed as he exhaled.

  “We can change back beyond that bend,” Natalia supplied, standing, catching up her pack. Madison, Annie, and( Sarah did the same, .starting back into the tunnel the way they had come, Sarah’s and Natalia’s flashlights leading their way.

  As Rourke donned the snowpants, he glanced toward Rolvaag. Rolvaag was pulling a leather shift into place, over the green cloth shift worn over his shirt and pants. The leather garment in place, he began to remove his boots, substituting for them identical-seeming b
oots, the linings some type of fleece — Rourke guessed a synthetic, but it could have been natural.

  Rourke zipped closed the legs of the snowpants, starting to remove his boots. He utilized special insulated boots for extreme cold and had planned ahead with sizes for Sarah and sizes higher and lower than his own and Sarah’s for use by Annie and Michael.

  Madison availed herself to one of the odd sizes—he couldn’t recall at the moment if she was the higher or lower size. Natalia’s cold-weather gear was Soviet in origin, and the Soviet military machine before The Night of The War had been noted for its excellent cold-weather military clothing and accessories, the climate in which many of their operations occurred thrusting this need for excellence upon them. Paul’s gear had been “liberated” in a partially destroyed and thoroughly abandoned town through which they had passed between The Night of The War and the fires that had consumed the skies. By treating leather and rubber, and hermetically sealing gear like this, it had remained perfecdy preserved throughout the cryogenic sleep. Other items of equipment that could not be preserved in such a manner had been, before the Night of the War, before the activation of The Retreat, exposed to radiation to destroy bacteria and reduce the risks of rot and decay. His equipment would not last forever, he knew, but Wolfgang Mann had already pledged to have additional supplies of ammunition and other necessities manufactured for him in Argentina or New Germany, as Mann and his compatriots liked to call it. One project in which Rourke held special interest was the duplication of the Federal 185-grain jacketted hollow point cartridge that he most favored for his pistols and had always recommended, in the days prior to The Night of The War, in his classes on survivalism and weaponry. Mann had laughingly promised to duplicate the loads, right down to the head-stamps on the cases. Counterfeit seemed to be a more appropriate word.

  Rourke pulled on the boots, lacing them securely in place. Rolvaag was resecuring his greatcoat to his pack — perhaps Rolvaag had greater tolerance of the cold, Rourke thought.

  Rourke stood, pulling on the parka, but leaving it open, the hood down, the snow goggles and the headcover and the heavier gloves in the equipment pockets of the parka.

  He began to reposition his gear —it would soon be time to move out.

  Rolvaag turned to him, speaking, gesturing with his hands.

  Rourke thought the man intended to scout the tunnel ahead. He looked at Paul, saying as much, then adding, “If Mr. Rolvaag moves out, Paul —you tag along. He’s not properly armed for our Russian friends.”

  “Right,” and Paul looked at Rolvaag, tapped the massive green — and now black — clad hairy man on the right shoulder and said calmly, “Me go with you,” gesturing with his right first finger to himself, then to Rolvaag, then down the tunnel.

  Rolvaag grinned — his teeth seemed perfect and were almost ridiculously white. Rolvaag nodded, catching up his staff, leaving his pack. Paul shrugged out of his pack, grabbing up his Schmiesser and his M-16, then starting after Rolvaag along the tunnel. The tunnel took a bend, and after a moment they were out of sight, John Rourke watching after them, too warm in the parka but too cool without it. He shrugged it down a little from his neck and off his shoulders, Michael coming over beside him. “Where they going? Scouting?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Rolvaag seems like a good man.” “Yeah. How you feeling?” “Good.”

  “Stomach all right?”

  “Fine. How’s that crease on your ribcage Mom rebandaged for you?”

  “Fine. Looks like your mother’s arm’s healing well.” “That German stuff is good. What is it, do you think?”

  “I think it’s some more sophisticated version of some of the products of research into tissue regeneration that were being worked on before The Night of The War. Dr. Munchen explained it to me, but he didn’t have quite the English for the fine points. I didn’t have quite the German.”

  “Been thinking.”

  “That a question or a statement?”

  “Statement.”

  “About what?”

  “After-after all this?”

  “What you’ll do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “Maybe a doctor —like you.”

  “I’d like that. You’ve got the head for it. The hands for it, too —either surgery or the concert piano. Surgery you could start learning at thirty. You’re too old for the piano for anything more than an avocation.”

  “You play, don’t you?”

  “Haven’t in five centuries.Didn’t much before then.” “Learn much music theory?”

  “Got heavy into my own composing, but never beyond that. It passed the time.” “Will you teach me?” “Piano? I’m fresh out.” “Medicine.”

  “Start you off. The Germans have a top-notch school. You and Madison’ll love Argentina.”

  “What about you?” Michael almost whispered.

  “Me? If there’s peace, a clinic. If there isn’t, it’s academic.”

  “Agreed,” Michael nodded soberly. “Wish I had your

  experience — for what we’ve got coming out there,” and Michael gestured down the tunnel.

  “Don’t wish you had that,” John Rourke told his son honestly …

  Paul Rubenstein appraised Bjorn Rolvaag. Taller than John, the physique of a body-builder, the grace of an athlete, silent like the tomb. The dog that followed at Rolvaag’s heels seemed like a four-legged version of the man —hairy, huge, quiet, self-confident.

  Rolvaag whisked the torch downward and out against the rocks. Paul starting to reach for the bolt of the Schmiesser, feeling Rolvaag’s hand against his chest in the darkness, Rolvaag’s breath on Paul’s cheek as Rolvaag hissed a word seemingly common to all languages: “Shh!”

  Paul waited, holding his breath, the darkness total, his ears pricking —what sound had Rolvaag heard?

  Paul could hear the dog breathing. Hear his own breathing.

  Then he heard the sound, or one like it, that Rolvaag had heard, the clinking of metal. The Soviets, unlike the Germans, still used metal hardware for their slings —it sounded like that. Paul felt Rolvaag’s hand gently push against his chest, Paul stepping back from the pressure, realizing suddenly Rolvaag was getting him back, against the tunnel wall.

  Paul could feel the roughness of the rock behind him.

  Rolvaag’s hand left him —Paul heard the breathing of the dog change pattern —Paul felt Rolvaag’s hand again, taking Paul’s hand, leading Paul’s hand to the knife on Paul’s left hip. Paul took Rolvaag’s hand and brought it to his own chin, nodding his head, to show he understood. They would use edged weapons —but

  he wondered if Rolvaag understood firearms well enough? But to trust in the total darkness of the tunnels was his only option. As quietly as he could, Paul slipped the snap-closure safety strap of the Gerber, the click sounding like the crashing of cymbals in the stillness, but, he hoped, unnoticed to the advancing Russians. He held his breath —he could hear a cough. Hear a whispered phrase. The clinking of the sling again.

  Paul slowly unsheathed the knife, keeping the blade flat against his right thigh, waiting.

  There was a sound —and for a moment, Paul thought the enemy had closed with them and he hadn’t realized it. But then he realized that it was Rolvaag, drawing one of his own edged weapons.

  A light now —Paul could see it, the cone of yellow light growing in intensity and definition toward the exterior of the tunnel, coming toward them.

  Paul Rubenstein licked his lips, remembering to breathe again.

  If the Soviets had sensor equipment gunshots might be heard —he would try to stick to his knife. John Rourke had taught him some of what Paul had dubbed “the elements of style” —not for writing, but for knife fighting instead.

  He waited.

  He reasoned. If there were Soviet troops here, their only mission could be infiltration and surprise — which meant they would be no more eager for gunfire than was Paul.

  He waited.r />
  The cone of yellow light was nearly full now. The clinking of slings, the footfalls of men moving not as cautiously as they might. Paul Rubenstein waited.

  Suddenly Bjorn Rolvaag uttered a cry —perhaps a

  cry of battle, perhaps a curse. Into the cone of light hacked Rolvaag’s enormous sword, the head of the man holding the flashlight severing, falling, the flashlight falling from the dead hand an instant afterward, Paul thrusting himself beyond the cone, at its fringes where the yellow light was gray, stabbing the Gerber into a bulkily uniformed Russian body, a rifle falling to the floor of the tunnel. Rolvaag, his feet visible in the rolling, swirling light of the fallen flashlight —a scream, but the voice wrong for Rolvaag, Paul sidestepping as something heavy, something human, toppled against him — and suddenly as he shoved the body away his left hand was wet and he realized his hand was inside the neck of a human being. Paul jumped back, another movement beside him. If it was Rolvaag—but he could see Rolvaag’s boots in the light — Paul stabbed into the darkness, hearing a groaning sound, then diving through the cone of light so Rolvaag would see him. He grabbed at the Icelandic giant, trying to dislodge him away from the light, shouting, “Rolvaag!”

  There was a response —and the response was unintelligible to Paul Rubenstein, but then Rolvaag shouted, “Paul!”

  “Rolvaag —Paul!” Paul tugged at the man, Rolvaag moving now, Paul running, his hands ahead of him, his knife blade scraping against rock, Paul’s left hand finding his flashlight in his pocket —a small Mini-Mag-Lite. He twisted it on, realizing he was running toward the Russians, a Russian face staring at him, a rifle butt hammering toward him. Paul’s right hand snapped out and forward, into the throat of the Russian. He snapped his arm back, blood spraying as Paul freed the knife. He turned, running, shouting, “Rolvaag!”