Survivalist - 15 - Overlord Read online

  He took only the Beretta pistols and slung the shoulder rig in place. The parka over his arm, he left.

  He found the monorail station again. It was fully automated and summoning a car at any hour of the day or night, he had been told, would cause a car to arrive within ninety seconds or less. It was forty-five seconds. He boarded the car and signalled his destination by pressing the spot on the map located beside the sliding doors. The car sped along its single overhead track, the petal of the First City over which he rode all but asleep, some workers moving in a long, narrow street, an electric car crossing an intersection, the lights in most of the residential structures extinguished.

  The monorail stopped by the main entrance tunnel and he exited the car, slipping his parka on, but not closing it. He started up the tunnel.

  The guard patrol at the tunnel. Two men with rifles stepped from the shadows beyond the yellow light through which he walked, evidently recognized him, one of them nodded, both moving away.

  When he reached the end of the tunnel, he found that there was a storm like none he had ever seen. There were several guards clustered about the energy field which formed the main entrance, snow sparking in the field, the invisible barrier crackling, flashing. He could not converse with the officer in charge of the detail. Unlike the Germans, English was not a requirement for the officer corps. It was merely a language of the learned. But with gestures, Michael at last made clear his intent. And it was clear to him that the Chinese guards thought he was a madman to venture into the storm.

  The cold that was somehow blocked by the energy field was suddenly there, and a wind which howled maddeningly and hammered at the barrier crackling into place behind him, through him.

  Movement along the road surface was difficult because it was so slippery, and slow because of the pressure of the wind, but his meager transmitter would have no effect without his getting far enough into the open. He had told the chairman his intention and the chairman had told him somberly that most likely his companions from the flying machine would be dead, the prey of the soldiers of the Second City who roamed the wildly frigid terrain and would kill without provocation.

  Michael Rourke kept walking, the radio handset safely beneath his parka and close to his body to prevent damage to the batteries.

  He estimated another hundred yards through the already thigh deep snow would be adequate distance from interfering structures.

  He kept moving, fatigue setting in more quickly than he had imagined. Four hours of sleep had all but restored him,

  the first relaxed sleep he had experienced since the death of his wife and unborn child. Madison would have wanted this, he suddenly realized. His happiness, such happiness as there could be while an evil of unspeakable proportion prowled the earth and casually claimed the lives of innocent women and babies.

  He had made his hundred yards or close to it and Michael Rourke, at peace with himself oddly, took the radio set from beneath his parka and turned it on.

  The voice he heard belonged to Paul Rubenstein, caught in mid-transmission. “… can hear, respond. If your receiver is incapable of clear sending, open and close the frequency in series. Over.”

  Michael Rourke raised the machine to his lips, pulling away the flap from the hood which protected his lower face. “This is Michael. Paul? Come in. Over.”

  It wasn’t Paul’s voice which came back, but his father’s. “Michael — this is Dad. Are you all right? Over”

  “Dad —I’m fine. Where are you? Over.”

  “Flying the chopper you and and the others left behind. Heading for someplace called the Second City with a prisoner aboard who looks like some kind of movie lot Mongolian. Over.”

  “The crew. Over.”

  “Gunner dead, pilot in serious condition from beating and exposure and some burns, apparently torture. Over.”

  “Do you know your position? Over.” It was a ridiculous question to ask his father.

  “Prepare to copy,” and John Rourke gave coordinates, Michael Rourke committing them to memory, telling his father to hold that approximate position while he got precise coordinates — for the First City …

  John Rourke rarely looked tired, Paul Rubenstein reflected. But he looked tired now. “He’s all right — “

  He watched John Rourke’s eyes as his friend shifted them briefly from the swirling blizzard through which they flew and to his face, then away again. “You don’t realize how much you love someone,” John began. “Well —you know what I mean.”

  “He’s all right,” Paul Rubenstein said again. “That’s what matters.”

  The radio crackled but it wasn’t Michael’s voice, but Natalia from aboard the J-7V. “Thank God, John.”

  “Amen,” Rourke said into the microphone near his lips.

  “I’ve got something on radar. It probably has me. No— wait a minute. It was one blip just a second ago. Now I have five —no —make that six.”

  Paul Rubenstein began working the radar console and picked up the six blips as well. “Look like helicopters,” he said. “Agree?”

  “Agree,” Rourke said.

  “Agree,” Natalia’s voice came back. “They aren’t German or we’d know. Logic indicates they’re the six Soviet gunships Captain Hartman spoke of.”

  “Shit,” Rourke snarled. The gunships were nearly off screen. “How’s your fuel, Natalia?”

  “We won’t have to set down for six hours and we have plenty of reserves.”

  Paul Rubenstein watched John Rourke’s face. Then John Rourke spoke. “All right. Let’s do this. If Michael is with friendlies, we can get the pilot of the helicopter to medical facilities. Can you fly above the Soviet gunships and keep them in your radar without being detected.”

  “We’ve lost them on our scope,” Paul interjected.

  “We’ve lost them just now, Paul says —you have a better reach. Still got them?”

  “Affirmative, John,” Natalia answered. “Checking with the pilot now.” There was static, then her voice came back. “The pilot tells me we can do it, but we’ll have to fly tight circles like we have or we will outdistance them just like we would

  have outdistanced you.”

  “Do it “John Rourke told her. “Do not engage. Just follow. Stay on this frequency and we’ll monitor it. Be careful. I almost lost someone I love tonight. I don’t want to repeat the experience. Rourke out.”

  There was a pause, then, “Natalia out.”

  Rourke, his face lit by the reddish glow of the overhead, looked at Paul Rubenstein. “Maybe we’ve got them.”

  The radio crackled again, Michael’s voice, a little less clear than the last transmission, but Paul Rubenstein could read the transmission clearly enough and started logging the coordinates.

  Second City. First City. It reminded him of the rivalry between Chicago and New York. He felt the change in rotor pitch, the change in wind as John Rourke called to the J-7V and simply said, “Breaking off—good luck. Rourke out.”

  Six Soviet gunships, a blizzard, Chinese cities — Michael had said that in the second series of transmissions —killer Mongols and Karamatsov’s army still coming. Paul Rubenstein suspected that more than luck would be required.

  Chapter Thirty

  At high altitude, the modest irregularities in the terrain features would never have been detected, she felt. She remembered discussing the subject with Annie and with several scientists from the Icelandic community at Hekla. The Eden Project personnel had detected what had appeared as a power source and, really by accident (she was not about to call it serendipity since Eden personnel had nearly taken her life), had sent Elaine Halversen and Akiro Kurinami to the surface to investigate. She had seen charts on computer screens showing their orbital paths, and she had realized at once that had a similar power source been detectable from space anywhere within all of Eurasia, it would likely have been’ missed.

  The J-7V had no instruments specifically designed for probing for power sources, and simply because of
its terrain following features was it radar sensitive enough to have picked up the quite definite signs of human habitation the screen now revealed.

  Coasdines had changed over the five centuries since the near total destruction of life, the advancing poles lowering

  sea levels dramatically, but the concussive effect of the bombings on the Night of The War itself having caused earthquakes more severe than she had previously realized. With the coordinates as reference, a superimposed map of the area from the pre-Holocaust period revealed a vastly altered shape to the land. There had, in the past, been a bay and peninsula here at the tip of Manchuria near what had been North Korea. But no longer. The peninsula was now a land bridge to a radically altered coast of China.

  And the six helicopters were traveling into this area with what seemed from the pattern of their flight a quite definite destination.

  Their radar would not as yet have acquired the evidence of human habitation just acquired by the J-7V, but would soon acquire it. She was curious if they were aware of it, her faceless adversaries.

  She spoke into her headset to the pilot. “Lieutenant?”

  “Fraulein Major?”

  “Can you circle widely enough around our quarry that we can still keep them in definite radar contact but get well ahead of them? That series of terrain features. It seems to clearly suggest human habitation near what was once the city of Lushun. If that is the Soviet destination, perhaps we can guess their purpose if we get a closer look.”

  “Yes, Fraulein Major.” And immediately, the young pilot’s fingers began punching a new program into the navigational console. She glanced back along the length of the fuselage. The six men of the security detail, a bit white faced from the bumpiness of the flight, seemed alert enough, the Mongol-looking prisoner, bound with disposable, synthetic plastic restraints, squatted on the floor between them, his face a mask of terror. She called out to the Mongol, telling him that if he behaved himself, the machine which flew through the sky would bring him safely to earth again. He said something to her, essentially thanking her for her kindness.

  It was not politeness which motivated his response, but

  fear instead. The J-7V banked sharply to port, implementing the course change …

  It was barely possible to land the German gunship, the storm seeming to have intensified if that could have been possible, John Rourke thought.

  “You’re going to have to help me, Paul,” Rourke shouted, bypassing the radio. “As soon as we touch down there, get Michael and whoever else you can and get those guy wires attached to the fuselage to anchor this thing. She’ll flip on us otherwise. The wind is too strong. Be ready!”

  The younger man was already freeing himself of the restraint harness, Rourke glancing back once, seeing Paul checking that the injured German pilot was secured, then going to the fuselage door. “Don’t open it yet, Paul!”

  “Right —tell me when, John!”

  He was playing with the pitch control, trying for something similar to level flight, the wind slamming at him from all sides, no matter which way he oriented the helicopter. Beneath them, near the shelter of a massive looking ramp, one of several partially drifted over with snow leading to flower petal shaped structures which began above the surface and disappeared below, he could see people, at least two dozen of them. Details were impossible to see.

  He spoke into the headset on the frequency established with Michael’s radio. “Son —you hear me? Over.”

  “I hear you, Dad —looks like you’re having problems with the winds. Over.”

  , “Affirmative on that. As soon as I touch down, Paul’s jumping out with the guy wires to anchor this down. Otherwise, the helicopter will flip over. Can you get him some assistance? Over.”

  “Gotchya. We’ll be ready to move as soon as Paul is out the door. How’s the pilot doing?”

  “All right last time I checked, which wasn’t too recently.

  But Paul just looked at him. You said Hammerschmidt was injured. How’s he doing?”

  “Better all the time. Hang in there. Over.”

  “Out,” Rourke snapped back, working the stick, playing the instrument switches like a rock singer on an electronic keyboard, as soon as he had the machine stabilized, another gust assaulting the aircraft. He was dropping, the descent less than perfecdy controlled. Rourke powered up, taking the chopper out over the valley in which he was trying to land. “Hang on tight, Paul!”

  He banked, letting the wind play with the machine for an instant, then levelling off and increasing rotation, sweeping downward toward the flare lighted landing circle, the wind gusting more heavily, Rourke sliding the helicopter down, ready to reduce power. “Hang on! Going in!” He cut power, letting the machine’s weight take over, upping power just slightly, touching down, the machine vibrating around him, killing tail rotor power, the machine lurching sickeningly, a howling scream from the storm as the fuselage door opened, Rourke feeling the cold and the wind assaulting the exposed skin of his neck. He increased rotor speed just slightly, the machine lurching again as another gust assaulted it, the clipboard with the maps blowing from Paul’s seat, Paul visible now by the chin bubble, gusts of wind and snow blowing him back as he made to secure the line to the grommet, Michael to starboard, securing a line, Chinese soldiers surrounding the helicopter, Rourke fighting the uncomfortable feeling they gave him.

  His eyes found Michael again, Maria Leuden beside him.

  Rourke found himself smiling.

  The buffeting of the wind did not decrease, but the erratic swaying of the German gunship stabilized, then stopped, only the strongest of gusts rocking it now, and only slightly.

  He killed power, unstrapping. The rotor blades had to be attended to quickly …

  Father and son stood by the monorail station. Except for the few strands of gray in the elder Rourke’s hair and that John Rourke needed a shave and Michael Rourke did not, the two men, in height, in bearing, in the subtle mannerisms and looks which accompanied their speech, even in the timbre of their voices, seemed to her identical.

  Between them stood the chairman, his own considerable height all but diminished. Maria Leuden hugged her arms to her breasts, shivering from the remembered cold they had just quit.

  As she made to join them, the Chinese agent, Han, ran from the tunnel, slowing as he approached the leader of his government. She could hear him as he spoke. “I have monitored the radio frequency Doctor Rourke asked be monitored. There is a message coming in from a woman.”

  “Natalia,” John Rourke murmured, then broke into a long strided sprint back up the tunnel, the parka he wore still dark stained with wetness, Michael behind him, then running even with him, Maria Leuden following after them. As she glanced back, the chairman, not running, but walking briskly, was also coming.

  A radio had been set up just beyond the electronic barrier, a portable antenna wired to it, the location selected because the signal could not be picked up on Chinese radio, the frequency range different. It was a field radio from her own country, she recognized.

  She could hear Natalia’s voice. “This is Courier. Come in Watchman. Over.” She assumed Watchman was a code designation.

  John Rourke took the microphone, saying into it, “This is Watchman, Courier. Reading you with heavy static. Over.”

  Snow and wind lashed them, Maria Leuden closing her parka quickly, pulling the hood up. Suddenly Michael’s arm was around her and she leaned her head against him. Paul Rubenstein stood beside John Rourke. She noticed the

  chairman crossing past the barrier, one of the officers giving the chairman his parka, the chairman hugging it around him, his long robe blowing in the gale force wind like a woman’s skirts.

  Natalia’s voice came again. “Have located what appears to be an aggregation of prefabricated structures near location of pre-Conflagration Lushun, on what is now a very narrow isthmus between a large lake and the Yellow Sea. There is a rail line here. The six gunships have landed at approximately seve
nty-five miles northeast of the city along the rail line. We are landing out of their radar range and will proceed toward their location to observe using the Specials. Over.”

  “This is our outpost,” the chairman said, his body visibly shaking with the cold. “Are these gunships—aircraft?”

  “Yes,” John Rourke told him. “Russian gunships. Looking for something.”

  The chairman seemed stricken, sagging against the officer near him, Han going to his aid. John Rourke spoke into the microphone, “Stand by, courier. Do nothing. Stand by. Over.”

  The elder Rourke attended the chairman, the man shaking his head as if to clear it. “What is it, sir,” John Rourke asked, his voice barely audible over the wind. Michael walked forward, to stand beside his father, Maria’s right hand locked in his left in tow to him. She followed. “Why did you react like that?” John Rourke asked.

  The chairman drew himself up to his full height. “The cache of nuclear warheads we spoke of earlier,” he said, addressing the remarks toward Michael, toward her, then looking at the elder Rourke. “Thirty-three nuclear warheads. A secret broken in three parts, two possessed by ourselves and two by our enemies of the Second City. The two parts of the secret which we possess indicate that the cache of warheads may be hidden near the sea.”

  “Shit,” John Rourke hissed. She watched as he licked his

  lips, looked at his son, then at Paul Rubenstein, then at the chairman. “That helicopter won’t get off the ground again. What do you have that can get us to this area Major Tiemerovna spoke of? Somebody answer me.” There was a look of desperation in his eyes she had not seen before. She had seen it in Michael’s eyes when he had come to her door hours ago and taken her into his arms and taken her to her bed and made love to her in a way she hadn’t thought would be possible.