Survivalist - 18 - The Struggle Page 2

  Time.

  Rourke rose to his full height, coming up over the lip of the ridgeline in a dead run, cutting the distance to the Mongol by half before the man began to turn around. As the Mongol opened his mouth to shout a warning or a scream, the tip of the LS-X entered him—in the mouth, punching through the back of the neck as Rourke thrust, severing the Mongol’s spinal column.

  Rourke wrenched the blade free, the body falling, gravel crunching, the Mongol nearest looking around, raising the pistols in his hands, wheeling toward Rourke as Rourke lunged, the Crain knife impaling the man just below the right breast, Rourke drawing the man up and toward him on the knife, raking the smaller Sting IA across the right side of the Mongol’s throat, Rourke turning away as the blood sprayed, with his right foot kicking the Mongol off the blade of the Crain knife.

  Rourke let the smaller knife fall from his left hand, shifting the LS-X from his right, then drawing the .44 Magnum revolver from the Milt Sparks flap holster at his right hip. As another of the Mongols spun toward him, Rourke double-actioned the 629, the six-inch tubed Smith rocking in his fist, the Mongol taking the hit, going down, rolling. Rourke was on him as the Mongol drew his pistol to fire, the upper left side of his torso drenched in blood, the Mongol dying but too stubborn to let go. Rourke backhanded the Crain knife’s primary edge from the left cheekbone and down across the Adam’s apple, severing the windpipe.

  A burst of assault rifle fire hammered into the rocks near him, Rourke hurtling the LS-X down like a spike into the dying Mongol’s chest, punching the 629 forward, firing once, then again and again, the Mongol firing at him from fifty feet away falling, sprawling back.

  Rourke could see Michael, Michael’s knife hacking wildly outward, half severing the arm of one of the Mongols, Michael stepping into him, the Beretta in Michael’s left fist firing again and again, punching the body away as Michael turned toward the next man.

  Rourke emptied the 629 as his left hand ripped one of the twin stainless Detonics mini-guns from the double Alessi shoulder rig, his thumb jacking the hammer back, his right hand holstering the 629 as the first round from the Detonics .45 was fired. As he fired the second round, one of the Mongols grasping his abdomen and going down, Rourke’s right hand swept cross body, his fist closing on the Pachmayr-gripped butt of the second Detonics, the first emptying as he cleared the second gun from the leather, jerked the hammer back and fired.

  The slide still locked back empty, he thrust the Detonics mini-gun into the waistband of his trousers, his left hand moving inches, tugging free one of the Scoremasters, firing out the Detonics Combat Master in his right hand, dropping it into the hip pocket of his pants, drawing the second Scoremaster as he fired the first.

  The heavy claps of his .45s, the lighter, sharper cracks of Michael’s Beretta 92Fs. And no more of the Mongols remained alive to kill.

  Chapter One

  The day-lights which glowed from within the high dome of the flower-shaped First City’s administrative Petal normally appeared to the naked eye as natural as sunlight. Now, the lights flickered maddeningly, reminding John Rourke fleetingly of the cheap urban neon signs which only he and few others still alive could remember. No great loss. These lights cast sinister shadows over the pain-etched faces of the wounded who lay everywhere, like broken and discarded dolls flung aside by some careless child in a fit of temper.

  All about them as they walked, Rourke saw death, suffering and incalculable physical damage, from the most heroically posed shattered statue to a trampled garden of once exquisitely delicate flowers, from blackened, explosion-cratered streets and walkways where normal lives and commerce had been conducted instants before the carnage to the glitter and crunch beneath their booted feet of the shattered glass from now windowless buildings. Chinese troops in irregular numbers, attired in ragged, smoke-smudged uniforms, ran to reinforce defensive positions against renewed attack while others aided the men and women in dirty and bloodstained hospital attire who tended the

  civilians and military personnel who had some even slight chance to be saved.

  Rourke’s son Michael, and Maria Leuden, the German archaeologist who was Michael’s mistress, had left Rourke and Rubenstein as they had entered the city, personally placed the Chinese Intelligence Agent Han Lu Chen on a commandeered monorail car so he could be speeded to the medical center. Han’s injuries were grave, sustained at the hands of the barbarians in the Second City, requiring the sort of immediate medical attention that under the circumstances could only be gotten if forced.

  John Thomas Rourke dropped to one knee beside an old woman who lay beside an overturned flower cart, her inner thigh bleeding heavily. But the bleeding was not arterial. He applied pressure with his fingertips and the flow of blood eased as a Chinese soldier who evidently spoke no English but recognized him nodded, said, “Rourke,” and smiled, then continued plowing through a medical kit of the type used in the field by the Defense Forces of the First City. The private soldier at last found what he sought and began to apply a pressure bandage, Rourke nodding to Paul Rubenstein who bent over beside them, dropped to his knees, helped the soldier with the proper application of the dressing. Paul had seen him—Rourke—do it often enough, Rourke supposed. And Paul Rubenstein had hands that were good, obeyed him well, were strong, and a mind quick to learn.

  The bandage in place, the old woman’s eyelids flickered, shy dark eyes probing bis and Rubenstein’s face; and her frail hands clutched at theirs, inadvertently smearing her hands with her own blood. Rourke smiled down at her, stood to his feet, wiped his hands clean of the blood, then picked up his parka and began walking again, Paul beside him. Paul’s right arm was crudely slung with a shirt-sleeve, much of the not-too

  badly burned area exposed, but none of the Chinese stopping to marvel at the wound, because so many of the Chinese were themselves wounded.

  There had been heavy fighting here in the First Chinese City. P.A. systems blared instructions in Chinese, the words Rourke understood for “wounded” and “dead” repeated often.

  Rourke kept walking.

  At last, he and Paul Rubenstein reached the steps of the government building. An immaculately dressed woman in modestly high heels and equally modestly slitted chong-san waited at the base of the steps, the look of distraction bordering on frenzy in the eyes set in her otherwise serene face unnerving. Rourke recognized her, a personal aid to the Chinese Chairman. The epicanthic lids closed and opened, the movement like the fluttering of a bird’s wing. She was very beautiful.

  The Chinese/ English interpreter told him in her singsong soprano voice, an unreal but somehow sincere smile on her carefully made-up face, “The helicopter which purportedly carried your daughter, Doctor Rourke, and Major Tiemerovna and Captain Hammerschmidt—it has unfortunately not been heard from and is presumed to be lost somewhere over the Yellow Sea.”

  John Thomas Rourke began running as she uttered the word “unfortunately,” tossed aside his parka and other temporarily unnecessary gear as she said the simple word “lost.” As he reached the steps leading into the government building, taking them three at a time in a dead run, Paul Rubenstein was beside him. Rourke glanced at his friend as the woman’s voice behind them droned on. “A Soviet helicopter reportedly was encountered and there was an exchange of fire and—”

  “I know” was all Rourke said, not in response to the spoken condolences of the female interpreter but to

  the unspoken words of Paul Rubenstein beside him. Annie, Rourke’s daughter, was Paul’s wife.

  Rourke reached the height of the steps, running faster now, Paul nearly staying abreast of him. Rourke merely eyed the First City guards who momentarily interposed themselves in the open doorway, not needing to shove past them because they moved aside before him unbidden.

  Rourke saw his wife Sarah standing at the head of the staircase, legs spread apart, face smudged. The staircase widened gradually, leading upward from the far end of the great hall through which Rourke and Rubenstei
n ran, upward toward the executive offices. A pistol was belted to Sarah’s pregnancy-swollen midsection, a black T-shirt visible beneath an open German camouflage BDU blouse.

  “There’s been no word, John. No word at all.”

  “Are you sure they went down over water, weren’t blown up when the missiles or whatever struck?”

  He was taking the staircase like a hill, charging up its midsection, taking Sarah into his arms as he reached the top.

  “I’m afraid, John.”

  John Rourke held his wife in his arms, tightly.

  Forcing himself to walk rather than run because she was beside him was the most difficult thing he had ever done. And Paul Rubenstein walked with them…

  “But Comrade Colonel—”

  “Ground forces.” With more ground forces he could have conquered. Nicolai Antonovitch walked quickly over the freeze-hardened, snow-packed ground, extemporizing orders to the aide who almost ran beside him. “Withdraw all functional personnel and equipment from the area surrounding the Second Chinese City, leaving only what is necessary to cover with

  drawal of the wounded. Whatever the nature of the explosion there, it has likely neutralized the preponderance of their forces. I want to be able to attack the First City in full strength within twelve hours from now. They must still reel from the blow they have already sustained. Order the commander of our army in Lydveldid Island to consolidate his forces within the Hekla volcanic cone itself and to abandon, then destroy the German Base outside Hekla. I want a full airborne assault force ready to move at a moment’s notice against Eden Base in American Georgia. I want that force ready within twelve hours. A coordinated attack will further sap German military strength. I fly to the Underground City. For troops.”

  Antonovitch quickened his pace to a run, his gunship’s rotor blades turning, snow swirling cyclonically in their downdraft. There was one other possibility, if he could carry it off without losing everything. If he could make contact…

  Louise Walenski was smiling like an idiot, almost laughing as she bumped into him. “Excuse me! Sir.”

  Jason Darkwood was halfway over the flange for the watertight door leading to the Reagan’s bridge when he noticed her eyes. “Is something wrong, Lieutenant? Do I have my shoes on backward or something?” She laughed, running the free hand that didn’t hold her clipboard back through her pretty hair. He wasn’t wearing shoes at all, of course, but rather issue combat boots as he always wore with his Class B uniform. “Lieutenant?”

  “Ohh, nothing, sir—I ahh—I was just really pleased that we caught onto that transponder signal in time to get them all out of the water. I think Lieutenant Mott did a great job with tracking. And Lieutenant Bowman, too, of course. Where would Communica

  tions have been without Navigation, after all.”

  “Words to ponder indeed, Lieutenant.” Darkwood continued on his way, through the companionway, through the next watertight doorway, and to the Con.

  Lieutenant Junior Grade Arturo Rodriguez sang out, “Captain’s on the bridge!”

  The Reagan’s bridge crew started to attention, or what was left of them, anyway; Darkwood called out the anticipated “Carry on,” then proceeded toward his command chair as the bridge personnel looked back to their stations.

  Not only was his warfare officer, Lieutenant Walenski, missing, but so were Lieutenants Junior Grade Kelly and Bowman. Darkwood sat down, ran his fingers over the console arms, and looked at Sebastian, his tall, leanly muscled First Officer leaning over the illuminated plotting board. “Mr. Sebastian?”

  “Aye, sir?” Sebastian answered.

  “Where are the female members of the bridge crew? I literally bumped into Lieutenant Walenski—back there,” and he gestured behind him.

  “You pose an interesting question, Captain” was all Sebastian responded.

  “Interesting question,” Darkwood nodded. “Do you have an interesting answer?”

  “No, sir.Not at all. The answer isn’t that terribly interesting at all.”

  Darkwood stood up, took the three steps down, and stood leaning against the First Officer’s chair. “Even if it isn’t interesting, Mr. Sebastian, share it with me anyway.”

  Lieutenant CommanderTJ. Sebastian’s eyes shifted quickly aft along the bridge and then to Darkwood’s face, Sebastian’s brown hands distending over the illuminated surface of the chart table as if it were one of the tactile sensitive video games with which television news broadcasters contended teenagers at Mid-Wake

  were obsessed. “Actually, Jason, surprise!”

  Darkwood started to speak when he heard laughter behind him, then Margaret Barrow’s voice. “Congratulations, Jason—Captain Jason Darkwood, Captain U.S.S. Ronald Wilson Reagan.” She held a radio-fax transcription in her left hand. Radio-fax messages were only possible when the ship was surfaced.

  Behind him, he heard the click of the microphone which Sebastian used when relaying orders from the bridge. “Attention all hands; now hear this. This is First Officer Sebastian speaking.” Captain? Darkwood thought He was Captain of the Reagan well enough, but his rank was— He started to interrupt Sebastian. But Sebastian kept on talking, his voice echoing back through the open watertight doors, piped over the entire ship, Darkwood realized. “I have the honor to announce the promotion of Commander Jason Darkwood to the rank of Captain, with all honors and privileges pertaining thereto. All personnel performing nonessential ship’s functions, ten-hut!”

  Margaret Barrow handed him the radio-fax, Department of the Navy orders signed by Admiral Rahn and countersigned by President Fellows, which wasn’t necessary to make the orders of promotion official but was quite an honor. More of an honor, though, was the collection of signatures on the reverse of the radio-fax. Every officer and man of the Reagan.

  Sebastian held the microphone in his left hand, rose to his full height—which was substantial—and saluted. “Captain Darkwood. The microphone, sir.” He offered the microphone.

  Darkwood took it, stared at it a moment.

  “Go ahead, Jason,” Sebastian smiled.

  Darkwood still didn’t know what to say. “This is— the Captain speaking, I suppose. Well. I really am a Captain. Not just a Captain. Nuts. A man couldn’t ask for a better crew. I’ve just been handed the radio-fax all

  of you signed. I know I’ll receive the official document once we return to Mid-Wake, but this is the copy that I’ll always treasure. Lest I have to remind anyone, we have a submarine to run and our Soviet friends would be more than happy to take it off our hands if we let them. Thank you. Thank you all very much. Return to your stations.”

  Darkwood handed the microphone back to Sebastian. Sebastian said, “The Captain is receiving his cake.” Darkwood looked at Sebastian, then looked toward Margaret Barrow. Behind the ship’s doctor stood his Warfare, Sonar, and Navigation officers, Warfare holding an impossibly large sheet cake with chocolate frosting on top and Sonar and Navigation holding plates, napkins, and a funny-looking knife Darkwood assumed was designed for cutting cakes. “Slices will be available during the regular mess schedule. That is all.”

  “It’s hot, sir,” his Warfare officer warned him.

  “I’ll take that into consideration, Lieutenant,” Darkwood nodded, smiling, feeling embarrassed and slightly tongue-tied. Sam Aldridge and Tom Stanhope appeared on the bridge behind his female bridge personnel, Aldridge grinning, laughing both at him and with him.

  Margaret Barrow leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ve got that Russian woman to look after, Jason. All the best.” And she turned and ran off, past Walenski and the cake that had been decorated too hurriedly; frosting was gooing in the middle where the temperature was still too warm and all the bridge crew knotted around her.

  “Ahh—”

  “Captain. May I suggest that Lieutenant Walenski continue her supervision of the cake and undertake its equitable distribution to all members of the bridge crew and the remainder of the ship’s company after you

 
have made the initial cut?”

  Jason Darkwood wasn’t quite certain what Sebastian had said, but he agreed with it anyway and Lieutenant Junior Grade Bowman smiled at him as she handed him the odd-looking knife…

  A piece of cake on a saucer in his left hand, Jason Darkwood pushed through the door into Margaret Barrow’s sick bay, past Lieutenant Stanhope’s Marine guard, telling the corporal, “As you were.” The young girl (a Rourke) who’d been the only one conscious when the Reagan had surfaced answering the transponder now lay asleep—sedated, he guessed—on one of the beds, at the opposite end of sick bay from the Russian woman. Darkwood had never seen the Rourke girl before, but he had seen the Russian woman. The Rourke girl—her name was Annie Rubenstein—was exceedingly beautiful. The Russian woman, Major Tiemerovna, was exquisite. Tossing and turning as she was beneath the blanket, restraints crisscrossing the bed, she looked somehow very tragic. In the third occupied bed was a man, resting comfortably it appeared. Obviously military, he looked like a blond and blue-eyed version of black-skinned, brown-eyed Sam Aldridge.

  Margaret Barrow came out of her office.

  “Brought me my cake?”

  “Brought you your cake,” Darkwood nodded. “It’s very good. Taking the welfare of the crew as my utmost concern, as I always do, I realized it’d be necessary to have two pieces myself just to make certain it was entirely suitable. Then I carefully checked with Sam Aldridge, who, as it turned out, is quite the connoisseur of cake. He liked it, too.”

  “Well, if the Marine Corps approves, gee-whiz.”

  UTT______ .*-o«

  She tasted the cake. “Mmm—it is good. Well, let’s see. Machinist First Class Hong—he had the blood blister, remember? Well—”

  Darkwood smiled. “Right. Hong’s a fine man. I was more concerned about women.”

  “You never change,” she smiled too sweetly. “Let’s see. Mrs. Rubenstein voluntarily accepted a sedative once I told her that Major Tiemerovna was stable and that she’d be of greater value to the Major if she were well rested once the Major awakened.”