Survivalist - 20 - Firestorm Page 2

If someone was going to start shooting at him, it would be soon, now. His gloved fist tightened on the butt of the 2418 A2. “God,” he muttered under his breath. He wished he was back aboard his submarine …

  John Rourke stood stock still. Movement at about eleven o’clock on the far side of the clearing. Paul might have seen it, but that was doubtful from Paul’s vantage point on the opposite side coming up from the six o’clock position counterclockwise.

  He couldn’t wait for a gunshot, because Darkwood was risking his neck enough and one shot or a full-automatic burst could be the end of the man. And Darkwood was a good man, despite the sometimes flippant demeanor.

  John Rourke dropped into a crouch, moving forward quickly now, the LS-X still in the rapier hold.

  Movement again, perhaps fifty yards off, snow dislodging and falling to the ground.

  John Rourke moved laterally, deeper into the trees, as he increased the distance between himself and whoever had moved ahead of him, rising to his full height, quickening his pace. He reached the apex of the triangle of his movement pattern, working his way between the trees and through the sporadic high drifts, snow crunching under his boots but the noise unavoidable without losing more valuable time.

  He kept going, seeing movement again, ahead and to the left of him, from the same spot where he had first seen it. But from this angle, he could see its origin more clearly. A man, roughly his own height, in the black battle uniform of the KGB Elite Corps, an assault rifle in his hands, halfway to his shoulder as though he

  were just ready to snap off a burst.

  John Rourke promised himself something. He started to move, a long-strided run across the snow, the Crain knife in his right fist, the man with the assault rifle starting to turn around, John Rourke hurtling himself toward him, the knife beside Rourke’s right hip, then arcing forward into the Elite Corpsman’s abdomen, primary edge up. As Rourke’s left hand closed over the man’s mouth, Rourke’s body blocking the rifle from being raised, Rourke’s right hand tensed, his forearm pulsing with exertion as he tore the knife upward from navel to sternum, a sound almost like a sigh, muffled beneath Rourke’s gloved hand, the Elite Corpsman’s body going rigid, then suddenly limp.

  John Rourke was up, to his feet, wiping die blade of his knife clean of blood against the snow-splotched bark of a tree.

  He heard movement seventy-five or a hundred yards deeper into the woods, saw snow crashing down from a low hanging bough on the far side of the clearing, at approximately two o’clock.

  Paul.

  John Rourke broke left, into a long-strided run.

  More movement, a rasped caution in Russian, the howl of the wind, like the moaning of a ghost from a horrific nightmare, a splotch of black uniform against a drift of white snow.

  There was a woman’s scream.

  Rourke was even with them now and he turned, ranning toward them from their right flank, shouting, “Paul! Darkwood! Over here!”

  His knife was sheathed, his fists closing on the butts of the two Scoremasters.

  Tbhn!” It was Paul’s voice. “The rest of you, close in from that side. You and you and you, follow me!”

  And Darkwood’s voice, getting in on the act. “Take the left flank, you and you, and you two. Pollow me, me rest of you!”

  There was movement, running, a burst of automatic weapons fire lighting the darkness. Rourke prayed it wasn’t the woman being put to death.

  There was an aggregate of rocks, open to the far and near sides, affording protection from the direction of the clearing and the direction from which Lieutenant Lillie St. James’s platoon of Marines would be coming.

  But no protection from him.

  John Rourke saw one of them turn, an assault rifle starting to open up.

  Rourke dodged right and back as the Scoremaster in his right hand raised to shoulder height, his right first finger making the squeeze.

  Snow churned up before him as the Scoremaster rocked gently in his right fist.

  He averted his eyes as the snow sprayed toward him. More assault rifle fire.

  Rourke caught a glimpse of a body going down as Rourke’s left hand raised to shoulder height, a single shot to the Elite Corpsman nearest the female captive. The Elite Corpsman’s left hand flashed to his neck as his body spun back.

  Assault rifle fire tore into the tree trunks beside Rourke. Rourke fired both pistols from shoulder height, silencing the rifleman. Rourke dove left, hitting the snow, rolling, the snow beside him plowed up under a fresh burst of assault rifle fire.

  He heard Paul shout, “Stay down, John!”

  The rattle of Paul Rubenstein’s submachine gun, neat three-round bursts, textbook perfect. As Rourke came up to his knees beside a y-shaped pine trunk, he saw one of the remaining three men going down, then a second man down.

  The last man swung his rifle toward the woman. Rourke’s pistols went up, firing simultaneously, but simultaneously as well, there was gunfire from Rourke’s right and from Paul’s direction also, the Elite Corpsman’s body wheeling back and forth, twisting around, falling.

  Rourke looked to his right. Darkwood, pistol in hand, stood there.

  “It’s Doctor Rourke, Miss Zeiss. Are you all right?”

  Rourke started moving forward, Darkwood beside him, Paul circling to the far side so that if anyone were still alive and dangerous they’d have him in a crossfire.

  She stumbled out of the rocks, the gleam of blood on her right cheek, possibly hers or perhaps from the rupturing of a gunshot wound near her.

  As she fell to her knees, John Rourke nodded to Darkwood, Darkwood dropping to his knees beside her, taking her into his arms.

  As John Rourke’s eyes scanned the bodies, he heard the crunching of snow under Paul’s boots and he heard Jason Darkwood’s voice. Tve never seen anyone like you, Doctor.”

  Rourke didn’t say anything, more important things on his mind.

  Chapter Three

  Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna heard Annie’s voice. She opened her eyes, the brightness making her close them again. “How you feeling?”

  Natalia turned her head away, a flood of memories now, confusing, no clear boundary between what had happened and what had not. Knights in armor, helicopter pursuits, Michael about to be killed, John’s knife in her hands and Vladmir’s head.

  She felt silly as she said it, and her voice sounded oddly dry, disused, unfamiliar to her. “Where am I?”

  As she turned her head back and opened her eyes, more slowly this time, Annie almost whispered, “YouVe been very sick, Natalia. But you’re better now. You’re in the hospital, at Mid-Wake. A lot of things happened, but everybody’s fine, my mom and dad, Paul, Michael, Otto. Everybody. And, now that you’re better, well, things will be just great. There’s an alliance and we’re going to turn things around. I just know it.”

  Natalia ran her hands back through her hair. Her hair felt just washed, just arranged.

  “You have such pretty hair,” Annie smiled. “I hope I fixed it right.”

  “I remember something-you were-“

  “It was the only way to make you better, to find out what was wrong. I figured, well, that you would have done anything to help me. So, ahh-“

  Annie looked down at her hands which were folded in her lap. Natalia watched her for a moment. Annie wore a print skirt, subdued purple flowers against a background that was so gray it was almost black, a black blouse with long wide sleeves and open at the throat, her hair drawn back from her face. She remembered how John used to call Annie’s hair “honey blonde.” It was darker

  now, but so very beautiful. “Annie. You are my best friend “

  Annie moved to the edge of the bed, folding Natalia into her arms, touching her lips to Natalia’s forehead. Natalia rested her head against Annie’s shoulder.

  Chapter Four

  John Rourke and his wife stood beside the table, Sarah Rourke’s face a little pale, Darkwood thought, compared to the rest of the surface people around. On reflectio
n, it had to have been a terrible experience for her, killing that man a split second before the man would have murdered the Japanese naval lieutenant. Darkwood stripped off his gloves and opened his coat, Sarah Rourke saying to Maritza Zeiss, Tm so happy ifs nothing serious. When they radioed back that they’d found you and you were all right, everyone was so happy.”

  “Your husband was so brave, Frau-“

  John Rourke cut that short. 71 just thought I’d check in. Leaving you in good hands,” and he nodded toward Darkwood, shot Maritza Zeiss a smile and ushered his wife toward a still open panel on the far wall. They disappeared.

  It was a little cold in the tent, despite the heater units working to capacity and the plastic-like material patched over at least most of the holes which were ripped in the tent walls by shrapnel and debris during the battle for Eden. She was stripped to rather male-looking underwear—something like an athletic shirt and panties more the size of shorts-and there was a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. But Jason Darkwood couldn’t help thinking that she was really beautiful. He realized he was staring at her, turned away, found a table to perch on the edge of and found himself staring at her again.

  Maritza Zeiss cleaned up very nicely.

  She’d been badly shaken by her ordeal, but physically unharmed, the German doctor they’d spoken with a moment earlier had told them, unharmed except for a few bruises and the beginnings of frostbite on the tips of the toes of her right foot.

  She sat on the edge of an examining table, talking almost unceasingly as a nurse did something to the little toe. Maritza Zeiss’ voice

  was tinged with nervous exhaustion.

  “So, you command a submarine? Wow.”

  “You’re German, I know, but you sound very American. Did Germans from five hundred years ago all speak English so well?”

  She laughed, winced a little as the nurse daubed something on the toe, said, “I went to college in the United States. Then came back here for my doctorate.”

  Darkwood realized he was staring at her, smiling at her. She was very pretty, reddish blonde hair, the hint of freckles on her shoulders where the blanket fell away, a long and slender neck and a nice figure. Inside his head, he could hear Maggie Barrow saying, “Right, Jason! You want to get our relationship going again? I bet!” He shrugged his shoulders, to turn off his conscience perhaps. “What did you earn your PhD in?”

  “Agriculture.”

  He started to laugh.

  “Why are you laughing?” Maritza Zeiss smiled, pouting her lip a little.

  “Well, ahh,” and Darkwood smiled. “You’re the first five hundred year old farmer Tve ever met. I didn’t realize farmers were so pretty.”

  She started to say something and men her jaw literally dropped as there was a crashing sound.

  Darkwood started to his feet, toward her, then saw her eyes. She was staring at something behind him and he turned around. One of the volunteers had dropped a tray of instruments and, as the woman bent over, her hand or something must have caught on the sheet covering the gurney behind her. There was a dead body visible, the face blue-veined and gray. Darkwood had seen the body before, when he and John Rourke and Paul Rubenstein had returned to Eden Base, the body just lying on the ground then, like so many others. But the commander of the forces from New Germany, Colonel Wolfgang Mann, and the Eden Project commander, Christopher Dodd, had been standing near it, arguing over something. Sarah Rourke had just been sitting on the ground beside the wall, staring at it, an empty pistol on her lap. It was the body of the Nazi, Damien Rausch, the man that Sarah Rourke had shot to death there at the wall. Maybe the body was about to be autopsied or something.

  Darkwood assumed Maritza Zeiss was shocked at the sight of still

  another casualty, regardless of who it was.

  But as he turned around and started to say something comforting, Maritza Zeiss said, That is the man I saw with Commander Dodd. Poor man. Commander Dodd said he was an agent working for Colonel Mann. He probably died very bravely.”

  Jason Darkwood looked at her as he said very softly, “His was a unique death, I understand. Yes.”

  He looked back at the lividinous countenance as the man who’d dropped the instruments, having them under control now, threw the black plastic sheet back over the dead man’s face. “Very unique ” Darkwood whispered.

  Chapter Five

  John Rourke stood just inside the hermetic flap of the tent, snow already dripping off the shoulders of his parka. He’d been offered a seat, refused, then told Dodd why he’d come. From an inside pocket, he took one of his cigars, rolling it in his fingertips, watching Commander Christopher Dodd in the light from the overhead lamp.

  Td like to confront her. Thafs what I’d like to do!” Dodd almost shouted, thudding his open palm down on the folding camp table. He was an unconvincing actor. This Zeiss woman must have had more of a shock with being taken hostage like that than anyone suspected. If she can say what she said to your precious Captain Darkwood to my face, HI step down as Eden Base commander, Doctor Rourke. And I know thafd make certain elements here-like Kurinami and Halversen and yourself and your family-exceedingly happy.”

  “Well, you’re right there,” John Rourke said, looking at him. The wound across Rourke’s shoulder blades didn’t pain him at all, but it itched. The German spray which acted at once as a healing agent and disinfectant worked, sometimes too well. “If she is incorrect, m owe you an apology for even mentioning this.”

  Dodd’s eyes narrowed and he stood up from behind the table. “If she’s correct, Doctor, Td be a traitor, wouldn’t I? So, if I had anything to hide, why the hell would I want to confront her in the first place? Answer me that, if you can! Think about it, man! Just because some of my decisions around here are unpopular, everybody wants to see me get tossed in the trash pile. And I’m sick of it. Til confront her, all right! She’s either lying or crazy. That-what was his name?”

  John Rourke lit the cigar. He looked across the blue yellow flame from his old battered Zippo and almost whispered, “Damien

  Rausch.”

  “Rausch. Yes. That man may have been drifting in and out of camp here. For all I know, he could have been wearing a German uniform. Most of those-“

  “They all look alike?” John Rourke supplied.

  “That’s not what I meant, darnnit.”

  “She’s in her tent, Doctor Zeiss that is. Why don’t we walk over mere and see her. Under the circumstances, considering her ordeal, ifd be the polite thing”

  Dodd looked at the watch on his wrist, hesitated, then nodded. “All right. Til go with you. Let me get my coat”

  John Rourke only nodded …

  Paul looked like a snowman. He hadn’t wanted to come inside Dodd’s tent and had stood outside under the canopy shelter. But the wind blew quite strongly and the snow fell heavily, the result Paul’s parka was covered. He patted his sleeves to get rid of some of the snow as they walked, the three of them abreast, Paul to Rourke’s right, Dodd to Rourke’s left. Brushing away the snow was a useless gesture, Rourke thought, because already his own parka was all but covered with it, as was Dodd’s, and Paul’s was recovering.

  They walked across the camp in silence, Rourke puffing on his cigar, Paul still brushing away snow.

  Maritza Zeiss’ tent, which she shared with five other women, was on the far side of the base, near the north perimeter. Although much had been destroyed there, the tent was spared.

  German troops moved about the area near the prefabricated perimeter wall, repairing it, Eden Base personnel assisting them. There was no way to tell when the Russians might strike again, although logic, substantiated by German high altitude electronic intelligence, dictated it wouldn’t be soon. There weren’t enough gunships in any one place that massing for an attack seemed in progress.

  Rourke saw the tent ahead.

  Dodd asked, “Is that it? I hope so; I’m freezing.”

  Rourke looked at him, saying nothing, exhaling smoke, the sm
oke lost in the steam of his breath.

  They reached the tent, the crunching of snow under their boots stopping. Rourke’s eyes swept over the ground. He thought he detected footprints seeming to come from inside the tent, but the wind drove the snow so strongly that he couldn’t be sure.

  Paul looked at him. Rourke nodded. Paul took his gloved right hand from the muff pocket and rapped on the tent pole beside the hermetically sealed door. “Doctor Zeiss? It’s us, John Rourke and Paul Rubenstein. We have Dodd with us.”

  Rourke looked at the hermetically sealed flap, then dropped to one knee before it, tugging off his right outer glove, drawing his first finger through the nearly filled, depression in the snow, the depression which could have been a bootprint. “Try again, Paul.”

  “Doctor Zeiss? Captain Darkwood?”

  “Evidently she’s out,” Dodd said, his voice holding a hint of sarcasm.

  Rourke looked up, then stood, dusting snow from his inner glove. “Probably ducked out for a pizza.” John Rourke started opening the tent flap, raising his voice, saying, “We’re coming inside,” then to Paul, his voice lowering, “Watch out.”

  As Rourke pulled open the flap with his left hand, his right hand found the butt of one of the Scoremasters in his belt beneath his coat.

  His right thumb pulled the hammer back, then swept up the ambidextrous safety.

  With his thumb poised over the safety and his right first finger just inside the trigger guard, but not touching the trigger, Rourke stepped through into the weatherlock, his left hand working the interior flap as Paul, just behind him, told Commander Dodd, “Pull that closed after you, huh?”

  Rourke drew open the interior flap.

  It was dark inside the tent, only a dull glow of gray daylight lighting the tent walls but providing no illumination at all for the interior.

  Rourke’s left hand held the German flashlight, his wrists locking together, right over left, the beam from the flashlight and the muzzle of the handgun pointing in the same direction. “Darkwood?”