Survivalist - 15.5 - Mid-Wake Read online

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Jason Darkwood’s helmet broke surface into the mist which perpetually shrouded the lagoon. And immediately, the surface of his helmet began to fog over. He touched a control on his chest pack and the helmet began to defog. He was approximately a hundred yards from the docks, Island Class submarines everywhere, a Scout sub moving low in the water about 200 yards from him. The submarines had to be given exit paths through the sonar net. Otherwise they would produce the same results as errant sharks. He logged the detail away in his mind in case he got out of here alive, which seemed rather doubtful. He felt something tug at his right leg and for an instant panicked—a shark. But it was Aldridge, he realized, tucking down beneath the surface again, letting his wings fan out around him, beating slowly, steadily, so he could hover. Darkwood gave Aldridge the OK sign and Aldridge nodded, then made hand signals to his men.

  Now that they had penetrated the lagoon, there was the obvious question of where to go, but hopefully Aldridge could settle that as he had promised. Aldridge signaled to his right and Darkwood understood, letting Aldridge take the lead now that they were out of the tunnel.

  The water of the lagoon was quite clear, and the brilliance of the artificial light source above was like sunlight—he had seen sunlight several times. His wings propelled him along, his hands and flippers working too now to speed him on, Aldridge doing the same ahead of him and, as Darkwood glanced back, the Marine com

  mandoes doing the same as well.

  He touched his chest pack and the central section of his helmet switched from vision intensification to magnification and he could see in detail ahead of them now. Some drum containers were tittered about near the base of the docks. There was even an AKM-96, old and rusted nearly to oblivion. Some Soviet Marine Spetznas had paid for that, he bet himself.

  Just barely visible ahead now—the LCD rangefinder which was projected over the image in the front of his helmet read out a distance of twenty-five meters—was a ladder. It was evident that Sam Aldridge was aiming them toward it. The Sea Wings. He brought them to hover, letting the Marines pass him by, then fell in after them. Ahead, Aldridge was ascending the ladder.

  Accelerating the vibration of his wings, Darkwood glided toward Aldridge, then hovered, Aldridge half up the ladder, wings cocooned. As Darkwood looked up, Aldridge’s helmet broke the surface, then quickly drew back. The Marine captain touched the crown of his helmet to Darkwood’s. “We’re right between the Scout pens and the lagoon. I say we go for it. Nobody I could see in the immediate vicinity.”

  “You and I go for it. You first since you’ve been a guest here.”

  “I figured you’d say that, Jason.” He turned in the water and touched helmets with Tom Stanhope briefly, then turned back to Darkwood. He nodded he was ready, then started for the ladder, unlimbering a stolen Russian PV-26 anti-shark/anti-personnel gun. In this instance, the Russian product was better than the American. Darkwood did the same, following Aldridge onto the ladder.

  Aldridge’s right foot bumped his helmet and Darkwood dodged back, nearly losing his hold on the ladder, regaining it, continuing up after him. Not a propitious beginning, he thought. He touched his chest pack and switched off magnification and rangefinding.

  Darkwood’s helmet broke the surface, and already Al-dridee was dashing across the dock toward the cover of

  some parts containers, cylindrically shaped and at least five feet in diameter.

  Darkwood pushed himself up onto the dock and ran as well, already starting to feel the loss of oxygen in the atmosphere here, dodging behind the cylindrical containers and to his knees beside Aldridge. Aldridge’s helmet was already removed, Darkwood starting to do the same, gasping air as he broke the seal.

  Darkwood shook his head to clear it. Breaking Atmosphere, as the Russians called it, was never pleasant after a dive of such long duration. The body got strangely used to breathing one kind of air, and the sudden change gave a momentary feeling of nausea.

  Darkwood started to open the hermetically sealed container pouch built into his environment suit, drawing his pistol. He looked at it for a moment—“U.S. Government Model 2418 A2, Cal. 9mm LC”—then worked the magazine release catch to pull the fifteen-round magazine and replaced it with one of the thirty-rounders that stuck out of the butt but afforded double the firepower. As he looked at Aldridge, he saw that the Marine captain had done the same.

  “So—we clear, you think, Sam?”

  “As clear as you can be here, yeah, Jason.”

  “Go get the guys and I’ll cover you.”

  “Right.”

  Darkwood moved toward the edge of the makeshift cover as Aldridge crossed the dock and swung down over the side and disappeared for half a second, then reappeared. Aldridge stayed in a crouch, his 2418 A2 Lancer in both fists. The A2 was a better gun, titanium-framed rather than alloy, the slide-release catch ambidextrous like the safety rather than switchable for left-handed use like the Al.

  Tom Stanhope reached the dock, the rest of the Marines swarming over behind him, Aldridge pointing them toward the cylindrical containers where Darkwood already was, Darkwood stepping out and letting them pass, some of

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  armed with the Soviet PV-26s.

  Aldridge was the last one to reach cover/concealment, and Darkwood ducked behind the packing materials just after them. They started stripping away their Sea Wings and the environment suits as they talked, two of the Marine raiders on guard, their 2418 A2s drawn. These two had been designated to return to the comparative safety of the lagoon with the underwater gear for the rest of the team.

  Darkwood was out of his environment suit, the black penetration suit beneath it. He took the hood from the compartment on his left thigh and pulled it over his head, only the center of his face unrestrained by the hood. He secured the spare magazine from the hermetic pack on his environment suit to the chest pouches of the penetration suit, all except the fifteen-rounder, which he secured in the thigh pocket that would form the holster if he ever got to put the 2418 A2 away. He doubted he would. He took his knife from the right-leg calf-sheath on his environment suit and resheathed it on the right calf of his penetration suit. The issue knife was a good knife, but there were still people who made knives for a hobby or to supplement their incomes, and they found ready customers among the Marines and some of the Navy personnel as well. Darkwood had found the best of the custom-makers and worked with the man to design a fighting knife that would fit his needs.

  He secured the safety strap to lock the knife into its sheath. To his left thigh he secured the grenade array, standard high-explosive, sound/light, and smoke.

  Darkwood looked at Sam Aldridge, Aldridge identically attired except for the knife. Aldridge’s personal knife had been with him when he had been captured and was, he assumed, gone forever. A standard-issue blade rode where it would have been.

  “Now where to, Sam?”

  “If they’ve got her, captain, after all the trouble Rourke put ‘em to, they’d be bigger assholes than I know they are not to have her iust where I said—the detention area

  beneath the military command post-office complex.”

  “Deploy your rear guard, Sam—then let’s get the hell on with it.”

  Sam Aldridge turned to the two Marines designated to be left behind. “You heard the man—the word is given.”

  The two Marines repositioned their helmets, grabbed up the gear from the rest of the force, and Darkwood tapped his wrist chronometer. The senior of the two men nodded his understanding and Darkwood and Aldridge covered them as they made the dash to the edge of the dock, then took the ladder down rather than risking the noise of a splash dive.

  “You’re the man who knows where he’s going, Sam— let’s do it.”

  Aldridge gave a thumbs-up sign and left cover, Darkwood right behind him, looking back once at the packing materials. The Russians were arming with nuclear mis
siles. He was sure of it.

  The 2418 A2 was bunched tight in his right fist, his thumb poised near the safety as he sprinted alongside the Marines, following Sam Aldridge… .

  Paul Rubenstein had nearly reached the Soviet submarine, the waves higher now, crashing over him as he tried to increase his pace or at least maintain it.

  But the submarine had started underway.

  Some 200 yards or so remained, and already the submarine was moving away with a rapidity he wouldn’t have thought possible.

  Paul Rubenstein treaded water.

  Paul Rubenstein cried and prayed… .

  The President of Mid-Wake told John Rourke, “Anything you wish, sir.”

  “I need to talk to somebody who knows nylon cord or whatever your equivalent is. I need some to rewrap the handle of one of mv knives. And T need the knives so I

  can do it.”

  “Certainly, Doctor Rourke, but if you would like, simply tell me what you desire and it can be done for you.”

  “No thank you, Mr. President. I’d prefer to do it myself and know just how it’s done. Where are my guns?”

  “They’re here. Quite safe. They can be returned to you whenever you wish.”

  John Rourke considered that. “What about the ammunition?”

  “I was told it would have spoiled with the exposure to salt water it received.”

  “Probably so,” Rourke said quietly. “Could you duplicate it for me, if that were possible?”

  “I, ahh—I can get someone up here to answer that question. Please. Allow me,” and Jacob Fellows picked up what apparently passed at Mid-Wake for a telephone, but was in the same general shape as an orange. And this one was even the right color. “Computer. This is the President.” Fellows paused, then, “Locate and direct to join me at this exchange and number Director of Ordnance, Mid-Wake Armed Forces. As soon as possible. Instruct that he come prepared with data concerning—please pause.” Fellows looked at Rourke. “What type of guns are they, sir?”

  “The caliber in question is designated commonly as .45 ACP, or .45 Automatic Colt Pistol. I am specifically concerned with the reproduction of the load I habitually use, or failing that what was commonly known as standard military hardball, a 230-grain Full-Metal-Case bullet ahead of—”

  “Please, Doctor Rourke—I’ll never remember all of that.” He spoke into the orange again. “Computer. Ordnance Director should be equipped with data concerning most commonly encountered loads for caliber designated as following: .45 ACP or …” He looked quizzically toward John Rourke.

  “.45 Automatic Colt Pistol, Mr. President.”

  “Computer—that was .45 ACP or .45 Automatic Colt Pistol. Thank you, computer.” The President set down the orange. “So—is there anything else that I can do to

  accommodate you, sir?”

  “I would appreciate your cooperation, sir, in two matters which concern me greatly. They are of virtually equal importance, each in its own way.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I would like to request that my family be contacted on the surface and alerted to my presence here and that I am well.”

  “That may take some doing, but it can be done, Doctor Rourke. And the second request?”

  “Get me the hell out of here and loan me one of your submarines and a few people to run her and some scuba gear, and I’ll go after Major Tiemerovna myself.”

  Jacob Fellows smiled good-naturedly. “Sir, I would venture to say that scuba gear, as you call it, and certainly that term is still used, has changed rather radically since your day.”

  “No doubt,” Rourke whispered.

  “Yes—and, ahh—well, the Wayne will be ready to leave port soon enough, but with the Reagan gone—to achieve just the goal you desire—we cannot leave ourselves quite that vulnerable.”

  “I looked out the window, Mr. President. A place this size and you only have two submarines?”

  “No—no—of course not. We have a fleet only slightly smaller than that of our Soviet adversaries. We have the equivalent of their Island Class submarines—”

  “Island Class? What are Island Class submarines?”

  “Their monster—”

  “The big ones. Very impressive.”

  “Ours are nearly as large and certainly more efficient. We have various other vessels. But the job you speak of requires the best attack class vessel available. And that is either the Reagan or the John Wayne.”

  “What happens if the Reagan doesn’t make it?”

  “Well—the skipper of the Reagan, Commander Darkwood, is the best there is. So was his father.”

  “His father?”

  “You have no familiaritv with the Darkwood familv. of

  course. Perhaps you would feel better, rest easier if you understood the competent hands in which your Major Tiemerovna’s fate has been placed.”

  “Perhaps,” John Rourke whispered.

  But then, without his guns, his knives, and a submarine, there wasn’t much else he could do at the moment other than listen.

  “Excellent. Let me ask you a question first, Doctor Rourke. As an intelligence agent, which I understand you were—the CIA, was it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Were you at all aware of the Mid-Wake Project?”

  “In those days, things were on a need-to-know basis, of course. I didn’t have the need to know.”

  “As it should have been, of course, Doctor Rourke.” “Do you have anything like a cigar around here?” “A what?”

  “It’s a thing made out of leaves that are rolled up and you put one end of it in your mouth and light the other end of it and you inhale the smoke into your lungs.”

  “My God, sir! What sort of insidious torture is this?”

  “Forget I asked.” John Rourke smiled. “Tell me about Mid-Wake—or the Mid-Wake Project.”

  “Well, I don’t have to tell you that in those days the Russians and United States were competing in various areas, not the least of which was defense. But they also competed in space.”

  “That’s how we got to the moon.”

  “You would have seen that—live?”

  “Yes—I saw it live.”

  “By God, I envy you. I envy them,” the man said, a trace of genuine sadness resonant in his FM-announcer voice.

  “It was quite a sight,” Rourke said, realizing that such an understatement sounded horribly lame considering the circumstances.

  “Such heroes, those men.” The President inhaled deeolv. then continued, nickine UD the thread of his

  thought. “At any event, then, you are conversant with the situation. There was considerable effort to build space stations, the Russians having the jump on the United States to a degree, to a degree not. But both nations wanted something truly spectacular and yet wholly functional in the skies, not just what budgetary constrictions would allow. And that’s how Mid-Wake was hit upon, Doctor Rourke. All of our personnel were either involved in the space-oriented scientific disciplines or in marine biology, oceanography, and the like.” “I don’t know if I follow you.”

  President Jacob Fellows was apparently enjoying his revelations. “Sir, you are here, now, inside the greatest space station ever conceived.”

  John Rourke wished he had that cigar.

  “By the mid-1980s,” Jacob Fellows began, “with the emphasis on relieving the growing national debt, with the Congress spending in support of dying social programs which had the primary purpose of assuring re-election, and with growing environmental problems of which the vast majority of the American people had little knowledge, the practical uses of space had become self-evident to all those who wished to see. And to capitalize on the space program and at the same time keep costs down, it was necessary to build a permanent space station beyond the limited scope of what had been openly proposed. The only terrestrial environment which comes close to duplicating the environment in space is, of course, under the sea.

  “And there was another need for Mid-Wak
e as well,” Fellows continued. “The Soviets were talking—with some sincerity it is believed by today’s historians—about arms reduction. And while the Soviet officials were talking arms reduction, the KGB and other ultra-conservative groups within the fabric of the Soviet State were making themselves even more ready for war. The trouble with a totalitarian system is that it can be so easily subverted. At any event, the Soviets had a naval super-base in Vietnam at Cam Ranh Bay, and the KGB and others knew very well that if arms talks between the Soviet government and the

  United States did proceed into true progress toward reduction, eventually the European missile problems would be ironed out and talk would turn to submarine-based missiles again.”

  “This was built as some sort of defense against that?” John Rourke asked.

  “More as a compensation, Doctor Rourke. I mentioned the Darkwood family. Well, because of our small population base and the necessary population-maintenance level—all voluntary, mind you—family integrity has remained pretty constant. Everyone here can trace his or her ancestry back to the first scientists and technicians who came here and were eventually trapped here when the war came and it was learned that the atmosphere was doomed. The Darkwood family is one of these original families. Nathaniel Darkwood was a scientist of considerable abilities, as well as an Olympic athlete.”

  “Now I know why that name—Darkwood—has been gnawing at me. Nate Darkwood—that’s what he called himself. He won a fistful of gold medals in swimming, and he was one of those rare athletes that was equally good at two sports. Biathalon, I think—yes.”

  “Skiing and marksmanship combined—I’ve seen old tapes.”

  “Cross-country skiing and rifle marksmanship,” Rourke said. “He was involved in a number of projects in marine biology and—I read one or two of his papers on sharks— but then, there was some kind of storm and the ship he was on went out of radio contact and there was a long search, I remember.”

  “He was never lost at sea. Nathaniel Darkwood and a handful of others—many of them the people supposedly lost at sea with him—were formed into a special scientific intelligence unit. It was a result of their efforts that the data was obtained which made Mid-Wake a top-secret national priority.”