Survivalist - 15.5 - Mid-Wake Page 37

  She heard the click of boots in the hallway and turned her eyes toward it. She recognized Boris Feyedorovitch of the Marine Spetznas. He now wore colonel’s rank. Perhaps because he was the man whose bullet had ended John Rourke’s tenuous hold on life. And walking beside him, as though the senior officer, but wearing captain’s rank, was a tall, thin, blonde-haired man in the black dress uniform of the KGB Elite Corps. The uniform had always reminded her of the SS of Hitler, and so had the men who wore it. His knee-high boots shone with polish, as did his pistol belt and the holster, which sagged just slightly by his appendix. His cap was at the perfect angle, uniformly correct yet jaunty. As he neared her now and their eyes met, she could see the blue coldness there.

  He walked right past her, came to rigid attention, saluted the troika, and announced, “Captain Alexeii

  Serovski, Elite Corps, Committee for State Security of the Soviet Union, comrades. I have the pleasure to bring compliments and greetings from our glorious leader, Hero Marshal Vladmir Karamatsov, to the government and people of this Soviet State.”

  Since no one in the triumvirate, although all three dressed alike, was in military uniform, he lowered the salute without waiting for it to be returned.

  The Chairman responded. “Greetings, Comrade Captain Serovski, and on behalf of the Government of the Soviet People I welcome you and heartily accept the wishes of your military commander, Marshal Karamatsov. And here, comrade captain, is his prize.”

  It was the most animated she had seen the Chairman as he gestured expansively toward her with a sweep of his left arm.

  “Thank you, Comrade Chairman.”

  Serovski performed a snappy right face and took a pace closer to her. Natalia watched his eyes. “Major Tiemerovna!” He saluted, but had not called her comrade. “The Hero Marshal’s compliments, madame. Please kindly consider yourself under arrest on behalf of the People of the Soviet state for your various crimes against the State, among these high treason, espionage, sedition, and murder.”

  “Do you speak English?”

  His eyes sparkled a bit. “Yes, major. I do.”

  “Good.” Natalia smiled. “Go to hell.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  If the submarine had stopped, Michael Rourke could not be certain of it. He had tested the barrier and found it was electrical energy of some sort, but that it traveled in waves and was not solid. By utilizing a strip of blanket from the meager bedding in the cell, he had found where the energy was concentrated and where it was not. If the plastic cord at his wrists could not be tugged apart, rubbed apart on the frame of the cot or the edge of the toilet seat, it would have to burn apart. Utilizing more strips of the blanket he had constructed small fuses which he would put between the plastic cord and the flesh of his wrists using his teeth.

  He knew that at any moment he could be discovered, but there was nothing to lose and everything to gain.

  With several of the blanket fuses—which did burn—in place, he dropped to his knees, bent forward, and got his wrists as close as possible to the electrical field, swishing the long, thin fuses of blanket into the edge of the electrical field so they would catch fire. Apparently, disruption of the electrical field triggered no alarm, at least on the small scale which the fuses of blanket produced. Three of the fuses began to burn, getting closer to his wrists.

  Gently, he blew on them to make them continue to burn. One went out. The two others continued to burn, one of them already causing the plastic cord which bound

  his wrists to smolder and smell disgustingly bad. A second fuse went out. The third one still burned, Michael closing his mind to the pain the fire caused his flesh. The odor of the plastic was getting worse and he hoped it wasn’t toxic The plastic cord smoldered and went out. But, as he craned his neck and twisted his wrists to better see, he could tell that a small portion of the plastic cord had actually burned. He turned around, still on his bare knees and began tearing out more strips of blanket, slightly wider this time so the flames would be higher by the time they reached the cord.

  If he could get his hands free, when they came for him and expected him still bound, there might be a chance, lb do what, Michael Rourke wasn’t certain… .

  Serovski had ignored her, turned back to face the three leaders. “You may have already have been informed, Comrade Chairman, that just as your excellent undersea vessel was about to get under way, your men and my own had the good fortune of jointly capturing Michael Rourke, the son of the infamous John Rourke, whom the comrade marshal had been informed was killed by Comrade Colonel Feyedorovitch after a protracted gun battle with your late Colonel Kerenin.”

  “We were so informed, captain. I take it you wish to discuss the fate of this prisoner.”

  “Yes, Comrade Chairman. He is an infamous war criminal. He is wanted by my government so he can account for his crimes.”

  “Michael’s only crime is holding my husband responsible for the death squad that caused die death of his wife and their unborn baby!”

  Serovski didn’t even glance at her. The guns leveled at her were pushed closer to her. Natalia remained where she was.

  The Chairman spoke. “I was also given to understand

  that your Marshal Karamatsov had some doubt as to this John Rourke’s death. Will presenting Marshal Karamatsov with this second Rourke assuage his concerns?”

  “I cannot, Comrade Chairman, speak in that context on behalf of the comrade marshal. Yet it would certainly serve, I believe, as a further symbol of trust and the desire for harmonious relations between all the Soviet peoples.”

  “What about the Soviet people in the Underground City in the Urals that Karamatsov tried to use his poison gas on?” She kept her voice calm, low, even. If she started sounding like an hysteric, they would likely remove her.

  “I understand,” the Chairman said softly, “that there is indeed some debate as to the exact nature of Marshal Karamatsov’s leadership function.”

  “You have been fed insidious lies, Comrade Chairman, by this wretched woman. Whom do you believe? An officer who serves the Soviet Union, or an unfaithful wife who betrayed the trust placed in her so innocently by the Soviet People?”

  Natalia licked her hps. -

  The Chairman said, “You may have the other Rourke as your prisoner. There is refreshment available. I understand that your rendezvous with Marshal Karamatsov on the island of Chinmen Tao in the Formosa Strait is scheduled for some twenty hours from now. That allows you considerable time to refresh yourself before the return trip.”

  “Thank you,” Comrade Chairman. I request that the woman prisoner be transferred immediately to the custody of my KGB Elite Corpsmen and taken aboard the vessel which shall be used for the return trip.”

  “I understand your interest in her safety. But I assure you, captain, all our interests will best be served if she is allowed to continue her confinement in the detention area below us. At any event, I am afraid you must indulge me.”

  “I shall report this to the Hero Marshal.”

  “Then you shall. Please—join us now for a brief re

  freshment despite the hour.”

  “It will be my pleasure, Comrade Chairman.”

  The Chairman, without looking at her, said, “Return the major to her cell.”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  The tunnel narrowed, more so than the swim-by chromatic heat scans had indicated it would, Darkwood moving on knees and elbows now, the temperature from the steam which traveled through the pipes all around them insufferably hot. But there was no choice remaining. It would have been impossible to turn around in the tunnel even had they wanted to, and crawling backwards through the tunnel would have only been more time-consuming, and they would still have faced finding another means of entering the detention area beneath the military office complex.

  Aldridge was right behind him, and behind Aldridge the dozen Marine raiders.

  But ahead of him now, he saw the tunnel take a bend and, if the chromatic heat sc
ans were accurate, beyond it would lie the entrance into the detention area. Darkwood quickened his pace, reaching the bend in the tunnel, awkwardly moving around it, not envying the Marines behind him. Each man had a Soviet AKM-96 assault rifle and a backpack loaded with ammunition and explosives, and the men had some distance back given up on worming their way through the tunnel with their gear in place and now just pushed it along ahead of them. The AKM-96s were selected for the mission because the Soviet and American assault rifles were, of course, incompatible and, although the American rifle was better, the Soviet rifle was good and would allow possible ammunition resupply from

  oqntnnul uMannns in the field

  Darkwood was around the bend now, the low-level lighting in the tunnel making it hard to tell for sure, but he thought he saw a ladder ahead. He quickened his pace as best he could, the knees in his penetration suit, despite the padding, all but gone, as were the elbows. The 2418 A2 was still tight in his right fist.

  He could see it now, rubbing sweat from over his eyes with his right sleeve—a ladder. Darkwood kept moving.

  The ladder went up through a wide-diameter pipe and he couldn’t see as of yet where the ladder finally ended up. He kept moving, taking his flash from the pouch on his left upper arm, setting it to lowest level only, and moving ahead.

  He stopped at the base of the ladder. There was a hatchway that looked as though it were taken off a submarine. And it was indeed fortunate that this John Rourke hadn’t tried coming this way, or the man would have been trapped. There was no access wheel on this side of the hatch.

  Darkwood exhaled so loudly that he realized it sounded like a sigh. This was not a permanent obstacle, only a delay. They had explosives with them which could easily have blown the hatch, but the resultant explosion would not only deafen them in the confined space of the tunnel, but might kill them as well. There was the ancillary benefit that the noise of the explosion would alert every security man and Marine Spetznas in the area.

  “This isn’t an explosives job,” he said aloud to Sam Adlridge behind him. “Which one of your men has the magnetic pick?”

  “Harkness—job for you. Up the ladder, corporal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Darkwood pushed past the access pipe and so did Aldridge, and so did Stanhope.

  Harkness—short for a Marine but solidly built—moved forward on knees and elbows and stood up into the pipe. “Could one of you gentlemen please pass up my pack, sirs.’

  Darkwood reached for it. but Stanhone alreadv had it.

  “Whatchya need, Harkness?”

  “The magnetic pick, of course, sir, and the clamps. But I can’t get the clamps up here while I’m using the pick.”

  “Pick coming up,” Stanhope grunted. “I’ll be standing by with the clamps, corporal—tell me when.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Harkness’s voice sounded hollow, reverberating out of the pipe. Darkwood hoped it wasn’t traveling through into the detention area that should be directly above. “Keep the noise to a minimum, corporal, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Darkwood wiped his right sleeve across his forehead again, hearing the scratching sounds of the magnetic pick being positioned. If it worked right and the operating wheel for the hatch had any ferrous metal in it, the wheel could be worked open from this side. If the operating wheel weren’t metal at all, it was back to the unpleasant prospect of using explosives on it.

  Darkwood shone his light against the face of his chronometer. Unlike most men these days, he still preferred analog readouts rather than digital, but digital was necessary, so he had saved his money and purchased a Steinmetz, the only handmade watch on the market. It had sucked up two months’ pay like water through a drinking straw, but he had never regretted the purchase. Aside from dual display, it was the best diving chronometer made.

  And the Steinmetz showed Darkwood that he was running out of time. If he didn’t get the woman in time to allow sufficient travel time back to the docks, and then swim-out time through the sonar tunnel, if Sebastian followed orders, the Reagan would move from its position near the Pillars of Woe and head for the open sea.

  Both the analog and digital displays of the Steinmetz kept ticking away ….

  Had the situation been as it was when she had been in

  the detention area before, as soon as she was left alone she

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  and taken her own life.

  But Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna realized now that, although she might save herself, she would be acting in a cowardly fashion. And there were more important considerations to take into account. She might be able to kill her husband. But more importantly than that, she had to attempt to aid Michael. With his father dead, he would be more vital than ever. And it was what John Rourke would have wanted her to do.

  She had been taken from the great marble hall and held in an antechamber for some time, and without a word as to why, she had then been ordered to move on and started down toward the detention area.

  She had cooperated.

  Escape was impossible and her goal now was not escape, but to reach the submarine aboard which Michael was incarcerated, at best to help Michael to escape, at worst to be taken to her husband and to have the chance to murder him, slaughter him like the animal that he was.

  Her six guards completely encircled her as they descended along the moving staircase toward the lowest level of the detention area where the maximum-security and suicide-watch cells were located. She hoped they would not order her to undress again.

  At the base of the moving staircase as they started to turn into the corridor, she heard something, and so too apparently did the leader of the guard detail. The leader, one of the three women, signaled a halt to the detail and called out along the corridor—in Russian, of course— mquiring if something were wrong. An answer came back that a chair had been overturned. The woman seemed to consider this, then physically shrugged and ordered detail and prisoner ahead.

  Natalia sensed something. She did not know what. She slowly began focusing energy, preparing herself. But who? Had Michael escaped the submarine and come looking for her? Had they told Michael she was here? For a fleeting instant she thought of, and almost said aloud, the name of John Rourke. But he was dead and—

  There was movement to her right as they entered the detention cell block and she dodged left, figures in black darting from an unelectrified cell, others from behind a desk, two others dropping from the ceiling.

  The leader of the guard detail was the only one armed with an assault rifle instead of one of the dart pistols, and Natalia hurtled herself at the woman, Natalia’s left hand grabbing for the rifle as her right hand went for the throat. She hammered the guard-detail leader to the floor. There were thudding sounds, muted cries, all around her, Natalia’s left hand pinning the assault rifle to the floor, her right hand releasing the woman’s throat for an instant, then balling into a fist and crossing the woman’s jaw hard once, then again and again, the woman’s body going limp under her.

  Natalia started to grab for the rifle. A gloved man’s hand reached it simultaneously. “You must be Major Tiemerovna. I mean, you do speak English, right?”

  She tracked the voice to the face, her hand and his hand still on the rifle. He stood over her, crouched slightly, in his right hand a pistol that looked vaguely similar to a Beretta 92F but with an impossibly long extension magazine. “I speak English.”

  “Good. I’m Commander Jason Darkwood, Captain of the United States Attack Submarine Reagan. You’re John Rourke’s friend.”

  There was no hesitation when he said the word “friend,” as if he were making more of it. “How do you know?”

  “Well, Doctor Rourke told us about you for—”

  She was to her feet before she realized it, the palms of her hands flat against his chest. His dark brown eyes sparkled with a mixture of amusement and
concern, and what she could see of his face beneath the hood which covered his hair and obscured the sides of his face seemed to exude strength. “John is—”

  “Alive? You bet he is, ma’am.” She turned to the new voice. A black man. About the same height as the white man against whose chest her hands still rested. “I don’t know if he got the chance to mention me before he fell off

  that balcony, but I’m Captain Sam Aldridge, United States Marine Corps. John Rourke was being operated on but the notion was that he’d be fine. Had the best doctor at Mid-Wake. So, unless something went wrong, ma’am …”

  She turned from the man named Darkwood and threw her arms around the black Marine captain’s neck and kissed him full on the lips. “Thank you—bless you.” She inhaled, feeling light-headed suddenly as if she were going to faint. She looked at the other man, the first man, went to him, embraced him, and kissed his cheek.

  “I like that—the Marine gets a kiss on the lips ands the Navy guy who got him here gets a kiss on the cheek.”

  “Hey, what can I say, Jason?” She heard the black Marine captain laugh.

  She rectified the situation and kissed Darkwood on the lips. And she felt herself going faint and his arms going around her… .

  Natalia opened her eyes. It hadn’t been a dream. The man named Darkwood and the man named Sam something looked down at her. Her head was resting on something, and she realized it was a backpack. Both Darkwood and Sam had removed their hoods. Sam had close-cropped kinky hair and a high forehead. Darkwood’s hair looked almost too long for a Naval officer’s and was richly dark and rumpled with curls. Darkwood smiled down at her, “I don’t usually have that effect on women, Major Tiemerovna.”