Survivalist - 15 - Overlord Page 4

  “Your mountain in Argentina, Captain?”

  “Yes, Herr Doctor.”

  “Structurally, yes,” Paul interjected. “But if you could never go outside again, never—it wouldn’t be like before. There was always the hope — “

  “Of seeing the sunlight, feeling the wind again,” Natalia interrupted, her voice seeming possessed of a distant quality, a sadness.

  “Yes,” Paul nodded. “That.”

  “But such a rash act — another nuclear war — it might well destroy all life, making the planet forever uninhabitable.” Hartman stubbed out his cigarette.

  John Rourke, exhaling a cloud of gray smoke as he spoke, almost whispered, “There’s a line from Paradise Lost—”

  Natalia said it. “Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.”

  Chapter Five

  The darkness was something John Rourke could almost feel against his skin as he walked, silently, Paul and Natalia flanking him, toward the waiting German gunship, its main rotor tossing almost lazily, almost totally silent.

  In his left fist, Rourke carried his pack by the shoulder straps. In his right fist, the Steyr-Mannlicher SSG, an M-16 slung cross body, diagonally, muzzle down, across his back.

  Natalia boarded the aircraft first, Paul following after her, John Rourke tossing his backpack inside, staring around him for a moment, studying the night. The rotor speed was increasing, Rourke squinting against the downdraft, feeling his hair caught in it, running his left hand back across his high forehead, the fingers splaying in his hair, pushing it back from his face.

  He jumped aboard, the German pilot looking back toward him as Rourke slid the fuselage door closed. Rourke gave a thumbs-up signal, the rotor speed increased drastically now; then Rourke felt the rise, the change of main rotor pitch, the helicopter sweeping across the snowsplotched rocky landscape, upward, Rourke settling into the bench seat at Natalia’s right, Paul Rubenstein sitting at her left.

  Rourke shrugged out of the arctic parka, the double Alessi shoulder rig with the twin stainless Detonics .45s worn over

  a gray, crew-necked sweater. The temperature inside the German helicopter was quite tolerable and to keep the heavy outer gear in place when it was not necessary was to defeat its purpose when it was necessary.

  Paul was helping Natalia with her parka as well.

  Paul Rubenstein spoke. “I’m worried about Annie. And Sarah too. Ever since—ever since—”

  “Madison,” Natalia supplied.

  “Yeah-ahh-“

  Rourke leaned forward and looked into the younger man’s eyes. “Well be there in time. And Major Volkmer seems to be a competent commander. The Russians won’t have any easy victory out of him. And Annie and Sarah are very good at taking care of themselves.”

  “Ever since Madison died,” Natalia almost whispered, her voice barely audible despite the subdued rotor noise, “I’ve realized that all of us —I suppose I should have realized it before. But we are living on borrowed time.”

  “We always have been,” Rourke told her, told both of them, reaching out and folding his left hand over both of hers. “We survived World War III, we survived the burning of the atmosphere. We’ve survived more batdes than I would have ever thought possible.”

  “Then why, John —why are we still alive—and Madison is dead? There is no justice.”

  Rourke held her hands more tightly. “Did you ever wonder, Natalia, Paul —did you guys ever wonder why we did survive —I mean all of that?”

  “What do you mean?” Paul asked. “You mean—is there some kind of—ahh —some kind of—”

  “Purpose? I don’t know. We did what we did because we had to, didn’t we. And because we wanted to. Maybe that was the most important part —wanting it. I mean, we never wanted the killing, the fighting. But we all sort of wanted what came afterward.”

  “Do you think we’ll ever find what comes afterward, John,”

  Natalia asked him. “Do you think we’ll still recognize it if we ever do find it?

  “I mean,” and she cleared her throat. “Sometimes it is very hard. Would we still recognize it?” And she looked at each of them.

  John Rourke had no answer for her, let alone for himself.

  Chapter Six

  Captain Dmitri Pavornin considered it a challenge. A small force against heavily entrenched enemy forces, small in number but well equipped. It was the least important of the two prongs of attack ordered by the Hero Marshal Karamatsov. But it could be important for him, Pavornin knew. If he could distinguish himself here—if only—

  The sun had long ago set. He glanced at the chronometer on his wrist.

  It was nearly time for the attack to begin.

  Pavornin walked across the open expanse of the staging area. It was desert here, inhospitable dunes of coarse sand, shifting and blowing in the wind, a wind pummelling his face now with grains of sand which stung like sleet. His survival training had been in the Urals. He knew discomfort. His men moved busily at the last of their preparatory tasks, the gunships ready, their rotors in all-but-silent motion, their downdrafts adding to the wind which blew the sand. He wore goggles to protect his eyes, thin gloves to protect his hands. It was cool here, nearly what one could call cold. But after the Ural Mountains survival training, he rarely called anything cold anymore.

  He checked the timepiece again, starting toward his command helicopter. He would use it to join those elements

  of his forces already moving up on foot for the ground attack against Eden Base.

  Eden — Pavornin was aware of the Judeo-Christian creation myths, the Garden of Eden a paradise on earth from which man was forever exiled. He scoffed at such superstition, both openly and privately.

  And he wondered, privately, if the men and women who had journeyed to the edge of the solar system and back during five centuries of sleep had thought they would awaken to paradise somehow renewed.

  Pavornin smiled. If they had, they would learn very quickly that they were mistaken.

  Akiro Kurinami had been attempting to see Commander Dodd since word had first been disseminated to expect a Soviet attack. And Dodd, Kurinami had determined several hours ago, had been trying equally as hard to avoid him.

  Kurinami looked at his wristwatch. Elaine would be worried that he had not returned, but Kurinami felt that if he abandoned his vigil outside Dodd’s command tent, all chance of seeing Dodd before the attack began would probably be lost.

  And so he waited, trying to fill his thoughts with Elaine Halversen rather than the growing disgust and distrust he felt for Commander Dodd.

  Elaine was older. She was, of course, black, while he was Japanese.

  But he had never felt this for any other woman except his wife, now five centuries dead, as was the rest of his family, every friend he had ever made, every cadet with whom he had trained, every man he had ever flown with. Someday, he promised himself, there would be time. He would take a gunship and fly to Japan, taking Elaine with him. He promised himself that, though he had never told Elaine this, she should see the land that had been so rich in history. And

  somehow, he felt that he owed it to the land itself, to go there and shout to the emptiness that there was one who lived who had not forgotten.

  He would shout it until he could no longer speak.

  Commander Dodd exited his tent, with him one of the German officers. Akiro Kurinami started forward. “Commander. I must speak with you, Commander Dodd.”

  “I’m really very busy, Lieutenant Kurinami. With this impending attack and all. Tomorrow?”

  Dodd, his brow furrowing the way he always furrowed it to show intensity, thoughtfulness, and concern, smiled. Kurinami ignored the man’s words. They were empty at any event.

  “This can’t wait, Commander.”

  Kurinami stood his ground. Dodd seemed to weigh his words, then waved the young German officer on with a salute. The German returned it and moved off, Dodd’s smile fading as he spoke. “Now, Lieutenant, what is so
important that it takes precedence over the defense of Eden Base at a moment of crisis such as this?”

  “Two dozen assault rifles and three thousand rounds of ammunition. Two lots of botanical samples and about fifteen per cent of available emergency rations. Add lighting, medical supplies—we have a problem, sir.”

  “I don’t understand, Akiro,” Dodd began. “I mean —what are you trying to say?”

  “Missing, sir—all of what I mentioned and more. No accounting of its whereabouts. And the master onboard computer was used and the file which contained the locations of all the supply caches was blanked. The computers on all the other shutdes were similarly altered.”

  “What are you saying, man?”

  “I made back-up files.”

  Dodd was silent for a moment. “Thank God for that,” he said, exhaling loudly. It seemed like a stage gesture, Kurinami thought, but dismissed the idea since he didn’t like

  Dodd and looked for such things in the man. “These back-up files,” Dodd began again. “What prompted you to make them?”

  “I felt the locations of the supply caches were so important and that if something should happen to the Shuttles with a set of back-up files we could always get the Germans to modify one of their computers to bring up the data.”

  “Good thinking, Lieutenant. Thank God you were on the ball. Where are these files?”

  Akiro Kurinami licked his lips. “I don’t know if I want to let that information out, sir.”

  Dodd cleared his throat, looked at his feet for a moment, then looked up. Sand was swirling in the heightening wind, and the temperature was dropping with the night. Dodd said, his voice low, “That could make you a very powerful man, Akiro.”

  “It could make someone very powerful, Commander, someone who wanted to be very powerful.”

  “Yes — exactly. Don’t get yourself killed when the attack comes, Akiro. Should the files be lost, well, I shudder to think what Eden Base might do without them.”

  “The Germans would help us,” Kurinami blurted out.

  “Oh, I’m sure they would.”

  “But the weapons, Commander.”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t a miscount then, something wrong in the inventory?” “I’m sure.”

  Dodd seemed to consider his words again. Then, “Perhaps we have a saboteur among us.”

  Akiro Kurinami thought of Elaine’s counsel to speak prudently. But he said it anyway. “Or a revolutionary.”

  Kurinami turned and walked away, the blowing sand stinging his eyes despite the hand he held before his face.

  Chapter Seven

  Sarah Rourke started to cry. “Damnit!”

  The zipper on her faded blue Levis would not close no matter how she tried to suck in. It was the baby. She had almost forgotten about the swelling of her abdomen with the high waisted skirts and dresses which were the fashion here, the baby merely giving a certain roundness to her abdomen.

  But the jeans were hopeless.

  And she felt stupid going into battle wearing a dress. But it was either that or wear nothing but panties.

  She backed toward the bed, plopped down and started skinning the blue jeans off her legs. And you couldn’t wear a T-shirt with a long skirt without looking stupid. “Shit,” she snarled through her tears.

  Sarah Rourke had discovered that the web pistol belt which she used to carry the beat up old .45 automatic that she had taken from the bureau drawer on the very Night of The War, one of the last things remaining which survived from their house, which had burned to the ground the next morning—the belt just didn’t fit either and extra minutes had been needed to expand the belt.

  She’d broken a nail on the fasteners which interlocked to

  determine the size of the belt. Chipped a nail anyway.

  As she walked down the stairs of the dormitory and toward the greenway which dominated the center of the Hekla community, she realized she had never cried so much in — not since —

  John was away, with Natalia and Paul.

  And Michael was away. And she was pregnant and chronologically, though she was only a few years older than her twenty-eight-year-old daughter, she was old enough — too old? She didn’t think she was too old. But why did she cry all the time?

  It was deathly quiet, and she could hear the rustling of the fabric of her skirt, feeling stupid all the more with the gunbelt —enlarged —worn with it. The skirt was navy blue, the blouse she wore a pale blue, the shawl a medium blue. She could see Annie ahead with the Icelandic police unit that they laughingly called the SWAT Team. But Annie dressed this way by preference and didn’t feel stupid, she thought, feeling her cheeks flush. Her cheeks flushed more these days. But Doctor Munchen, who had personally taken charge of the medical aspects of her pregnancy, had told her that her blood pressure was normal and her nurse’s instincts had told her that too.

  Sarah Rourke stopped at the edge of the knot of Icelandic police, the two Germans who assisted Annie with the training and the SWAT Team. Annie turned and looked at her, sensing her presence again perhaps, or perhaps just hearing her coming.

  “Hi, momma.”

  “A symphony in blue reporting for duty, ma’am,” Sarah grinned.

  Annie laughed.

  Beyond Annie, others of the German advisors were marshalling more of the Icelandic constabulary, while some of the actual German units sent to assist in the defense of Hekla were disappearing in the distance toward the rim of the

  volcanic cone. “German or American?” Annie asked, gesturing toward the stacked assault rifles near her.

  “I’m a traditionalist —American,” Sarah answered, starting to walk now toward the nearest stack of M-16s. And Sarah Rourke laughed at herself—she did that a lot these days too. She had never gone into combat before dressed for a Gay ‘90s lawn party.

  Annie Rourke Rubenstein had determined that the more experienced of the Icelandic personnel, counting herself and her mother and the two Germans who had aided in the training, could best serve the defensive needs of Hekla by guarding the President, Madame Jokli having finally, after much urging, consented to taking shelter in the cellar of the presidential palace with her maid and some medical personnel who had set up a field hospital there.

  Annie cradled the M-16 in her left arm as she walked along the porch at the height of the main entrance steps. So far, there had been no sounds of gunfire. But soon there would be. She wondered if the Russians would attempt to infiltrate first or merely attack in strength. If they tried a repeat of their earlier gambit to take Madame Jokli and perhaps some others as hostages, the battle would be here before it began near the rim. But she was ready for it. The German sergeant and herself had taken six of the twelve men of the SWAT Team, the SWAT Team personnel looking nearly as incongruous as did she and her mother. Like the typical Icelandic police officer, they wore their green tunics and carried their swords. Her mother and the German corporal had taken the remaining six to guard the rear of the building, the more difficult of the two posts if there were trouble, but the least likely to be first attacked.

  At her waist was her pistol belt, the Detonics Scoremaster .45 in one holster, the Beretta 92F military pistol in the other. The Detonics had been a present from her father, the

  Beretta a “trophy,” if that were the correct term, from Forrest Blackburn, the Soviet infiltrator who had first brought her to Iceland by kidnapping her from Eden Base during an attack.

  She had come to like the 9mm as much as the .45. Michael carried two of them himself. Slung crossbody from right shoulder to left hip was a musette bag, in it spare magazines for the M-16 and a few spares for the Beretta and the Scoremaster. An identical musette bag—her father called them Swedish Army Engineers Bags —was slung from left shoulder to right hip, identically loaded. The weight was all she could carry, but she told herself it kept her thin.

  She suddenly thought of her mother. For Sarah Rourke to have shown up for battle dressed as she was, meant that blue jeans no longer fit.
Annie wondered if she would soon have a little brother or little sister. And she wondered how her mother felt about the whole thing, because her mother never really talked about it and Annie felt she shouldn’t ask. She decided, on the spot as she turned and started back across the porch in the direction from which she had come, that when she next saw her husband Paul, she would ask him if he felt she should try to talk with her mother about the pregnancy or just wait to be invited to talk about it. Paul was sensitive to this sort of thing, and gave her good counsel. He always gave good counsel. And he was cute. Sometimes she missed the glasses he used to need to wear. Once she had even asked him to put them on for her because she knew he always carried them with him just in case somehow the regenerative effect of the cryogenic sleep instandy wore off and he found himself needing the glasses again to see.

  He had put them on and she had laughed and he had taken them off and she had made a big thing out of begging him to put them on again. And then she had laughed again and he hadn’t taken them off but instead just laughed with her and at her and at himself and they had made love. She thought about this. It was the last time they had made love before they had left Iceland to search for her father, just

  before Karamatsov had tried to use his madness-inducing poison gas to launch a revolution against his government at the Soviet Underground City.

  Annie Rourke Rubenstein thought of her mother again, of her mother being pregnant. Annie wanted Paul’s baby but they had agreed, not until the world was rid of Karamatsov and it would be safe to have a child, to bring a new life into the world. If anything had made their resolve more, more — she tried to think of a word —more resolved, she almost verbalized. If anything, it had been the death of pretty Madison and the baby.

  She shifted the M-16, carrying it at the pistol grip in her right fist.

  She thought she heard a sound from the greenway at the center of the community, just beyond the last step. She didn’t change her pattern of movement. To do so, if an enemy were present, would be to invite a shot. She kept walking, forcing herself not to increase her pace as she crossed the expanse along the height of the steps, perfectly in the open, an easy shot for even an indifferent marksman.