Survivalist - 21.5 - The Legend Read online

  And, if she lived, she would go her own way. She had already considered that. The Wild Tribes of Europe, children’s children of a French survival colony that could not stay out of the atmosphere long enough and had been forced prematurely back to the deadly surface, desperately needed help. Education of even the most basic sort was unknown to those few who survived, the infant mortality rate over seventy percent because of lack of medical care and poor sanitation. She had considered this as her alternative, and realized that perhaps somehow she might at last have found the impoverished masses that the philosophy of Marx and Engels had taught her to serve.

  Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna reached the end of the tunnel. There were KGB Elite Corps troops stationed there and they opened fire on her with energy weapons …

  John Rourke ran, the energy rifle at high port in his hands, Michael and Paul holding the near end of the tunnel which accessed into the city. In the distance, toward the end of the tunnel, he could

  just make out Natalia, flat on the tunnel floor, energy pulses impacting the tunnels walls around her, the pops of small explosions as tunnel wall material exploded, the bolts of bluish white Ughtning crackling everywhere.

  But John Rourke had planned ahead. Technology was fine, but some things were never out of date. From the belt beneath his tunic, John Rourke pulled a grenade. It wasn’t gas, it wasn’t sound and light. It was a copy of the American M-67 fragmentation grenade with a four to five second delay fuse. The classic baseball grenade, a good man with a good arm could throw it forty yards and the casualty radius when the body of the grenade itself fragmatized on impact was at least fifteen yards was ready. John Rourke could see Natalia now, lying there in the tunnel mouth, unmoving. And fear like he had never known suddenly gripped his stomach, nearly loosening his bowels.

  Hugging along the wall now moving steadily forward, he pulled the wire clip which was the second safety for the grenade, all that remained, to pull the split ring at the end of the cotter pin and lob the grenade. If Natalia were dead, he asked himself, what had any of this profited him? What would he do? Her death would solve his greatest dilemma by the simplest means, but John Rourke had never sought the easy way and simple solutions carried with them terrible peril.

  There was still no movement from Natalia as he neared the tunnel mouth. When he first learned about grenades, concurrendy he had also learned that sometimes bowling a grenade toward its target was the most effective means of getting a grenade where you wanted it when shorter distances were concerned, rather like the underhand throwing of a knife at close range. The energy weapon hanging from its sling by his right side, John Rourke pulled the pin and lobbed the grenade underhand, past Natalia, out of the tunnel mouth and toward the knot of energy weaponed armediilite personnel. Rather than throwing himself to the tunnel floor to protect himself he stabbed the energy weapon toward the Elite corpsmen and fired, pumping the trigger as fast as he could, dashing toward Natalia. Inside his head, he counted the seconds. The maximum delay would be five. It was at three seconds that he let the energy weapon fall to his side and threw his body on Natalia’s, covering Natalia’s head and his own with his hands and arms. The roar of the M-67 so

  close to the tunnel mouth caused an echo effect, his ears ringing with it.

  But beneath him, he heard a sound sweeter than anything he had ever imagined. “What-” Natalia’s voice. She lived.

  “Can you move?” He didnt wait for an answer, looking toward the end of the tunnel. The KGB defenders were dead or dying, their energy weapons no longer a threat. But that situation would change in seconds as more of their number reached the site. And, beyond the tunnel, he could see the Air Defense Command Center.

  All he had to do was reach it. If hecould plant the charges that he wore beneath his coat, he could neutralize it. If he could not plant those charges, he could neutralize the facility at any event, detonating it on his body.

  Paul wore a similar set of charges, as did Michael.

  John Rourke had refused Natalia’s request for the same.

  But she could not be left on her own now, barely able to stand, weaving as she sagged against him, a darkening bruise marring the perfect alabaster ofher left temple. He dragged her onward, looking back only once. Paul and Michael were pinned down by the entrance to the tunnel, energy weapons impacting the tunnel walls.

  And, maybe, this time would be the end.

  Since The Night of The War, he had cheated death more times than he could remember. As he half-carried Natalia beside rum, he wondered if this time death might finally win the game …

  So far, so good, Darkwood said under his breath. The phrase was becoming his watchword for this operation. Not a shot had been fired to alert the Marine Spetznas guarding the lagoon, which would, in turn, sound a general alert throughout the complex.

  The sonar net had not registered entry of a submarine, yet; yet, the time was long since past for the Ronald Wilson Reagan, Sebastian at the con, to have penetrated the entry tunnel to the lagoon beneath the domes.

  “Sir!”

  “What is it, Mondragon?” Darkwood responded, his eyes never leaving the control panels he monitored.

  “Three Marine Spetznas bigshots on the way up, Sir!”

  “Mondragon, we don’t refer to officers of opposing forces as *big shots.’ They are officers and should be accorded all due respect for rank; unless, of course, circumstances indicate we should kill them. But, we kill them respectfully.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” And there was a slight hint of a laugh.

  “Get out of sight and let them in,” Darkwood ordered. “Don’t react until I give the word or they try to shoot me. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Darkwood glanced over his shoulder, then over to the console nearest him, to the Lancer 2418 A2 within reach of his right hand.

  He exhaled, listened for the door to open behind him, heard the voice in Russian snapping, “What is this?”

  In English, Darkwood responded, “What’s it look like, Comrade?” And Darkwood looked over his shoulder. Three Marine Spetznas officers, the highest ranking among them only a captain. But a naval captain, Darkwood’s rank, was field grade, the equivalent of a full colonel, so he had the senior-most one of them considerably outranked. “You should be saluting a senior officer, gentlemen; but, I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”

  “Take your hands from that equipment!”

  Darkwood glanced at the console, then into the lagoon. Nothing yet. “Gentlemen, has it crossed your collective minds-and I use the term ‘collective’ intentionally-that if Fm in here, and Fm not bothering to try to run or fight, you are outnumbered? I suggest relaxing. Consider the smoking lamp as lit. You might care to surrender your weapons, too. You’ve just been outflanked.”

  He heard the scratchy sound of a plastic Sty-20 scraping against a plastic Soviet issue holster. Since captured Sty-20s were so often utilized by American forces, there was inventoried a fabric holster for use with the pistols, vastly better designed and considerably less noisy.

  Darkwood said to the three Marine Spetznas officers behind him, “If you shoot me with one of those, the Marines that are in here with me will shoot you, then slit your throats for good measure. And, the two men on the steps aren’t yours; they’re mine.”

  Before there was a response, Darkwood saw the black monolith that was the sail of the Reagan break surface in the lagoon. A smile crossed his lips as he turned in his seat and looked at the three men.

  Their Sty-20s were aimed at his chest. “I suggest setting down your weapons; you have that choice or death. I won’t bring it up again.”

  The two junior officers looked at the captain, who stood between them.

  The captain lowered his weapon, then lowered his body into a crouch and set the Sty-20 on the floor by his feet. As he rose back to his full height, the other two officers set down their weapons and Mondragon and the two Marines inside the harbormaster’s tower came from hiding behind two of the equ
ipment racks, their AKM-96s at high port.

  Jason Darkwood turned back toward the lagoon. The deck of the Reagan was just surfaced and her hatches were opening, men and equipment pouring from them.

  So far, so good …

  Nicolai Antonovitch walked past the wall-to-wall staff officers in the Premier’s outer office, reached over just under the lip of the secretary’s desk and pushed the button which provided access through the double doors into the Premier’s office.

  The secretary, a pretty, if somewhat severe looking girl in her mid-twenties, looked up at him, brown eyes wide.

  “Everything will be better from now on” Antonovitch told her, smiling at her.

  The door lock buzzed and Antonovitch entered.

  The Premier stood before an illuminated map table which showed the interior and immediate exterior of the Underground City. He looked up from the table, saying, “You should have been announced. Why are you late?”

  “I was considering several strategic and tactical options.”

  “And?”

  Nicolai Antonovitch drew the pistol at his belt-it was a Tokarev he’d carried and used for years-and pointed it at the Premier, then began pulling the trigger …

  Heavy conventional gunfire-automatic weapons and some pistols-along with the bluish white lightning bolts from Soviet energy weapons poured toward them, craters in the ground around their

  position and the walls near them blackened from energy weapons strikes, pockmarked from bullets.

  John Rourke held Natalia, still slightly ill-looking, but able to hold a gun, held her close beside him.

  Time was running out.

  But he would never choose death while an alternative remained.

  “Help me,” Rourke told her. “Keep up steady answering fire, but don’t work for accuracy. Just keep them busy, like they used to say in the old western movies.”

  “We’re not going to make it,” Natalia whispered.

  “Yes we are,” Rourke smiled, the words holding more conviction than he genuinely felt. As soon as the radar controls for the antiaircraft batteries were knocked out, there would be an attack against the Underground City of unprecedented magnitude. Then there would be a chance.

  The structure at the base of which they huddled for protection from fire was the command center for the Underground City’s air defenses. If he could neutralize the structure-John Rourke’s mind raced. Already, he was pulling hand grenades from his gear, but the hard way, by twisting open the plastic hangers rather than pulling pins.

  The command center was a concrete block building some thirty feet high with no access at all at ground level except via a driveway with a heavy looking metal door at the far end where trucks could enter and leave. There was access above, but that meant traversing an open staircase leading to a main door, and there was already gunfire from above.

  John Rourke had anticipated being able to enter the building via conventional means with the help of the energy weapons, then destroy the radar guidance equipment which controlled the air defense response. He had not anticipated the rapidity of the resistance response.

  But, he had planned ahead for emergencies.

  The explosives he wore, powerful new German plastique, could destroy much of the building, probably do the required amount of damage if detonated from the outside. But, to do that, it would almost certainly be necessary to die in the process.

  He’d spent his life telling himself that there had to be a better way, and he was trying to convince himself now that he’d just thought of

  it. The plastique, unaffected by a bullet strike, unaffected by flame, etc., was only capable of being detonated electrically. Its intended purpose, after reaching the air defense control center and hitting the equipment with the energy weapons, was to blow the entire complex from within, so nothing could be hastily repaired that would allow the system to become operational again.

  He eyed the door at the end of the downward leading driveway.

  If the idea he had worked, the mission would be accomplished and they just might live through it. His hands had been busy, pulling the second safety from each of the grenades he wore. Natalia, trading occasional shots from her energy weapon with the enemy personnel, seemed to be reviving somewhat.

  A bolt from one of the enemy weapons hit the wall near them, a rain of synth-concrete dust falling on them. Rourke, grateful now for the synth-concrete’s resistance to the energy weapons, leaned back against the wall, telling Natalia, “Here’s what we’re going to do. The explosives Fm carrying can be detonated only electrically. Tm betting that a steady stream of shots from one of these,” and he patted what corresponded to the receiver area of the energy weapon, “can detonate the plastique and heighten its effect. I’m running down, while you cover me.”

  “Where? The driveway! You could be-“

  “It’s not all that healthy waiting here, is it?” Michael and Paul, as best he could tell just through hearing, were still pinned down by the other end of the tunnel. As long as he-Rourke-and Natalia held out here, no one could get into the tunnel from this end to catch Paul and Michael in a crossfire. “But the company’s marvelous,” and he touched his lips to Natalia’s forehead. “I can’t detonate even half the stuff from up close without getting killed, so Tm leaving my energy weapon with you. Keep the Elite Corps concentrated on this position as best you can, but don’t take any needless chances. Try to pin them down. Make certain you don’t deplete the batteries on both guns, though. Well need one to activate the explosives.

  “Once Fve got the charges dumped-there wouldn’t be time to set detonators or precise charge placement-Fll start ranning back. Once Fm a safe distance away, start shooting at the plastique. If it goes up, the door will come down. We use the energy weapons and conventional weapons to shoot our way inside, and we use these.” And Rourke nodded to the grenades beside him. “The remainder of

  the plastique should do the trick inside to destroy enough of the building’s electrical systems that we can temporarily cripple the equipment. Using it in conjunction with the energy weapons against a synth-concrete load bearing wall, we might be able to collapse the building. Not as good as the original plan, but it should get the job done.”

  “How do we avoid getting blown up with it?”

  “We use the energy weapons to detonate the plastique, then the energy weapons, more grenades and conventional weapons to get a far enough distance away that well have a chance of staying alive.” The alternative was certain death and failure in their mission if they waited it out here. There was no need telling Natalia that, however, because she knew as much about this sort of thing as he did.

  “It could work. I’m moving better. I’ll make it.” And Natalia leaned across to him, rose up on her knees and held his face in her hands, then kissed him hard on the mouth. “I will love you forever, John.”

  “I love you. You know that.” And he smiled. “Keep a good eye on our grenades, huh?”

  He gave a squeeze to her hand, then started shifting out of the backpack for his energy weapon …

  Nicolai Antonovitch stood over the Premier’s body. With the double doors closed, the shots would not have been heard outside in the secretarial suite. The Premier’s office, conveniently enough, was soundproofed.

  From a spare magazine pouch on the holster itself, he took a fresh load for the pistol, pocketing the empty magazine.

  Several options presented themselves now, but the most likely one to succeed in bringing this thing to a close with rriinimal loss of life was to cut all power for the City. It seemed obvious that the small team, which even now was presumably still fighting, wished to reach the controls for air defense radar. Killing the power would kill the air defense radar. That could only be done at the main power station or at Commissariat for Special Contingencies, at the headquarters for the civil police, about a quarter mile from the Premier’s office along a series of tunnels through which he should, he presumed, still be able to travel easily enough bec
ause of bis position.

  The Commissariat for Special Contingencies was a crack team of anti-riot police on constant alert for quelling civil disturbances, which there rarely were. Recently, however, there had been small groups of dissenters within the City, protesting the continuation of the war. On the wall inside the inner sanctum of the commissariat there was an illuminated map which showed all power grid sectors, and a series of switches which could shut them off one at a time as necessary, or all of them at once.

  Antonovitch walked to the double doors, the trick now was to get out of the office without anyone seeing the dead body lying inside…

  John Rourke, three of the now precious grenades in his pockets, the plastique parcel cut in half, the strips-the material smelted faintly like bleach-wound around his shoulders in long ropes, drew both Scoremasters from beneath his belt.

  Natalia could see him, he knew, just as he could see her. He gave her a nod. She blew him a kiss.

  John Rourke broke into a dead run toward the driveway leading down to the massive garage door. The color of the door stuck in his mind for some reason; the color was green, a very deep, yet bright green.

  Behind him and to his right, he could hear the sounds of energy weapons being fired, the hum, the buzz, then sometimes what sounded like an explosion.

  There was some conventional weapons fire, but none of it so far aimed toward him, because where he ran now he was beyond sight level for the enemy personnel swapping shots with Natalia and, so far at least, none of the personnel from the air defense center had apparently noticed him.

  But that changed in the next instant, automatic weapons fire pouring down into the synth-concrete roadbed over which he ran. Rourke punched both .45s upward, toward the source of the gunfire, firing the ScoreMasters simultaneously. Accurate return fire was impossible for him now, but if he could get close enough he could drive them back and keep them from firing at him anymore.

  That was working, both ScoreMasters empty in his hands, their slides locked back. Leaving them that way, he thrust both pistols