Survivalist - 12 - The Rebellion Page 6

  innocence is one of the keys to our survival here. Get the KGB agent—and with Eden Four just down and two more to go, this place is starting to look like a used space shuttle lot—and the whole thing …” John Rourke stopped.

  Sarah Rourke looked up at him, smiling thinly as she pulled the blue and white bandanna from her hair, then ran her fingers through it. She was a pretty woman, Rourke thought in the instant. “What’s the matter, John? Too many people?”

  Rourke sat down on the chair opposite her, reached out and took her hand—she didn’t withdraw it. “Yeah,” he laughed. “I was used to it for so long—and it looks like everything is starting all over again. Maybe the people who propounded cyclical views of history were right—I don’t know.”

  “What did you fight for, you mean?”

  He leaned across the table, touching his lips to her hand that he held in his. “I always knew what I was fighting for. I always knew that. To stay a step ahead of the insanity. But the crazies are still out there, Sarah. It hasn’t changed. People are still running around trying to kill one another. Violence is still everybody’s answer. Human life is still cheap. I don’t know,” he whispered to her, his throat tight.

  “You’ve always tried, John, to do the right thing. For us more than for yourself. You lost the youth of our children. You’re in love with Natalia, but you remain faithful to me.”

  He started to speak, but she touched her fingers to his lips.

  “You’re a decent man. A fine man. Maybe—maybe you’re too fine, there’s too much nobility in you. It would be easier to live with you—you’ve always been so good at everything you did, John. Your honor’s like a suit of armor to you. Your knowledge. You could never accept the fact that the rest of humanity wasn’t perfect just like you—and

  so you fought against the idea and you isolated yourself, John. If this is all over, someday—what do you want to do?”

  Rourke looked down at her hand in his. “A clinic, maybe—get a real hospital going. Pretty soon there’ll be babies born, life starting up again.” And he looked up at her, across the table, into her eyes that were only half visible in the lamplight. “But I don’t think it’s ever going to end, Sarah—I just don’t.”

  “You’ve never been an optimist—just a pessimist who refused to give up. You are that. And I love the idea of you—so very much.” It was as if they were sitting all alone in their house that was no longer there. And it was late at night and the children were in bed. “A woman couldn’t ask for a better man to love. I’ll never agree with you—I can’t see life the way you do. I’m just not that logical—but it’s a conscious choice with me, John. I refuse. I’m very sorry— sorry that you were right. And you’re sorry too. You carry a burden I couldn’t carry, John. I never could. It’s been hard trying to share it—and I know I really haven’t. It’ll be good to go with you to Argentina. A lot of places, well, a man can’t get in, I think. But a woman can. I don’t speak German—but one of the people Kurinami got to volunteer, Forrest Blackburn, I think his name is, he does. So at least there’ll be two of you. It sounds silly after all these years— these years of being married. But I don’t think we ever really knew each other. But we can now. And whatever happens between us—we’ll be better for it, I think.”

  “I love you,” John Rourke told her.

  “I know you do. And I know you love Natalia, too—and I can’t help with that. Because this is real and you don’t get story-book solutions to things, do you, John?” And she smiled.

  John Rourke laughed. “No, no, you don’t—you don’t at all, do you? I don’t think I gave you a very good life, did I?”

  “No, John—for once you’re wrong. You’ve always been bigger than the reality around you. I never wanted to be. But I don’t think a better man has ever lived than you.” And she stood up and drew his head against her breast and Rourke felt her breath against his face and her lips touched at his forehead.

  It was then that he heard the first shout of anger from beyond the confines of the world they had drawn around them for a few moments.

  Chapter Ten

  “Stay here, miss,” the Eden Project guard holding the M-16 said, sticking his head inside the tent flap briefly, then disappearing again.

  From outside she heard the shouts. “She caused it— she’s the one. Kill her now and be done with it!”

  “Kill the Goddamned Commie bitch!”

  She perched on the edge of her cot, drawing her feet closer to the side of the bed, pulling her skirt down lower over her tightly squeezed knees. She realized she was frightened.

  She could hear Captain Dodd’s voice shouting above the din outside. “All right—Major Tiemerovna is Russian, but her guilt hasn’t been clearly established. And if it is, she’ll be punished, but in a lawful manner and only for the death of Mona Stankiewicz—not for causing World War III.”

  “Mona and I were engaged, Goddamnit, Captain!”

  “Haselton—I know how you feel, man—but this isn’t— no!” Gunfire. The M-16 fired into the air, she surmised.

  Her right hand moved up from her knees along the tops of her thighs, pulling up the beige linen, moving to the inside of her left thigh—with a scarf she had tied the Bali-Song to her leg. She undid the scarf now, the knife coming alive in her right hand as she stood, the full skirt dropping to below her knees as she moved toward the rear of the tent, the scarf in her left hand, her left hand thrusting into the

  pocket on the side of the skirt, freeing her of the scarf.

  Her left hand moved along the interior rear wall of the tent, the Bali-Song’s Wee Hawk pattern blade biting into the canvas and then ripping downward from the height of her chest to the level of the canvas floor panel. She looked back toward the front of the tent and the flap. Another burst of assault riflefire. Screaming. Shouted threats.

  Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna reached back to the cot— the dark blue cardigan sweater there. She caught it up and pulled it over her shoulders, tossing her hair free of it, buttoning the top button at her neck to keep the sweater from falling. She pushed her sandalled left foot through the opening she had cut in the rear of the tent, the Bali-Song open still in her right hand, thrusting into the darkness ahead of her as she stepped the rest of the way through.

  She was out of the tent—more gunfire, then a shout. “Get out of our way, Captain!”

  Natalia started to run, cursing herself for dressing like a woman—the sandals were impractical for running. The sweater would give her scant protection against the evening’s chill with the sleeveless blue knit top she wore beneath it. The skirt would catch and rip on briars and thorns if she made it far enough away to start for the mountains. And the Bali-Song was her only weapon.

  She ran, hearing behind her, “The bitch got away. The Commie’s loose—hunt her down!”

  Another voice—a woman’s voice—the words made Natalia’s breath catch in her throat. “Hang her!”

  Natalia ran—as she reached the edge of the camp, she slowed, stopped. “There she is! Over here!”

  “Look out. Shit—she’s got a knife!”

  Two men—neither of them was armed except with handguns. At the distance, she doubted their ability to hit with them except by accident.

  She wheeled to her left, starting into a dead run—but something hammered at her legs and she fell, hacking into

  the darkness with her knife. “Jees—she cut me! Cut me!”

  Natalia’s left hand hammered up and out, the heel of it contacting bone. There was a groan, and the weight rolled off of her.

  She pushed herself to her feet, but arms reached out for her. The knife in her right hand hacked through the darkness. There was a scream of pain—something was coming toward her face and she dodged, feeling something slamming against the left side of her head. She started losing her balance, falling. Hands—her right arm was twisted back and around and she felt her grip go and the Bali-Song fall away.

  “Bastards!” she screamed, her left knee ca
tching one of the men in the crotch, her left hand straight-arming another man in the face—but her left wrist was caught in a grip that felt solid as a vise and her arm was wrenched back. Hands grabbed at her legs, dragging her down, the weight of a man crushing her down. Her left arm was pinned to her side. Her right arm was twisted behind her— a little more pressure and she knew it would break. Hands held her ankles pinned.

  A voice—she couldn’t see the face clearly. “Hell, this cable‘11 be as good as a rope—good enough for her.”

  And then a voice she recognized—the one Dodd had called Haselton. “I’m doin’ it. Mona and I were going to be married—I’m doin’ it!”

  “Then do it!” Natalia screamed at the attackers surrounding her.

  Dodd’s voice—from the edge of the knot of humanity crushing and twisting her. “For God’s sake, you’re supposed to be the cream of humanity—and you’re a mob. For God’s sake, don’t do this thing!”

  Natalia was dragged to her feet. Her right knee found a target. “Fuck you!” The voice was washed with pain. A hand slapped at her and her head sagged back and she felt her knees buckling.

  She was being pulled—she didn’t know to where, but when she tried using her feet even to walk, the pressure on her right arm was increased and she screamed, “Stop it!”

  But the pressure didn’t decrease.

  The cable—it was snaked around her neck now. “Tie her to the back of Rourke’s truck. Drag hang her!” And then: “Fun’s over!”

  She closed her eyes. It was John Rourke’s voice.

  Natalia opened her eyes. The light from the camp backlit him and in silhouette now, she could see the Detonics .45s in his hands.

  “Dr. Rourke, I can handle—”

  “Shut up, Captain.” Natalia felt the cable loosen slightly at her throat. “Let her go. Help her up and let her walk over here. First person who does otherwise dies—end of story.

  “John,” she whispered. The pressure on her arm was eased—then gone. The noose of cable fell from her neck to her chest. She sat up, took the noose from her body and threw it down.

  She tried to stand up—she looked at her skirt and mechanically began dusting it off as she stood there, her knees weak.

  “I’ve got Natalia’s Bali-Song, John!”

  It was Paul Rubenstein’s voice.

  She heard John Rourke shout to him. “You should be in bed, Paul.”

  “Coverin’ this end with my Schmeisser instead, John.” She heard the familiar and now very reassuring sound of the German MP-40’s bolt being drawn back, open.

  “Give my friend some room.” It was Sarah’s voice from the far side to Natalia’s right. “Go over to John. Natalia— can you walk?”

  “Yes, yes, I can walk.” Natalia nodded. Her throat ached and her right arm felt as though somehow it weren’t an arm at all but a tooth gone bad very suddenly and very

  painfully.

  She started—slowly—toward John Rourke, seeing faces now as the glare of headlights washed at a tangent across the crowd surrounding her. She could see John Rourke’s face now, half in shadow, half in light. She could see the gun in his left hand dully gleaming, the gun in his right hand still in shadow. “I’ve got the truck, Dad.” It was Annie’s voice.

  It had been the blue pick-up, the one she had nearly been tied to to be drag hanged. It would be the camouflage-painted truck Annie drove now.

  “Get my bike and Natalia’s,” Rourke rasped. “Annie— do it quick. Sarah—”

  “Right.”

  Natalia saw a figure stepping beside Rourke—she saw Rourke’s body tense in silhouette and then the tension faded. It was the wiry frame of Kurinami backlit in the glare of the headlights, a pistol in his right hand. “I am here, Doctor Rourke. Elaine Halverson is with me.”

  “You and Dr. Halverson—get on the truck, back it up and keep the lights on the mob.”

  “Dr. Rourke—what the hell are you doing?” Dodd’s voice called out. “I can take charge here now!”

  “I’m going to Argentina, Captain—remember? Hmm? And I’m taking Natalia with me. And Sarah and Akiro and Elaine Halverson. And I won’t even insult your intelligence by mentioning what‘11 happen if anybody tries stopping us.”

  “This woman is a murderess.”

  “Yeah, Captain—and I’m your great-aunt Fanny and the Easter bunny’s gonna be here in ten minutes or so— hitched a ride with the tooth fairy on the back of a unicorn. Yeah, Paul and Michael will represent my interests here. And if you or anybody else takes any reprisals against them, then you’d better hope the people under Karamatsov get you—or I will. And just to keep you busy while I’m

  gone, why not look for the real murderer and find Karamatsov ‘s agent before Karamatsov comes back and you find out you’ve got an enemy outside and an enemy inside.”

  “You’ll be a wanted man, Doctor.”

  John Rourke simply laughed—Natalia was nearly beside him now, her legs still felt weak. And then—as she sagged toward him, his right arm reaching out to her, enfolding her, supporting her—John Rourke said to her, “I got Madison to round up your clothes. Sarah found your guns and put ‘em in the truck Annie was driving.”

  “John—I—you—you’ll be an outcast now.”

  “I was never anything else,” John Rourke whispered as she rested her head against his shoulder.

  She could hear Paul’s voice from the far side of the crowd—and she wanted to go to him, to kiss him. He was her dearest friend, someone she had shared secrets with. Paul said, “John, you guys do what you’ve gotta do in Argentina. I’ll find the murderer—and I’ll kill him.”

  Natalia looked up at John Rourke’s face, feeling his breath against her skin as Rourke whispered, “I know.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Antonovitch was sorely tempted to reach to his hip and draw the Stechkin Mk 7 from its holster—but he did not. If he drew his pistol, it might make the men around him think that he was nervous or afraid.

  He kept walking, instead, slowly, looking from right to left and then behind him, his men forming a ragged wedge on both sides of him as they moved through the jungle.

  Scouts had confirmed what electronic surveillance had earlier indicated—that the surrounding area of habitation which ringed the mountain was unfortified except for guard towers at the four compass points. The mountain which was apparently the stronghold of the Nazi force seemed so well fortified that it would take firepower beyond that available from the helicopter force alone to penetrate it or destroy it.

  But Maj. Nicolai Antonovitch had to see for himself.

  He kept walking, slowly to avoid noise, the jungle heat surprisingly bearable and springlike seeming. He could remember jungles once teeming with wildlife, with birds and insects.

  But this one did not.

  Wild fruit grew in abundance. The foliage was ridiculously bright in its greenness.

  But there was no life—except for the sound he heard just ahead. He signaled his men to a halt with hand and

  arm movements.

  Now he drew his pistol—it had been the sound of a human voice speaking something that was not Russian and was likely German, though he had no way in which to tell. The Hero Colonel, Vladmir Karamatsov, spoke the German language. So did a few of those who had taken the sleep with him.

  The Stechkin Mk 7 clenched tight in his gloved right fist, he moved ahead, signaling his lieutenant to accompany him.

  The voice was clearer now as he parted the foliage ahead of him—a child’s voice. And then a woman’s laughter. He dropped to his knees and moved forward beneath the cover of the foliage, the debris of the ground—rotted leaves— clinging to his field trousers.

  He crept forward, glancing once behind him to ascertain that his lieutenant was still there.

  He parted another of the low-to-the-ground broad-leafed plants—and he could see. A woman wearing a filmy-looking summer weight dress, blond hair restrained at the nape of her neck with a large bow. A child in kh
aki shorts and a short-sleeved shirt running and playing, throwing a red ball to the woman who on closer inspection seemed little more than a girl. The woman caught the ball, and threw it back to the child, almost bowling it across the manicured green of the grass. As the little boy caught the ball, the boy and the woman laughed, the woman rearranging her dress, then clapping her hands and calling something in a musical sounding voice to the little boy. The little boy threw the ball toward her again and she caught it.

  Antonovitch looked to his right: the guard tower, glass enclosed—air conditioned, he imagined.

  He would not risk a stray reflection from his field glasses, so he studied the tower with his naked eyes. Perhaps two men. One stood by the nearest window. The second appeared to be sitting—Antonovitch could barely

  make out the top of the head when there was movement.

  They were more watchers than guards, he realized.

  The other tower, to his left, was merely a speck against the horizon.

  But less far to his left, well back from the woman and the little boy with the red ball, rose the mountain. An exposed pinnacle of granite. Massive doors were at its base, the doors—brass, perhaps. He could not be sure. And two massive stone pillars rising, flanking the doors on either side, the pillars becoming huge torches, flames that were apparently natural gas burning from the top of each.

  He heard the laughter of the child again—and Antonovitch turned his attention back to the boy and the woman with him. As he did he saw a bronze bust the height of a pillar set in the middle of the garden. He recognized the face. It was unmistakably the face of Adolf Hitler.

  He forced himself to look away and to the mountain itself. It rose so high that its summit was all but obscured in wisps of white cloud. Perhaps a hundred feet above the doors were long parapets, and on these parapets he could see armed men moving in some sort of regular pattern. There would be fortifications at the top of the mountain— aerial reconnaissance. He thanked his own foresight that he had kept his reconnaissance far back and relied on electronic observation rather than visual. Anti-aircraft emplacements ringed the summit, the nature of the guns he did not know. It was suspected by heat source identification that the entire mountain and the green space which seemed carved from out of the jungle were ringed with surface-to-air missiles.