Survivalist - 22 - Brutal Conquest Page 6

  Paul Rubenstein cased the field glasses and, carefully lest he slip on the rock face, started down.

  They would have to move—and quickly, too… .

  Mary Ann was still sobbing. She had called him a murderer.

  If he lived to be a thousand years old, John Rourke would never understand why or how a woman could love someone who treated her with such obvious contempt. And, apparendy, Mary Ann had loved her “old man” very much.

  When the three of them entered the stable, they found a dozen horses and an equal number of crude saddles and attendant tack.

  Natalia suggested, “Why don’t we do as planned, John? One of us goes for help, while the other takes the rest of the horses back for Annie and Paul?”

  John Rourke nodded. “There aren’t enough horses anyway, so the loss of one more won’t matter. You link up with Hilda, Dan, and Margie. Take a spare animal with you just in case—”

  “John, you’re better on horseback than I could ever be. And you’re going to tell me I’m lighter, so the horse won’t tire’as easily. But you’re still better, which makes your reaching help much more reliable a proposition.”

  John Rourke looked at her and smiled. “If there were ever a person with the power of logical persuasion, it’s you. Fine. What do we do with Mary Ann? Can’t leave her here for those other three or whoever else is around to come back and harm her.” “I’ll take her with me.”

  John Rourke nodded, starting across the stable floor and looking into each of the crudely carpentered stalls. None of the animals was outstanding, all of them seeming malnourished and mistreated. But the largest of the animals—about fifteen hands—seemed satisfactory. He was a grey, and John Rourke was partial to that color in an animal. But he looked to be the strongest of the horses as well. “I’ll take him and one other.” The grey was a gelding. “That mare,” Rourke decided, pointing to a smaller-statured bay who looked like she might be a good runner. “And I’ll take the best saddle.”

  There wasn’t much to choose from in that regard, all of the saddles basically crude seats and nothing more. They were most reminiscent of poorly crafted copies of the saddles the German Long Range Mountain Patrols of a century-ago utilized, similar in design to the old United States Cavalry McClellans.

  With what appeared to be the most solid of the saddles selected, John Rourke set it aside, then began saddling the other animals that Natalia would be taking back to Annie and Paul and the women. There were not enough horses for everyone to mount, but resourceful use would still be of aid to the group.

  And he looked at Mary Ann, standing in the middle of the stable floor, still weeping. …

  John Thomas Rourke had the stirrups lengthened as much as he could, but they still weren’t comfortable. His knees higher than he liked them, he swung his mount and looked back along the street running between the seven buildings of the unnamed town. There was not the time

  to bury Mary Ann’s “old man”, or any of the others. Those of their weapons that might prove even modesdy serviceable were with Natalia and Mary Ann now, the others sufficiently dismanded as to be inoperable.

  The three men who had run still worried him a litde, but there was no time to do anything about them. Holding the reins for the second animal, John Rourke dug in his heels to the grey, urging the beast ahead to the north. …

  12

  The injured woman on a litter between Paul and Martin Zimmer, Annie Rourke Rubenstein urged the twenty-two other women onward. “If you don’t hurry, they’ll catch up with us and some of you could be killed, and the rest of you will be returned to the Land Pirates. Hurry!” She felt like someone’s mother, warning a poorly behaving child to be good lest the bogeyman come.

  One of the women called back to her, saying, “We was better off with them, the Land Pirates.”

  Annie didn’t know what to say in reply.

  Martin Zimmer’s balcony looked out from Eden City’s highest tower, over the city itself and the vast expanse of Georgia that lay toward the north.

  The atmosphere was richer now than it had been a century and a quarter ago, largely due, of course, to German-led, efforts in regreening the South American rain forest lands. And, although the population of the earth had doubled and redoubled many times over, there was still comparatively little industry and the air was very clean.

  The result was, as the sun began to set, that Michael Rourke could see so far into the distance he could almost fantasize seeing the mountain where The Retreat, the only home he had ever really known, was located.

  He knew that was physically impossible, however.

  But a thought of home, even though that home was now a museum controlled by enemy forces who wished to kill him and his entire family, was still of comfort, however ephemeral. And he thought, specifically, of Natalia. His father had taken the news of his and Natalia’s liaison so well it was almost scary. But his father was, after all, John Rourke. Natalia. To lose Natalia was something of such import Michael Rourke could not comprehend it, nor did he try. Perhaps John Rourke had never thought

  of Natalia in that way, never considered her “his woman,” therefore … therefore, what?

  Michael Rourke missed Natalia more than he could ever have thought possible after the death of his wife, Madison.

  And he would never see Natalia or anyone he loved again if he did not get out of here.

  Michael assessed the situation. He was still being viewed as Martin Zimmer. That would not last. He had the uncomfortable feeling that Croenberg, the SS major general, already saw through him.

  If Deitrich Zimmer were to suddenly arrive, that would be it.

  To get away from the building, he could overpower a guard and steal a gun, or he could just walk out. After all, as Martin Zimmer, it was his building to command, as were the guards. And the information he had in his head concerning the impending attack on Pearl Harbor as a prelude to war was vital. That information had to be transmitted to Allied Intelligence so the attack could be foiled and, hopefully, the war forestalled.

  Michael Rourke had the uncomfortable feeling that history was repeating itself, but at a much accelerated pace. A World War II-like beginning to what might be World War Last ….

  James Darkwood walked alone along the street, the buildings surrounding him like towering mountain pinnacles. He had been born in Mid-Wake, raised and schooled in the Hawaiian Islands, only returning to Mid-Wake for the Naval Academy and his specialized Naval Intelligence training.

  A place like Eden, now the oldest surface city on Earth, still amazed him. There were a comparative few tall buildings in New Honolulu, but not this obsession for a terrestrially bound aggregation of synth-concrete slabs to reach into the sky.

  He thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. He was alert to any sounds in the gathering darkness that might be at all out of the ordinary. His face was not known here in Eden City, nor was there any reason to suppose that anyone might take even the briefest second look at him, but he was still operating in enemy territory.

  There was considerable pressure exerted, even at the Naval Academy, for him to enter the submarine service. He was even offered a berth aboard the new Reagan.

  The United States Nuclear Submarine Ronald Wilson Reagan, Jason Darkwood’s ship, was the most decorated vessel of the Mid-Wake fleet. There were two submarines to bear the ship’s name in the intervening one hundred twenty-five years, none of them (because it was peacetime) approaching her glorious record.

  This latest vessel, James Darkwood feared, might have the chance to prove herself … and quite soon.

  She was, officially, a “Submersible Carrier Vessel Navy,” an aircraft carrier with the ability to operate above or below the surface, like a spacecraft of the ocean, enormous, fast, and deadly if need be.

  If he ever became anything but a landlocked sailor, he’d love to serve aboard her.

  But uniformed duty was a luxury he could not afford now. The importance of on-the-ground intelligence gathering in these dark days could not be measured. And, although he was only a small part of a large operation, each fragment of information acquired had the potential to be a breakthrough.

  War was coming.

  If the when and where of it could be determined, its toll might be less telling.

  As he rounded the corner, he saw a tall, almost impossibly long-legged silhouette against the lights of the early evening traffic. It belonged to Manfred Kohl, his partner for the last two years.

  “James,” the figure said, stepping back into the shadows.

  “Manfred,” Darkwood nodded. Kohl lit a cigarette, the downturned corners of his mouth and the worried look in his eyes visible for the briefest instant in the momentary flaring of his lighter. “So?”

  “Martin’s in there. Has to be. I saw the usual motorcycle escorts, everything. Went in through the underground garage. That means our friends did not make it.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, Manfred.” James Darkwood lit his own cigarette. The lighter was an original Zippo, identical to the one John Rourke carried, a gift from Rourke to Darkwood. Jason Darkwood was a non-smoker, but according to stories told concerning him, he had a genuine fondness for antiques. Aside from John Rourke’s, James Darkwood had only seen two similar lighters in his entire life. This one was solid brass, marked “1932 ZIPPO 1987” at its base. It was probably worth more than the Steinmetz James Darkwood wore on his left wrist.

  Darkwood inhaled the smoke of the cigarette deep into his lungs.

  Kohl said, “Why am I jumping to conclusions, James?”

  Darkwood exhaled, saying, “Well, for one thing, we’ve never been able to tell for certain that those motorcycle escorts really are for Martin. And we don’t know what Martin looks like. Only a handful of his people do. And, even if Martin did come back, that doesn’t mean the Rourke Family failed in its mission or got caught. It only means Martin wasn’t there. Maybe. You’re a worrier, pal.”

  Kohl’s shoulder shrug was just visible in the shadows. “Perhaps.”

  Darkwood looked at the orange glowing tip of his cigarette. A lot of people smoked these days. The Germans had developed non-carcinogenic tobacco more than a century and a half ago, and in the last fifty years or so, the habit had caught on again. It was still possible to smoke to excess and cause other sorts of damage to the body, but the moderate smoker who kept to something like a pack or so a day could smoke all his life without any fear of physical repercussions. Synthetic nicotine provided taste satisfaction, but there was no chance of nicotine addiction.

  The only person alive who’d smoked the real things regularly more than six centuries ago was Major Tiemerovna. She smoked these now and approved of the taste.

  He watched the building. It was the tallest in Eden City.

  From the outside, no one would have suspected it was the actual seat of government. The capitol, two blocks away, was a quaint structure, centuries old in appearance. Few persons knew that a tunnel, traversed only by highspeed battery-powered cars, connected the two structures.

  He agreed with Manfred Kohl. The motorcycle escorts seen from time to time had to be for Martin.

  And maybe something had gone wrong for the Rourkes.

  13

  Tall, lean, shaven head, the skin so tight over his skull that the veins could be seen pulsing, Croenberg stood in the doorway, right hand in the pocket of his jacket. Michael Rourke looked at him for an instant longer, then asked, “What is it?”

  “1 had hoped that I could speak with you, Martin.”

  “I am tired. As you know, I started the day rather poorly.”

  “It will only take a moment.” Croenberg smiled. Michael Rourke didn’t like the smile because it reminded him of a death mask.

  “All right.” Michael stepped aside and Croenberg walked inside. The door closed and Michael was alone with him. Gunther Hong was, presumably, following orders and actually taking to the field to assist in the search for the Rourke Family, which Michael prayed would be abortive. Michael had dismissed the uniformed manservant shortly after Hong left, needing to be alone … or as alone as he could be.

  Croenberg crossed the room, unbidden, and stopped just inside the balcony doors. “The view from here is incredible.”

  “I suppose,” Michael responded, trying to sound as though he saw that same view every day. But it was incredible. Dark now, the city of Eden was alive with lights, which sparkled like jewels in the darkness.

  And Croenberg turned around, his hand out of his pocket and a gun about the size of Natalia’s Walther PPK/S pointing direcdy at Michael’s center of mass. “Who are you?”

  Michael looked away from the solitary orifice of the gun and into the two orifices that were Croenberg’s deep-set grey-blue eyes. “I could have you killed for this.”

  Croenberg then blew the whole thing. He began speaking in German, Michael recognizing just enough of it to realize the vocabulary was too much for him, the speed too rapid. Croenberg continued speaking. Michael sat down in one of the overstuffed leather chairs, opening the lid of the cigarette box, then using the battery-powered table lighter to fire the cigarette he placed between his lips. Whether Martin smoked or not was academic. Michael did, occasionally, and the game was up; so now seemed like the ideal time.

  Croenberg continued speaking in machine-gun-rapid German. Michael exhaled smoke through his nostrils, smiled, and asked, “Are you anywhere near being through, Croenberg?”

  Croenberg laughed, the laughter quite genuine in nature. “You really look like him, you know? Are you John Rourke?”

  “You flatter me,” Michael said with a wave of his hand, which held the cigarette, and a smile. “I’m Michael Rourke, John Rourke’s other son. I’m five hundred years older than my brother Martin, but still, there’s a marvelous resemblance.”

  “You are very bold, and intelligent, too, I think. Since these remarks will never leave this room, I will speak freely. More intelligent, I think, than your ‘younger* brother … hmm?”

  “Nice of you to notice.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Are you trying to give me the impression that you don’t like old Marty?”

  “Marty? Ahh! Marty! Well, as a matter of fact, Herr Rourke, I do not like him one bit. He is an annoying—”

  “Are you searching for the word prick, Croenberg?”

  “Yes, a prick. Now, if you would step over to the balcony and take in that lovely view for one last time, please.”

  Michael didn’t move. He smoked his cigarette. And he asked Croenberg, “Are you planning to kill me and make it appear that Martin’s dead?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind, yes. You see, I have always believed that the true test of genius is the ability to take advantage of opportunity, then capitalize on the present rather than vainly plan for a future which may never come.”

  “Aside from the fact that you’re a Nazi and that Nazis are assholes, of course “—Croenberg’s eyes hardened and his fist balled slighdy more tighdy to his gun—“I find you quite engaging. And your philosophy concerning seizing the moment is something with which I wholeheartedly agree. Carpe diem.”

  “Yes, the dead language, Latin. How appropriate for a man who is soon to be dead to use the dead language. To the balcony, please.”

  Michael sat where he was. “You don’t want me shot. You want me splattered all over the sidewalk… .”

  “Actually,” Croenberg smiled wickedly, “I would more suppose you will be ‘splattered,’ as you put it, all over the street. Science and mathematics seem to suggest to me that the fall would pull you slightly outward. But, shall we experiment? You will know a split second before I do.”

  “You can always go first, if you like,” Michael offered.

  “I find your wit rather engaging as well, and you are correct of course that if I shoot you, my ends will not be so well served as if you merely die from impact. But I will

  I

  j shoot you if I must. Think of it this way, Herr Rourke. If i you walk toward the balcony, perhaps you can attempt to disarm me, perhaps even succeed. Otherwise, I must merely pull the trigger.”

  “Best to squeeze, as I’m sure you know. More accurate shot placement. Don’t you think Deitrich Zimmer will be able to tell from the remains that it isn’t Martin, but someone else instead?”

  “Ohh, he would indeed be able to tell. But, by the time he arrives, which will not be until several hours have passed, I will have succeeded in beginning a process that not even Deitrich Zimmer will be able to stop.”

  Michael grinned, snapped his fingers, then said, “I know! A coup, right?” t Croenberg smiled with seemingly genuine warmth. “As a matter of fact, yes. You guessed it Herr Rourke. Congratulations.”

  “I don’t understand. You’re all Nazis and you all want to start a war to take over the world. And the only way to defeat the Trans-Global Alliance is to go nuclear—” “I think we have talked sufficiendy, Herr Rourke,” j Croenberg announced, the smile vanishing from his face. » Michael stood up, his cigarette smoked half down. “You • think you can do it better, and you don’t want to worry about Martin Zimmer when it’s all through, right?”

  “Something like that.” Croenberg gestured with the pistol’s muzzle.

  Michael started walking. “You still want to hit Pearl i Harbor, just like the Japanese did in 1941?” “Not actually quite like that. They lost their war. We ‘i will not. And we wish to avail ourselves of the United I States Fleet, not send it to the bottom”

  Michael stopped, looking Croenberg straight in the eye. They were dead even now. “Bottom? Whose?”

  There was a moment’s look of incomprehension in Croenberg’s eyes. That was the same moment Michael

  Rourke chose to snap the cigarette into Croenberg’s face and throw himself toward the Nazi, his left hand trying to sweep the gun away from the plane of his body.