Survivalist - 23 - Call To Battle Read online

  “Fine.” Rolvaag lit a cigarette. “Til call you if there’s anything anomalous.”

  “Kiss Ellie and the kids for me.”

  “How about Hrothgar?”

  “Sure,” Betty said.

  “Get some sleep, mom.”

  “Right.”

  The line clicked dead.

  Thornton Rolvaag set the phone down on the desk. He heard the rustiing of clothing behind him, turned slowly toward the sound. It was Ellie, in nightgown, bathrobe and bare feet.

  “Betty, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And Hrothgar was playing seismologist again, right?” Ellie asked. “Right again.” “Want coffee?”

  He took a step closer to her and she came into his arms, leaned her head against his chest for a second. “A hug’s fine.”

  She took his cigarette from his other hand and dragged on it, exhaling as she said, Tm gonna go pee, then get to bed. Kids have to be at school the same time they always do. If you’re asleep, what time do I get you up?”

  Tm gonna keep an eye on things for an hour or so, then hit the rack. Get me up by nine or ten; have to be at the University by noon.”

  “Want pancakes for breakfast?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  She leaned up on her bare toes and kissed his cheek. She had been raised on a farm on Hilo, grew up barefoot and never outgrew it. He drew her against him, kissed her lightly on the lips. “Need a sweater?” Ellie asked.

  “I can get it.”

  “You watch your computer screen; Til get it. And then Til go pee.”

  “Think about the rolling of the surf across the-“

  “Ohh, shut up!” Ellie said, laughing.

  Rolvaag flicked ashes from his cigarette. When he looked back toward the doorway, she was gone.

  By the time she returned with his bathrobe, his slippers and a cotton afghan in case he got cold, he had the readings coming in from the major sensors.

  The Old One was restless tonight, but he’d seen her worse.

  He changed-“You just wanted to see me naked, who are you kidding?”-and kissed Ellie again, then sat down at his desk.

  He heard her clothes rusding again as she left. After a few minutes, he heard one of the upstairs toilets flushing.

  Rolvaag started jotting down notes.

  12

  Wilhelm Doring set down his suitcase.

  “Why are there not separate accommodations?”

  “I thought that you and the woman would be-“

  Doring started to say something, but stopped as he heard Marie Dreissling clear her throat. He looked away from Stroud and looked at Marie, instead. “Yes, Marie?”

  “I do not object to the accommodations if they satisfy you, Willy.”

  She was blushing.

  Doring felt the corners of his mouth turning down. He looked back at Stroud, their contact here in Honolulu and, perforce, their landlord. “Fine. Make certain we get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Yes, certainly Herr Sturmbannfuhrer Doring-“

  “Willy; I am ‘Willy’ to you and to everyone else. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Willy.”

  “Good. You may leave us.”

  Stroud, who was a contract agent to the Gestapo and was so deferential as to be annoying, left at once, bowing slightly as he backed through the doorway of his own building. The building, like many in this section of Honolulu, was largely immigrant housing. Refugees from Eden came here, as did other nationalities, Russians and Chinese in particular, and some Wild Tribespeople, because Hawaii had employment. There was a booming economy here, the jumping-off point for the Far East and Australia, where there was more employment still.

  The population of Hawaii was largely technocratic. Consequently, laborers to handle the automated farms stretching along the Pacific toward what once was Japan and the expansive livestock and agricultural facilities on Australia were in desperate demand. The wages were good.

  Every iota of data concerning the enemy had been made available to Wilhelm Doring, and he devoured it because even the smallest fact could be of benefit to him in the success of this operation.

  Stroud had been waiting for them on the beach road with a large electrically powered van. The two wounded men were already stabilized before reaching the beach. Once on the beach and certain that the landing zone was secured, they had aimed the inflatables back into the shipping lanes with small time-detonated charges aboard which would take their engines and thwarts to the bottom after the synth-rubber burned.

  They changed in two-person shifts (except for Marie Dreissling of course) into civilian-appearing clothing, packing their gear into more of the fabric suitcases they had brought.

  Doring was taking off his windbreaker as he noticed Marie staring at him. Doring stripped away his body armor vest. Marie was still looking at him. Doring pulled his energy pistol from the waistband of his trousers. “Marie, there will never be anything permanent between us. You realize this?”

  “Yes, Willy.”

  “Then, take off your clothes and warm the bed.” “Yes, Willy.”

  Doring went about the apartment, sweeping it for listening devices and optical sensors. He discerned no evidence of any of these. The structure in which they would reside, for the time being at least, was called, in the vernacular, a condominium. There were various large apartments all within the same general structure. The building itself stood some ten stories tall and occupied one side of an entire city block.

  Johann Stroud, the landlord, in the employ of the Gestapo for some seven years, and considered reliable, was too obsequious to be fully trusted. And Doring was determined to act according to his instincts in all matters concerning the fellow.

  The condition of this mission deep into enemy territory was a simple one: Wilhelm Doring had complete autonomy, responsible only for getting his job done; how that was accomplished was of no concern. If that meant killing the Gestapo’s pet contract agent here, then it would be done.

  Satisfied that the Spartan-seeming apartment was secure-it was obvious that Stroud had given them the best of those available-Doring went into the bathroom again, but this time not to check for sensors. Wash his hands. Urinate. Defecate. Brush his teeth.

  Stripped to his underpants, his gun in his right hand, he walked into the bedroom.

  The drapes were pulled shut and there was a bedside lamp turned on. Marie, covers pulled up to her chin, only her head and her fingertips exposed, lay in the center of the bed.

  He stripped off his underpants.

  Marie’s eyes flickered over him, then away.

  He stood beside the bed for a moment, looking down at her. She still did not look at him. But, she said “I will do whatever you ask of me, Willy.”

  Wilhelm Doring said nothing, but had expected no less of her. He put his pistol on the nightstand-later it would go under his pillow-and he turned off the light.

  He sat down beside her, then swung his legs up as he moved the covers back.

  He realized that his hands were cold. She shivered when he touched her.

  Doring drew Marie’s face close to his and began kissing her. Women liked their foreplay and were less responsive in its absence.

  13

  Allied Intelligence, while endeavoring to compromise the Eden Defense Computer Network, inadvertently gained access to the Registry of Defense-Related Personnel. It was a considerable list. Although no one in the Trans-Global Alliance had thought at the time that such information would prove more than marginally valuable, this was not the case. On at least one occasion of which James Darkwood was aware, the information from the Registry had been used to weave a blackmail plot that successfully turned one of Eden’s top scientists (the man was later discovered and murdered by Eden Security Forces).

  But now, the thrust of the operation was entirely different. Darkwood spoke into his communicator. “Manfred?” “Yes?”

  “There’s nothing going on here by the rear door. Why don�
��t you start up from the front and meet me in the corridor in two minutes.”

  “Right.”

  The operation against Wilbur Nash, because of its time of day (daylight hours) and location within an Alpha Level Security Area (the housing complex for Eden Defense Plant 234), had to be weaponless.

  That of itself was enough to make Darkwood’s skin crawl. But what lay ahead was potentially far worse. He would exchange places with Wilbur Nash for third shift inside Eden Defense Plant 234. Once the shift ended and Darkwood was out (he hoped, alive), Wilbur Nash would be released and offered the chance to flee Eden for New Germany rather than risk retribution for his unwilling part in the operation.

  Wilbur Nash was selected because, of all the Eden Defense Workers who had access to Plant 234, he bore the closest resemblance to Darkwood. Their height was identical. Although Nash’s build was slighter, Darkwood could mask that by wearing loose-fitting coveralls and slouching a bit.

  Darkwood entered the residential complex and ascended the rear stairs to the third floor. As he entered the corridor, he saw Manfred Kohl, his counterpart from New Germany, exiting the elevator and turning right. Wilbur Nash’s small apartment was to Darkwood’s left in the corridor segment between them.

  Kohl knocked on Nash’s door. Darkwood watched the corridor.

  He heard Nash’s door opening and Manfred Kohl’s fist impacting Nash’s jaw …

  Rourke slept a total of four hours, but felt sufficiently refreshed (since his last Awakening, although he still preferred to sleep at least six hours out of every rough twenty-four, he could easily function on considerably less). He decided to take advantage of the facilities at Pearl, namely the Pacific Ocean.

  After a quick shave and shower, he borrowed an FOUO electric car and drove out along the beach, parked, stripped off his sweats and went into the surf. The water was cold and brought his body to life. He swam deeply, the life in the sea here phenomenally abundant, the reef which protected the beach rich.

  By the black face of his Rolex Submariner, he had spent almost an hour in the water before coming up onto the beach again, towelling dry in the cool morning wind, redonning his sweats and starting back toward the main portion of the base.

  Back at his quarters, he showered and washed his hair again. As he emerged from the bathroom, a towel in hand,

  rubbing his hair dry, he noticed that the message-waiting red diode of his answering machine was illuminated. The counter indicated one message. Rourke played it back. “Doctor Rourke, this is Commander Washington. Thought you’d like to be in on this, sir. There’s a briefing at O900. It’s important. Til send a driver around in the event you get this message.”

  Rourke looked at his watch again. O900 was fifteen minutes away. Hurriedly, Rourke dressed. Since he had no idea concerning the nature of the briefing, in keeping with his lifelong dictum to “Plan ahead,” he donned a pair of black ripstop BDU pants, a long-sleeved black cotton knit shirt and combat boots. He slipped on the double Alessi shoulder holster with his twin stainless Detonics miniguns, then slid the Milt Sparks Six-Pack with a half-dozen spare six-round magazines onto his Garrison-width belt. He slipped the A.G. Russell Sting IA Black Chrome inside his trouser band and grabbed his leather jacket.

  As he did so, there came a knock at the door of his small BOQ apartment. Never one to trust to the obvious, he drew one of the little Detonics CombafMasters from beneath his left armpit, holding the gun behind his right thigh as he opened the door with his left hand and stepped back.

  Standing in the doorframe was a pretty girl in khaki cap, blouse and skirt. She saluted. “Yeoman Jones reporting, sir. I’ve been instructed by Commander Washington to request your presence-“

  Rourke smiled as he cut her off. “I took the telephone message, Yeoman. Ready to go when you are.” As he slipped the little stainless steel .45 back into its holster, he told the woman, “Just finishing getting dressed.”

  14

  The conference room was utilitarian but comfortable. John Rourke took a chair somewhere near the middle of the table while the remaining personnel-among them uniformed Naval Intelligence officers and persons in civilian attire who looked as if they had the same occupation-filed in and either sat down or hovered in corners of the room in small groups, discussing things in obvious whispers.

  Commander Washington entered along with two junior officers, and just behind him was Ed Shaw, Emma’s brother from the Honolulu Tac Team.

  There was no military formality here, evidently this was a team of men who worked together in such close association that behind these doors-and the doors closed in almost the same instant-the superfluous was left behind. Rourke liked that.

  Washington took his seat, nodded to Rourke, then looked toward the head of the table. A man in civilian clothes that seemed as nondescript as his face and manner stood at the head of the table and began to speak. “Gentlemen, ladies, we’ve got a more serious immediate problem than any of us anticipated. Last night, two separate landings were made in the islands, one of these apparently a large commando force similar in composition to that which our SEALs and the HPD Tac Team took out. We’ve got teams out looking for them.

  “The second landing,” the man went on, “was a total of twelve persons. That smells like something else besides a

  straight military unit. They landed very close to Honolulu and we have reason to suspect they waylaid a car and got into the city. What their mission is cannot be determined.” John Rourke said, “Excuse me.”

  The man looked at him, his face expressionless. “Yes, General Rourke?” “Is the area where this landing took place cordoned off?” “Yes. HPDs got it, right Shaw?” Ed Shaw nodded.

  “How about the road where you believe they waylaid a car?”

  “That can be done, Doctor,” Shaw answered for the man.

  “If I’m not talking out of turn, then,” Rourke went on, “why don’t you do that. I believe the Germans have some device that utilizes a laser to bring up latent surface impressions, like a more sophisticated fingerprint detector. Maybe we could use that.”

  The nondescript man interjected, “That’s a heavily trafficked section of road during daylight hours, General Rourke.”

  “A vehicle waylaid might possibly have stopped quite suddenly, whereas a vehicle waiting to pick up this team wouldn’t have,” Rourke suggested.

  “Good point, Doctor,” Shaw said, nodding. He took a small transceiver from under his windbreaker as he stood up and started away from the table.

  “General Rourke, would you care to become personally involved in this?” The nondescript man lit a cigarette with a disposable lighter as he spoke.

  Rourke looked at the nondescript man. “Indeed, I would.” Rourke noticed Commander Washington smiling …

  The car stopped, but Annie Rourke Rubenstein waited for the Navy enlisted man who was her driver to open the car door for her. She could get used to this.

  Before eight, she was up and dressed and off to the hospital to visit Michael. He’d be released this afternoon, and had kidded with her that this was the most medical attention he’d ever received for something as comparatively minor. She remembered the time Michael was nearly dead and her father had operated to save his life, but she didn’t mention it.

  Natalia was there, too.

  After talking with Michael for a while, she took Natalia down to the hospital coffee shop and they talked for a while by themselves, discussing nothing of consequence, she realized, but the time enjoyable, relaxing for them.

  Then Paul had her paged and she was off again.

  Her driver held the door open and she stepped out into the bright sunshine and a pleasantly cool breeze which immediately grabbed at her skirts. But she got her clothing under control quickly enough.

  The enlisted man asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Rubenstein?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you very much.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  He closed the door an
d started around toward the driver’s side while Annie slowly walked toward the police line, set up to block a stretch of road along a broad curve, extending for what looked like a quarter of a mile.

  There were two uniformed officers, one male and one female, standing beside the yellow tape. As Annie approached and started to introduce herself, the male officer saluted and said, “Mrs. Rubenstein, you’re expected.”

  “Thank you.” He raised the tape and she ducked beneath it, holding her dress with one hand, her hair with the other, the wind higher the closer she got to the hairpin of the curve. Beyond the road, she could see, hear, even smell the ocean.

  Along the road, she saw her father and her husband, Commander Washington and Ed Shaw. A uniformed police officer was holding something which looked like an oddly shaped vacuum cleaner with a video monitor attached to it, moving

  slowly with it along the outside lane of the highway, nearest to the beach. The strap of her bag was starting to slip from her shoulder and she let go of her hair to fix it. Both pistols which she habitually carried-the Detonics ScoreMaster and the Beretta 92F-were too large for practical purse carry in anything of convenient size. But her father had somehow thought to plan ahead for that too. When he and Paul broke into the Retreat, their home in the mountains of American Georgia which the government of Eden had turned into a museum, among the various items they “liberated” was the gun she now carried in her purse.

  “This is an Interarms Firestar,” her father had told her. “Works just like your ScoreMaster or any Colt/Browning 1911-style pistol, and it’s about the size of Natalia’s Walther PPK/S, but instead of being a .380, it’s a 9mm Parabellum. Great little gun. Keep it around if you need it.” And, of course, she’d needed it, carried it now along with two spare seven-round magazines in her purse.

  She picked her hair away from her face, got it under control again by wrapping her hand around it at the nape of her neck, then joined her father and her husband and the other men along the roadway.