Survivalist - 20 - Firestorm Page 7

  More automatic weapons fire, the sound light enough to be a 9mm submachine gun.

  Rourke shifted the pistol in his right hand to his left, both of the litde .45s held uselessly there for a moment as he pulled the magazine from the M-16, stuffed the empty into a front pocket, then snatched a fresh thirty-round spare from his musette bag.

  He rammed it home, pressuring his hip against the wall to lock the rifle in place as his right hand worked the bolt, jacking a round into the chamber.

  Rourke shifted one of the little Combat Masters back to his right hand, firing both pistols out, keeping them in the open a split second too long so that Rausch would realize they were empty.

  A long burst of automatic weapons fire into the doorframe and wall.

  Again, John Rourke had planned ahead. Rausch would have assumed no rational man, facing an opponent armed with an automatic weapon, would respond with pistol fire if he had another option.

  As Rourke shifted the Detonics Combat Master from his right hand to his left, his right fist found, then closed over the M-16’s pistol grip, thrusting the Colt assault rifle outward, tensioning it against the sling. Rourke stepped into the corridor, Freidrich Rausch just disappearing around a bend at its far end. Rourke fired, taking a chunk out of the corner of the corridor, Rausch staggering for a split second before he ran on.

  John Rourke ran after him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jason Darkwood raised the leg of the hospital bed, kicking the inverted kidney shaped bedpan in place beneath it.

  He dropped to his knees, shaking with fear.

  If adrenaline had done it to him, reacted chemically with the medication Doctor Munchen had prescribed, then more adrenaline would undo it-he hoped.

  He inserted a fresh magazine up the well of the 9mm Lancer Caseless, put the fingers of his left hand beside the bedpan, closed his eyes and rammed the edge of his hand against the bedpan, knocking it away, letting the leg of the bed crash down on his fingers.

  Jason Darkwood almost screamed with the pain, sprawling back, bis hand still trapped beneath the leg of the bed.

  He shook his head.

  The adrenaline rush came.

  He could feel the nausea replaced with pain.

  To his knees. He threw his body weight against the bed frame as he lifted up with his right hand, freeing his left hand.

  His fingers didn’t move.

  He didn’t care.

  Darkwood reached out for his pistol, his knife already sheathed, his pistol belt around his waist. To his feet.

  He stumbled, nearly collapsing over his bed, the pain so intense that the nausea was returning to him. But the fear, the fear which had slowed his reflexes, dulled his senses, nearly paralyzed him-the fear was gone.

  Jason Darkwood started for the door, his throbbing left hand useless at his side, his right fist tight on the butt of the 2418 Al.

  Chapter Fifteen

  John Rourke reached the bend in the corridor, the M-16 extended ahead of him like a magic wand against death. “It’s me! Rourke! Shout or FI1 shoot!” There was no answering call from Sam Aldridge or any of the Germans or the U.S. Marines. The M-16 still tight in his right fist, he shouted again. “Aldridge?” No answer. Wrist bent, Rourke stabbed the assault rifle around the corner and fired out two three-round bursts in rapid succession.

  He tucked back, letting the M-16 fall to his side on its sling, putting fresh magazines as rapidly as he could up the wells of the Detonics .45s, Combat Masters and Scoremasters.

  He fired out the M-16, made a fast tactical change and dodged into the corridor for an instant, pulling back.

  No sign of Rausch.

  “Shit,” Rourke hissed.

  He looked to the wall opposite him. It was an empty patient room, the kind reserved for an officer or senior non-com with two beds only, the type Darkwood occupied. But no one occupied it now.

  John Rourke grasped the M-16 in both fists and fired, starting from the floor up, zig-zagging the muzzle as he controlled the long, magazine-emptying burst, cutting a rough shape in the wall near to his own size. He pulled back, letting the rifle fall to his side, the metal of the barrel by now hot enough to burn.

  A Scoremaster in each hand, Rourke threw himself against the wall, left shoulder first, his body momentum crashing through the cutout portion of the wall, crumbling beneath his weight as he stormed through, falling to his knees, eyes closed against the dust and debris, his eyes opening, only partially, on his knees, a pistol still locked in each hand.

  There was a door on the far side of the room.

  Rourke scrambled up from his knees and ran for it. He stopped

  before the door, took a half step back, pivoted on his right foot and made a double Tae-Kwon-Do kick at the handle, the door shattering open outward. There was gunfire from the right. Rourke drew back, his walkie-talkie picking up Sam Aldridge’s voice. “Doctor, where are you?”

  Rourke looked into the corridor, able to make out the number on the crumbled, now bullet riddled door. “By patient room six after the bend in the corridor and up from the corridor leading off Darkwood’s room. Over.”

  Tm at Jason’s room now. He’s with us. Ready to fight. Sounds like a machine gun or something down there. Over.”

  “Close from Darkwood’s room to the bend in the corridor, take the right carefully and well have Rausch between us. And he’s got a submachine gun of some sort. Rausch-you hear that? Got you trapped! Rourke Out.”

  Rourke fired both pistols around the frame of the doorway. Answering fire came, ripping out chunks of the doorframe as Rourke tucked back. Had Rausch been firing a machine gun, as Aldridge had labelled it, hiding behind the relatively flimsy construction of the hospital room doorframe as Rourke did now wouldn’t have been just dangerous, it would have been insane. But the concept of a submachine gun was almost militarily unknown at Mid-Wake, the assault rifle or the high capacity pistol taking its place.

  He sated both pistols and thrust them into his belt, then put a fresh magazine up the well of the M-16. There was another burst of submachine gun fire. Rourke punched the M-16 around the corner of the doorframe in his left fist and fired, turreting the gun right and left and right, drawing back as answering fire came back.

  If he could provoke Rausch into firing out his submachine gun, while Rausch made the tactical magazine change, he-Rourke-could cross the corridor and advance into the doorway of the patient room just up the corridor. The popular misconception of the term ‘machine gun’ had always amused him, yet simultaneously saddened him in the ignorance it reflected. Rausch had a submachine gun, an automatic or selective fire weapon which fired a pistol-sized caliber, a sub-caliber as opposed to the rifle calibers used in machine guns, hence the designation “submachine gun.” Rourke remembered reading in newspapers and magazines, or hearing television newsbroadcasters solemnly proclaim that “machine gun wielding terrorists-“

  Rourke had always marveled at how muscular the subject terrorists or robbers or whatever they were would have had to be, since holding something like an M-60 machine gun and firing it at the same time required considerable physical strength.

  Ignorance worked many miracles otherwise impossible in the real world.

  Rourke punched the M-16 around the doorway again, snapped off a quick burst, drew back, an answering fusillade of submachine gun fire, Rourke firing back, emptying the magazine, a long burst of submachine gun fire and nothing for an instant.

  John Rourke let the emptied M-16 fall to his side on its sling as he threw himself through the doorway into the corridor, both Scoremasters blazing in his fists. The doorway. Rourke dove toward it as the submachinegun fire started again.

  Both Scoremasters were empty. RoUrke tacked back, ramming the empty .45s into his belt, putting a fresh magazine up the well of the M-16, charging the chamber. “Rausch! We’ve got you! If you give it up, youll be given a fair trial!”

  There was laughter.

  As John Rourke started to speak again, h
e felt the floor and walls tremble as a low roar consumed his hearing. A segment of the wall nearest him collapsed and he fell forward, covering his head with his hands and arms. Dust and falling debris were everywhere as he looked up.

  “Rausch!”

  Aldridge’s voice came over Rourke’s walkie-talkie. “He blew out the damn wall! You okay, Doctor?”

  Rourke coughed, spat dust onto the floor, breathed into the walkie-talkie as he bent over it, trying to stand. “Yeah. All right. Get him!”

  Rourke staggered toward the doorway into the corridor, pieces of the ceilings and walls everywhere, the corridor itself partially collapsed.

  As Rourke edged forward, he could see the wall at the bend of the corridor. There was a hole in it large enough to have driven through with the pickup truck he stored at the Retreat. Freidrich Rausch was gone. On the floor, gleaming in the rubble, were dozens of empty brass cartridge cases. Rourke bent over, picking up several of these

  for possible later analysis. Each type of firearm from the period before The Night of The War had a distinctive firing pin indentation, as discernible to the careful observer armed with examples of firing pin indentations as the fingerprint, and just as unique. Rourke had such a work at the Retreat. If time allowed and circumstances dictated the research as beneficial, he could match the indentation on the physical samples he now pocketed to the appropriate firearm type-UZI, Steyr, Heckler and Koch, etc. -and, if he encountered such a weapon again, likely determine whether or not this specimen was the exact gun from which the case was ejected, providing of course that the firing pin hadn’t been changed. Other markings as the case was ejected could be of use as well.

  Visible through the hole were Aldridge and a half dozen men, a mixed force of U.S. Marines and German Commandoes, running into die snowy night.

  Jason Darkwood leaned heavily against the corridor wall, holding his pistol in his right fist, his left arm limp at his side.

  “What happened to you?” Rourke asked, approaching him. “Your left hand?”

  “I figured if adrenaline screwed me up, more of it might burn the medication out of my system completely. Dropped a leg of the bed on my hand, Doctor. But it worked.” The medical rationale was a bit dicey, but the principle seemed to have been sound enough in application, Rourke observed. “My head’s killing me, my neck feels like somebody’s standing on it, but I’m not shaking, my stomach isn’t doing flip-flops and I’m in control again.”

  Rourke nodded, looking out into the snow, men turning his attention to Darkwood’s hand. As gently as he could, Rourke began to examine it. Three fingers were broken, one in two places.

  Aldridge and his men wouldn’t get Rausch.

  As he continued examining Darkwood’s battered hand, John Rourke almost whispered, “God help us, now.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  He made himself speak English. “How is the child who was with me? I must know!”

  The German in the white laboratory coat with the stethoscope hanging at his throat smiled and, in English worse than Vassily Prokopiev’s own, answered, “She is in good health, all things considered. In good health. With care, she will be well. Where did you find this child?”

  “I must talk with Doctor John Rourke.”

  “Where have you heard of the Herr Doctor, young man?”

  “I have a message for Doctor John Rourke.”

  “You have not asked about your own health.”

  “That does not matter.”

  1 will speak to my commanding officer. Perhaps you could tell him the message,” the man smiled.

  Prokopiev shook his head and his head hurt and he felt slightly sick. “I must speak with Doctor John Rourke. It is very important that I speak with Doctor John Rourke. I can speak with no one else. You must contact him.”

  “The Herr Doctor is a very busy man, young fellow.”

  “I am Vassily Prokopiev, Major of Elite Corps, Committee for State Security of the Soviet. I have important documents for Doctor Rourke. Only for Doctor Rourke.”

  “You were searched, young man, and there were no documents found on your person. You have had a serious time of it. Perhaps things will be clearer for you when you have rested. We will talk again, then.”

  Prokopiev tried sitting up as the doctor introduced the hypodermic needle to his arm.

  “Doctor Rourke! I must see Doctor Rourke. It is very important that I give my message to Doctor-“

  Chapter Seventeen

  Michael Rourke, Paul Rubenstein and John Rourke entered Jason Darkwood’s hospital room, Doctor Munchen already there, as were Sam Aldridge and Colonel Wolfgang Mann.

  Sarah Rourke watched her son and her husband intently. Except for the touches of gray in John’s hair and the subde differences in attire and weapons, he and Michael could have been twin brothers rather than father and son. Their personalities were nearly as identical.

  John took instant command of the meeting he had called, out of deference to Darkwood, here at the hospital. “HI come right to the point, Sarah, gentlemen. Freidrich Rausch. I badly underestimated him, not badly enough that Commander Darkwood got killed but badly enough that personnel from both Mid-Wake and your command, Colonel, were killed. This man is very good. And, at least this time, he proved too good for me. He’s on the loose, being helped by Dodd, most certainly, and part of Rausch’s agenda doubtlessly includes finding you, Sarah, and killing you. Thafs a given. You should be safe at the Retreat,” John said, smiling at her …

  It was bitterly cold, and the partially finished walls of the Eden Base permanent structure complex provided little break against the wind and the snow driven on it.

  Freidrich Rausch cupped his hands around a lighter and lit a cigarette. If Damien had a message for him, he knew where he would find it and he set to work. “Hold the light closer, Commander Dodd.”

  Freidrich Rausch took the skinny bladed commando knife and made an incision along his brother s abdomen, then began to lay back layers of skin and muscle, the cigarette still hanging from the right corner of his mouth, his eyes squinted against its smoke.

  “God, I can’t watch this.”

  “Then close your eyes, Dodd.”

  He cut through grayed and frozen tissue, at times sawing. At last he exposed the colon. He cut through it. His fingers stiff and numb in the rubber gloves, bis brother radiating cold, he began searching, cutting, searching until, at last, he found a tiny synthetic capsule.

  With the butt of his knife, he cracked the frozen surface of the water filled dish on top of his brother’s chest, dropping the capsule into the water.

  He spit out the cigarette butt onto the floor. “I knew he would not die without leaving me the means by which to continue our work,” Freidrich Rausch said, a true feeling of pride filling him for his brother’s devotion and foresight…

  “I am at a loss, Doctor Rourke,” Wolfgang Mann interjected. “I would feel more comfortable were I able to post troops surrounding the Retreat to protect the women inside; but, obviously, setting guards in the area would serve to alert any persons looking for Frau Rourke and the other women that they were present.”

  “One of us could stay with them,” Michael said suddenly.

  Sarah Rourke stood up. “We will be fine.” She emphasized each word as she spoke. “Nobody can get inside the Retreat without using explosives or a laser or something, right? So, well be fine. A big pajama party.” She tried using language she felt the men would understand. And, when John looked at her, she knew he understood very well.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lieutenant Horst Hammerschmidt swung up into the saddle, his sergeant, Casmir Schlabrendorff giving the orders for the patrol to mount.

  It was the kind of beautiful mountain morning which made it very difficult to remember there was a war going on and that enemy forces-those of the Soviet-lingered in the mountain passes and high valleys and in the jungles below, harassing New Germany’s efforts to support the continuing
struggles in Europe, Asia and American Georgia.

  Periodically, he would remind his men of their commitment, as he had this morning after breakfast, before the tents were put down. The Long Range Mountain Commando Group’s mission is to ferret out the small units of Elite Corps personnel, thereby safeguarding the Air Corps of New Germany from surface to air missile attack, allowing the German people to prosecute the war against the Soviet Union and to assist their allies. You all know our mission. And I would never say that one of you ever forgets it. This unit has one of the best effectiveness ratings of any unit operating within the Long Range Mountain Commando Group. But still, Soviet surface to air missiles bring down or disable an average of three aircraft every five days. I would never say you do not try hard enough. But we must all try harder.”

  He kept his lectures to a minimum and as short as possible, most of his men little better than grown boys when he’d taken over the unit, used to long, boring parental lectures alternated with long and boring lectures from professors and military instructors. The last thing they needed was another father or teacher.

  His older brother, Otto, had instilled early in him the idea that men-especially the highly trained volunteers who had earned the right to be called “Commandoes”-followed the example set for them by their leader, more so than any words. He had adopted that philosophy of leadership as well, never ordering his men to do something he would not do himself or had not already done. The philosophy worked.

  Some of the older military officers, men the age of Colonel Wolfgang Mann and above, but with less wisdom than the brilliant Mann, had theorized that, with the dissolution of the old order and the introduction of true republican democracy to New Germany, there would be a breakdown in military discipline. The opposite had proven to be the case.