Survivalist - 18 - The Struggle Page 9

  The Sergeant froze. Aldridge snapped the butt of his AKM-96 across the jaw of the Russian and the Russian fell back. “Now!” Aldridge shouted. Darkwood jumped through the foliage, not nearly as gracefully^he realized, his body impacting the body of one of the Marine Spetznas as the man turned toward him, Darkwood sprawling across him as they fell across the trail, the Russian behind Darkwood’s man tripping, falling over them as Darkwood rolled away, hammering a right cross into his target’s jaw.

  Lance Corporal Lannigan was locked in combat with the man who had tripped over Darkwood and the Russian. As Darkwood reached for his man, he saw something he realized he’d never forget for the rest of his life—however long or short that might be. The Marine Spetznas Sergeant hadn’t fallen down, simply stood there, Sam Aldridge in freeze frame with his body poised for a forward butt stroke. The Marine Spetznas Sergeant threw down his rifle and drew his Marine Spetznas-issue fighting knife, in Russian saying something Darkwood translated as roughly equivalent to “Eat Shit, American black bastard cocksucker!”

  Darkwood couldn’t take his eyes from Sam Aldridge and the Russian. Aldridge threw down his rifle, drew his knife. Sam Aldridge was descended from one of the first Marines at Mid-Wake, the man a Marine officer and deep diving specialist. Sam Aldridge’s knife was a copy of that five-centuries-old Ka-Bar U.S.M.C. fighting knife Aldridge’s ancestor had brought to Mid-Wake as a personal weapon when the colony had begun, identical to the one taken from Aldridge when he was captured by the Soviets. The knife was fabulously expensive, Parkerizing (phosphate coating) almost a lost art, the leather for the washered handle rare. Aldridge snarled—in Russian—“Your mother, man!”

  Darkwood saw his man moving at the far right edge of his peripheral vision and he rolled away, the Marine Spetznas throwing himself at Darkwood, his issue knife in his fist. For the first time, Darkwood realized he’d lost hold of his rifle. He was Navy, not a Marine. In the Marines they taught you to hold on to your rifle like a lonely man might hold on to his organ on a long night. In the Navy, a rifle was something you learned to shoot, then said, “That’s nice” about and forgot.

  The Marine Spetznas lunged. Darkwood came to his feet, a handful of trail gravel, rotted leaves, and snow in his left fist. He hurtled the mixture toward his opponent’s face. As the man recoiled, Darkwood’s hand moved his knife from its sheath. Many of the custom knives made at Mid-Wake and all of the production knives from Mid-Wake’s one knife factory were like Sam Aldridge’s knife, copies of knives from the past. Darkwood’s knife was at once totally different, yet no exception. When Nathaniel Darkwood had come to Mid-Wake, he’d brought with him the experiences from a lifetime of adventure, and this lifetime’s trophies. Nathaniel Darkwood’s weapons collection and other collections resided in the New Smithsonian. Jason Darkwood, heir to the Darkwood “estate,” still owned that collection, borrowed the knife which Darkwood had truly used from among the dozens which Darkwood had possessed, had that knife copied by Mid-Wake’s finest custom knifesmith. As the Marine Spetznas lunged, Jason Darkwood stepped

  back, pivoted, caught the man’s knife against his.

  The Marine Spetznas fell back.

  Jason Darkwood’s eyes focused on the Russian’s eyes. The Russian’s eyes flickered and Darkwood lunged, the blade in Jason Darkwood’s hand an identical duplicate of his ancestor’s Randall Smithsonian Bowie. The tip of Darkwood’s blade crossed the inside right forearm of the Marine Spetznas and the knife fell from the Russian’s suddenly limpened fingers, a scream of pain issuing from his mouth, wide open in shock. Darkwood stepped inside the Russian’s suddenly vanished guard, with the butt of his knife impacting the base of the Russian’s jaw. Darkwood’s left knee smashed upward. As the Russian’s head snapped back, the Russian’s body jackknifed forward. With a chop from the Bowie’s primary edge or even the blunt impact from the butt of his knife across the back of the Marine Spetznas’ neck, the man would have died. Instead, Jason Darkwood let him fall.

  Mechanically, Darkwood looked around him, the other Marine Spetznas personnel subdued, all except for the Sergeant who fought Sam Aldridge. And Darkwood’s eyes riveted to them. They moved in a classic knife fighter’s circle, testing each other’s reaction times with feigned lunges, withdrawals. The Soviet Sergeant held his blade easily, as though he weren’t really holding it at all, as though it were simply part of his hand.

  Darkwood wiped his own blade clean across the back of his enemy’s uniform, sheathed it quickly as he reached for his AKM-96. Darkwood rose to his full height as he brought the AKM-96 up, holding the rifle by the barrel near the front sight. Darkwood swung, the butt of the assault rifle impacting the Soviet Sergeant across the shoulder blades in midswing, Darkwood following through, a groan of pain from the

  I Soviet Sergeant as his body crumpled, then spilled forward into the virgin snow by the side of the trail. As the man rolled onto his back, his face contorted into a mask of pain, Darkwood had the rifle inverted, the muzzle almost touching the tip of the man’s nose. In Russian, Darkwood told him, “You guessed correctly, Comrade. There is no wish to make noise with a gun. In your case, there can be an exception. Try me.”

  The Marine Spetznas Sergeant raised his hands, his knife falling from his fingers into the snow.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Damien Rausch’s right first finger touched the rear trigger of the Steyr-Mannlicher SSG. The 7.62mm sniper rifle was one of only two in the strategic supply cache, the location of which he and his men had discovered through the cooperation of Commander Christopher Dodd. The M-16 rifles, although, like the sniper rifle, five centuries old, had decidedly greater potential for his overall purpose. But sniper rifles could be useful. Now, for example, he thought. His finger snapped off the rear trigger, then eased forward along the edge of the guard, just beside the front trigger, now set to go with the very slightest pressure.

  The German vision intensification scope, conveniently enough mounted to the Austrian-origin rifle with only a slight machining modification to the rails on the receiver, showed Dodd’s yellow nemesis clearly enough—this Akiro Kurinami. Kurinami was only a Lieutenant, a very young man, yet Dodd perceived Kurinami as his arch rival for control of the Eden Project. Once there was an appropriate lull in the battle between the Soviets and their growing list of allied enemies, Dodd was convinced free elections for the leadership of Eden Base would be demanded. And

  Kurinami, as Dodd told it, would run against him, would win. But, if Kurinami were out of the picture, there would be no clear rival to Dodd’s leadership. If elections did come, Dodd envisioned himself the easy victor in the absence of the Japanese Naval Lieutenant.

  Kurinami moved along a steeply rising road, toward the face of a mountain. Was this actually the entrance to the survival retreat of the infamous Doctor John Rourke?

  Rausch wondered.

  And what things of interest might this place contain?

  All things might be of value in the struggle to restore to power in New Germany those who followed the philosophy of The Leader, specifically himself. If he shot Kurinami, who according to Dodd knew the secret entrance to Rourke’s mountain retreat, the secret would die with Kurinami.

  Rausch wondered.

  He released the SSG’s five-round magazine, only four rounds remaining in the rotary feeding box. He worked the bolt, ejecting the chambered round, catching it in midflight.

  He closed the bolt and snapped off the front trigger with the chamber empty.

  Damien Rausch rolled onto his back in the snow. Beside him, one of his men began, “But, Herr Rausch—”

  Rausch only smiled as he remagazined the loose round. “Watch him.” He put the magazine back in place, then gave it a firm slap …

  Akiro Kurinami’s bones ached him, as did every muscle that wasn’t numbed from the cold. He kept walking, Elaine’s face in his thoughts, her face and the knowledge that the Retreat’s main entrance was just a

  little farther away all that kept him going,
had kept him going as he walked on and on. The snow fell more heavily and there was little Soviet helicopter traffic, especially since nightfall. If somehow he were attacked, he wouldn’t be able to activate the controls of the pistol at his side.

  He kept walking, not thinking about moving his feet, not thinking about anything except the woman he loved and the warmth and food of the Retreat. But first the radio, of course, to contact the German command outside Eden Base, warn them that an unprecedented number of Soviet gunships was gathering for an all-out attack on Eden Base and their own airfield.

  Perhaps Colonel Mann could be contacted, divert some of the forces of New Germany in time to do something.

  That was the only hope.

  He ran the procedure through his mind for opening the entrance to the Retreat, almost fearful to do so because, he realized, if he made the picture too real in his mind perhaps his mind would withdraw to that and he would he down in the snow and die while fantasizing he was opening the entrance door.

  But he would have little time to open the door when he finally reached the Retreat, little time because all of his will and momentum would be drained.

  The rock. He would have to move the rock. Two rocks. Like some ancient Egyptian tomb or something. The large boulder that could be pushed away easily enough by a strong man. Then the squared-off rock. Pushing against that was considerably more difficult. There would be a rumbling that seemed to come from deep within the mountain itself, and the granite on which he stood would begin to lower, and as it did, a slab of rock within the side of the mountain would move away, inward.

  And then rest.

  Akiro Kurinami kept walking…

  Damien Rausch and three of his men moved along the trail on foot, keeping just far enough behind Kurinami that if the Japanese naval aviator were to begin to turn around, they could duck out of sight.

  “The injection kit is ready?”

  “Yes, Herr Rausch,” the man beside him panted, breathless-sounding from the exertion.

  “He is not to be killed.”

  “Yes, Herr Rausch.”

  Damien Rausch felt a thrill he rarely experienced. As a youth, he had studied archaeology with a passion, that passion only secondary to his passion for the Fatherland, his devotion to The Leader.

  Five centuries ago, a man who still lived, the man chiefly responsible for the deposing of The Leader with the aid of the traitorous Wolfgang Mann and his officers, had built this place to weather the inevitable coming storm. And, inside it, he and his family and a Jew and a Communist had survived, slept much like the Eden Project personnel had slept in their criogenic chambers aboard the space shuttles.

  What mysteries did this place hold? Greater things than he could obtain from the Eden Project stores, greater wisdom than he could avail himself of from the Eden Project computers. Here was not an outline of the past; here was the past, perfectly preserved just as it had been when it was placed here.

  Once Kurinami stopped and began to open the secret entrance, they would strike. And the thoughts of what lay beyond that entrance tantalized him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Paul Rubenstein sat at the controls of the German helicopter gunship. Snow fell heavily. At the south center of the island of Iwo Jima, there was smoke, a lot of it, rising skyward in a heavy column, so heavy that the column reached considerable height before fully dissipating on the strong crosswinds. They finished the circle of the island, John Rourke aware of the fact that his friend was having trouble keeping the machine under control, ready to seize control if needed, but letting Paul get the experience. They flew only close enough that Rourke could get some perception of detail through the powerful German binoculars, but hopefully not close enough to draw attention to themselves from the ground.

  “What the heck’s goin’ on? Why the smoke?” Paul Rubenstein ruminated.

  John Rourke couldn’t resist it. “Well, where there’s smoke, as they say. No. Good question, Paul. If it were only that Island Class Soviet submarine, I’d say they were stopping for some more or less mundane purpose. But the smoke in the middle of the island makes it look like something else. I’ll take the controls—we’re going in. I’m banking on their sensing equipment all being sea-oriented. If that is the case, the higher altitude we come in at, the less chance we’ll be spotted. Then we

  drop altitude over the center of the island.”

  “You’ve got the stick,” Paul told him, Rourke taking control. “I’ll get our gear ready.”

  John Rourke only nodded. Time could not be wasted, but if the Island Classer were in combat, their only possible opponents would be from Mid-Wake. And that meant a chance to contact Mid-Wake, more rapidly, more surely. If not— And his eyes squinted toward the hulking black shape of the submarine.

  Rourke started the German gunship climbing. He could run with silenced rotors once they were over the island in the event the Island Classer had put a party ashore. If the Island Classer hadn’t, what was the origin of the smoke? He glanced aft. Paul Rubenstein was checking the M-16s.

  The actual insertion of the needle was done by Lance Corporal Lannigan, Aldridge ordering him to. Jason Darkwood was relieved that no one had expected him to do it. Few things made him feel squeamish, but watching a hypodermic injection was unfortunately one of them. Since the Marine Spetznas Sergeant was the ranking man, he was the logical place to start. As with many truth drugs, it was necessary to supplement the dosage of the drug as the interrogation progressed, all of this rather subjective. Lannigan was the logical man for the detail since he was studying pharmacology and planned to pursue a career in pharmacy after his stint in the Corps. The drug used for special operations such as this where an enemy was interrogated in the field was identical to the most popular of the Soviet truth serums, Mid-Wake official reasoning here quite sound, Darkwood had always thought. It was possible that any truth serum Mid-Wake medical scientists might independently devise could be compromised. Then it would be a simple matter for Soviet

  personnel habitually given access to sensitive information to be conditioned against the effects of such a drug. But the Russians would never condition their own people against their own truth drug. Such just didn’t happen in a police state. And, so far, the Soviets hadn’t gotten wise to the fact that the Americans at Mid-Wake were using that drug’s identical duplicate.

  Lannigan removed the needle from the intravenous receptacle he had installed. But Jason Darkwood turned around too soon, seeing it, and his stomach started to go. Darkwood looked skyward to take his eyes away from the scene. And he caught a glimpse of a dark shape against the gray clouds just passing out of sight over the trees. “Either the Russians have secretly been growing gigantic birds, or this is the last refuge of the prehistoric pterodactyl or one of those helicopter things just passed over our heads.”

  “Right,” Sam Aldridge laughed. “We would have heard it. Remember those ones before? We heard those. Naw— And anyway, only the surface-based Russians—aww shit.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Darkwood nodded to his friend.

  “The Spetznas Sergeant should be ready to talk in—” The young Marine consulted his watch. “Just about another ten or fifteen seconds, sir,” Lannigan said.

  Darkwood looked back. Maybe the Marine Spetznas Sergeant would have some exceedingly interesting things to say…

  There was a ridge leading from the island highlands and, near to the height of the ridge, the gray smoke still rose. The search for a suitable landing area had taken considerably longer than Rourke had wanted, but the wind was increasing, making precise maneuvering more difficult and visibility was dropping, the storm

  intensifying. At last an opening in the snow-splotched tree canopy presented itself and Rourke brought the gunship in, less than a mile from the mysterious smoke, landing in a shoaled area through which a wide, shallow stream ran. Not the best landing site, but adequate. Snow stuck to the ground in many areas and the broad bright-green-leafed tropical foliage weighed heav
ily downward under its weight, the high winds above the forest canopy fell as occasional strong gusts on the ground.

  “You stick with the machine,” John Rourke told Paul Rubenstein, Rourke beginning to slip into his coat beside the opened fuselage door.

  “Wait a minute,” the younger man said. “Fine. You taught me how to keep the helicopter on course in level flight. I don’t know how to get one of these off the ground with any degree of reliability, let alone land it. Remember the last time I took a helicopter up?”;

  Paul had done a ridiculously brave thing, taking a gunship airborne to provide cover against Soviet helicopters as they attacked the returning Eden Project shuttles. And, as a result, Paul nearly died. John Rourke felt a smile cross his lips, despite almost losing his best friend. Sometimes Rourke thought his muscles still ached from getting Paul out of the burning helicopter. “You suggest, then?”

  “Either we both go and set the remote defenses to keep tabs on the chopper or just I go by myself.”

  Rourke considered Paul’s words for a moment. Then, almost thinking out loud, said, “Yes, but if we set the remote defenses, and someone actually does arrive to tamper with the chopper, the wrong kind of tampering could cause the machine to explode and we could be stranded here with no way to continue the search for Annie and Natalia and Otto. Logic dictates you go alone.” Rourke shrugged out of his parka, helping Paul Rubenstein to start gearing up.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna moved restlessly in her drug-induced sleep. Annie Rourke Rubenstein watched her. There was nothing else to do, all the medical supplies that might be needed if there were enemy action about the Mid-Wake submarine checked, ready, the Reagan “steaming” toward Mid-Wake. She considered that. “Steaming” was probably still correct, because presumably the nuclear power was used to generate steam, the steam then turning the screws which propelled the vessel along beneath the waves-She felt better in the borrowed skirt and shirt, Doctor Margaret Barrow close enough to her in body configuration that the fit was good. But skirts were so short here, the uniform skirt ending just below the knee.