Survivalist - 12 - The Rebellion (14 page)

“We’ll rest here,” Rourke proclaimed.

Sarah walked past him toward the edge of the spit of rock, shining her lantern into the void. Because the mantle surrounding the synth-fuel flame was a lens rather than plain glass, the light was intensified and illuminated enough of the void to see that indeed nothing was there. “It’s beautiful—but it’s creepy,” Sarah announced, her soft alto echoing among the rocks. “And that’s creepy,” she added, the echo once again following her words.

Natalia sat down beside Rourke on a rise in the rocks. She leaned her head against his shoulder for an instant and Rourke smiled at her. It was written all over her face that she knew he and Sarah had made love the previous night— and he was glad she knew it. That morning, she had kissed his cheek and proclaimed, “I’m happy for you both,” and then walked past to saddle her horse. Now, Natalia said, “How much longer, Colonel?”

They spoke in English out of deference to Sarah who

spoke no German—and it had the ancillary benefit of aiding Sergeant Heinz.

“I think, Fraulein Major, that another two hours remain before us. From here, we must travel downward, along a steep path that would be better traveled by goats—I have read of goats. They sounded marvelously interesting.”

Rourke laughed. “I used to eat goat every once in a while.”

Sarah took up the story. “We had this older gentleman who used to stop by the house and sell us hindquarters of goat. I finally got to where I’d barbecue it and we’d eat the goat ribs like regular ribs and the—”

“You ate goat?” Mann interrupted.

Rourke nodded. “Tastes pretty good too—a little gamy.”

“Gamy? I do not know the word.”

Natalia, her English virtually faultless, explained, “That means that there is a certain wild taste to it, not like something that is bred to be eaten. Deer is a good example.”

“Ahh, the hind—yes.”

Rourke thought of a line from Shakespeare that had always particularly amused him. “If a hart doth lack a hind, let him seek out Rosalind.” He looked at Mann’s uncomprehending expression. “I always thought it was an interesting double entendre—don’t mind me.” He grinned.

“Shall we get started again, my friends?”

“Why not.” Rourke nodded, standing, taking up his lantern and his eight-hundred round box of .223.

“It is better I think that I take the lantern and lead the way,” Mann announced.

Rourke handed him the lantern.

“Herr Doctor—perhaps you should be last.”

“My thinking exactly,” Rourke agreed.

And Mann started ahead, back along the outcropping of rock that formed a peninsula in the air space and down, his lantern a beacon which Rourke could follow along the

corridor of darkness through which they descended, Rourke following after Natalia, Sarah behind Sergeant Heinz.

The lantern Natalia carried illuminated the rocky downward path sufficiently that Rourke could see to walk. But, beyond the shaft of diffused yellowed light, Rourke could hear the sounds of tiny rock falls—they would begin but it seemed as though they would never end. On a rational basis, he knew that they had to.

And he could hear quite gradually building the rushing sounds of water, cascading over the rocks in the underground river bed below.

He imagined that in the time prior to the fires which had consumed the sky, the caverns had likely teemed with bats.

But like all other wildlife—whether beautiful or, like the bats, touching a buried nerve in the racial subconscious which inspired revulsion—they would be gone.

They kept walking, the pathway angling more steeply now, once Rourke reaching out grabbing for Natalia as she started to lose her footing, the yellow of the lantern she carried arcing maddeningly through the darkness.

They walked on. It was necessary now at times because of the narrowness of the ledge to move sideways, scraping the back against the rock surface, arms and hands and fingers splayed along it for the added fractional inch of purchase, inching ahead rather than really walking at all.

They travelled for what seemed to Rourke like an hour— but when he checked the face of his Rolex, it was only half that time. And suddenly the ledge widened and gave way to an apron of rock that bit deeper into the rock face. By stooping over it was possible to keep back from the very edge.

After several more minutes, the rock surface widening still, Rourke could see Wolfgang Mann’s lantern swinging back and forth, and Rourke almost knocked Natalia down, bumping into her as Mann brought their file to a halt.

Rourke followed the light then as Mann drew back further still from the edge into what seemed like a shallow cave mouth, the shape, as Rourke took Natalia’s light for a moment and moved it in a gradual arc around them, roughly like a shell.

He watched the light, how it seemed to linger for an instant in the darkness, and then disintegrate.

John Rourke could hear Mann’s voice. “We rest here, hmm?”

“Right,” Rourke agreed, all three of the lanterns set down now, the five people forming a ragged circle around them.

“We shall be soon turning, not so much downward as we have been moving, but along a pathway which is at times horizontal, and at times, from our perspective, diagonally ranging upward. It is very narrow. But there is a further complication once we enter onto this path. I discovered it as a boy but fortunately in such a manner that I myself was not discovered. The rocks—they form a natural whispering gallery here. The effect is at its greatest at the height of the path, and then decreases after several hundred yards to where it will no longer be a concern. But while we travel through the whispering gallery, we must maintain total silence—even our breathing will be slightly audible. If a loud noise were to be made, all could be lost. The gallery at its height forms what appear to be tiny fissures in the mountains into which we are crossing. And near the opening of these fissures, there is a guard post. I placed one there years ago. I realized the tunnels were a potential route for an enemy. But I did not elect to have the tunnels sealed, perhaps envisioning in the future some use such as we indeed make now of the tunnels. So posting a sentry station there was the logical answer. They would hear us clearly if anything were said above the sound of the softest whisper. I gave no contingency plans in that event, but I would assume that they would begin firing through the

vents and downward. It would be possible with the hard rock surface that bullets would ricochet and strike us. The noise of gunfire would most certainly deafen us, and perhaps cause rock slides which would indeed kill us by hurtling us off the path into the abyss.”

“I can see why these caverns never became a tourist attraction.” Rourke smiled.

“Quite so, yes.” Mann laughed. “I suggest that we rest here for a few more minutes before pressing on with our journey. Once we are through the whispering gallery, the path is wide and level and it is less than a mile by your reckoning to the entrance into The Complex.”

Rourke shifted off the slings for the two M-16s, sitting in the darkness. A woman’s hand moved along his thigh and felt for his left hand. He closed his hand over it—but he could not be certain if the hand were that of Natalia or that of his wife.

“Tell me, Herr Rubenstein—this penchant for being hit on the head—how have you dealt with it over the years?”

Paul Rubenstein tried to sit up. Dr. Munchen was smiling. “What the—”

“Lie still, my young friend. Although your surgery seems unaffected and if anything heals marvelously well, you need to rest after this latest hit on the head.”

“He didn’t—didn’t hit me—yeah, he did. That—Blackburn—where—” Paul pushed Munchen’s hand away and sat up. “Where the hell—aww, shit.” He touched at his head where his own pistol had crashed down against it. He remembered it all now. “Annie—where’s Annie?”

“The battle—it goes on. Standartenfuehrer Mann’s troops who were left here with the Eden Project fight to repel the forces under Haupsturmfuehrer Sturm. The idea of fighting their own comrades—it is very difficult. But, I realized that you and Fraulein Rourke were nowhere about.” He smiled—but the smile was somehow a grim smile that conveyed no happiness. “Unfortunately—”

“Unfortunately what?” Rubenstein began, trying to stand, but Munchen placed his hands firmly on Paul’s shoulders, Paul Rubenstein sagging back against the bulkhead.

“One of the Soviet helicopters.—it is missing. After I found you unconscious I theorized that Fraulein Rourke’s

efforts had perhaps flushed to light—” Rubenstein’s editorial training from before The Night of The War once again surfaced and he thought of badly formed metaphors. “What?”

“The fraulein—I believe that she has been kidnapped by the Russian agent who murdered the unfortunate Fraulein Stankiewicz.”

“I—” Paul again started to his feet, Munchen helping him this time, Paul swaying with a sudden dizziness and sagging toward the bulkhead, Munchen supporting him. He thought of the irony of it—that a man in a Nazi uniform should be helping him, a Jew. And he realized in its totality for the first time that John Rourke had been right. These Germans, men who wore the wrong uniform and were trying to change that. Rubenstein looked Munchen squarely in his bright blue eyes. “Doctor—it was Forrest Blackburn. And if he stole a chopper it means he abandoned his idea of killing Dodd and taking over as the leader of the Eden Project.” Rubenstein shook his head and it hurt. He realized he wasn’t talking straight, realized it from the puzzled look in Munchen’s eyes. Paul Rubenstein began again. “Did—did any of you—” He sagged back against the bulkhead, slipping to his knees, Munchen guiding him down.

“Herr Rubenstein, you must rest.”

“No,” Paul whispered. “Don’t you see? Blackburn. He’s the Russian agent. He’s got Annie—gonna kill her— but—” He shook his head to clear it, the pain enlivening him and at once weakening him again. He tried to think. “Okay, follow me if I make sense. He was gonna kill us both—blame some of your people. It was just when the attack began. My pistol—he had my pistol. A 9mm, like some of your officers still carry. Was gonna kill us and blame your people, then kill Dodd and take over—to lead the Eden Project. But, ahh, if he stole a chopper, ahh, then something went wrong. If—maybe—maybe Annie’s

still alive and with him.”

“I am sure that Fraulein Rourke is still alive, Herr Rubenstein. Dr. Hixon and I, we tended to the wounded, dragging some of them nearer to the road surface and away from the heaviest concentrations of fighting. I witnessed as the Soviet helicopter screwed itself into the air. There was no one shooting at it. It circled and traveled toward the north. I came looking for you—and outside the shuttle craft, Jane Harwood, she was shot in the chest. I tended to her wounds and progressed inside—and I found you.”

“Then Jane Harwood must’ve come looking for us when the shooting started—and he gunned her down.”

“But she will live, Herr Rubenstein. A medical technician who accompanied me attends her even now.”

“Is—is she—”

“Yes, conscious—yes. Come—can you stand again if I help you?”

Paul Rubenstein licked his lips, his mouth too dry. He stood though, with Munchen’s help.

He was becoming conscious of gunfire from beyond the confines of the shuttle. He wondered how the battle went. If the attackers won …

He was walking—beside Munchen, leaning heavily on the German doctor for support. “How’s it—”

“The battle goes—but it does not cease, I think, Herr Rubenstein. Haupsturmfuehrer Sturm is a loyal Nazi. What he lacks in manpower and weapons he makes up in anger, I think. A battle rages at the standartenfuehrer’s camp—and the battle rages here. I think that Haupsturmfuehrer Sturm must lose. But there are casualties among the Eden personnel and among those loyal to Standartenfuehrer Mann.”

They started down, to the ground level—in the sunlight, the cold shocking Rubenstein into heightened consciousness, Paul Rubenstein saw something gleaming in the dirt.

“That—get it—I’m all right,” and Rubenstein leaned

against the bulkhead opening. Munchen looked once at him, then nodded, dashing down to the ground level. Paul Rubenstein watched as the German doctor picked up the object.

“A pistol of some sort, Herr Rubenstein.”

“Annie’s—Annie’s derringer.” He started down the steps—almost falling, Munchen catching at him.

He was down the steps, staring at Jane Harwood on the ground, a female medical technician applying a bandage of some sort to her left shoulder just above the Eden Three captain’s breast. Rubenstein dropped to his knees, calling to Jane Harwood as he balanced his upper body against his thighs with his hands for support—he was growing faint. But he would not allow himself to pass out. “Captain Harwood, did you see Annie Rourke—please.”

Rubenstein took the American derringer from Doctor Munchen. He worked the lever over the spur trigger to break the action, rotating the barrels upward. Both rounds in place, neither of the primer’s struck. “Shit.” He closed the pistol, lowering the hammer to the safety notch, pocketing it. “Captain Harwood—answer me, please dear God answer me.”

“Annie—Forrest Bla-Blackburn—she—”

“Was she alive?”

“Yes,” and Jane Harwood’s head sank back onto an inflatable pillow.

The medical technician turned around. She had a pretty face with pale skin and dark brown hair and green eyes. “She has passed out, Herr Doctor.”

But Munchen was already on his knees beside the injured Eden Three captain. “Herr Rubenstein,” Munchen began, not looking at Paul. “She will not be able to continue your conversation for some time I think. She shall need quite a bit of attention and—”

“What the hell’s going on?” Rubenstein looked up from the ground. Dodd.

“Captain—Forrest Blackburn—stole a chopper—took Annie. He’s the Communist agent. We gotta go after him,” Paul murmured, barely able to hold up his head.

“We gotta do a lot of things, Mr. Rubenstein. Like win this battle for openers. What the—”

Dodd dropped to his knees beside Jane Harwood, setting down his M-16.

The gunfire seemed more sporadic now. “I heard that Jane Harwood had been shot. Is she—”