Survivalist - 12 - The Rebellion (23 page)

Natalia nodded only, her eyes adjusting to the gray light—it must be sunset, she thought absently.

Annie.

For some reason, Natalia thought back to her youth. She had been on her first assignment with Vladmir, in Latin America. They had been working through Communist sympathizers who were heavily involved in the cocaine trade. She had asked Vladmir about the morality of this— serving the people of the world by dealing with such men. He had shrugged it off as necessity. But she had made a mistake—and she had fallen into the hands of the cocaine dealers and one of them had made no secret of his intention of raping her. Then he would kill her and explain that her body had been discovered, that she had been murdered by the secret police of the established government.

Natalia remembered the feel of his breath on her face. He had told her that if she were good to him, he would see to it that she died well. If not—if she resisted—she would die very hard.

She had done the only thing logic and training had dictated. She had made him feel good, aroused him and just prior to penetration, she had murdered him with his own knife. Then, her clothes torn from her body, nearly naked, she had taken up his assault rifle and fought it out with his three henchmen, killing them all and escaping in a stolen truck.

For the life of her now, Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna could not imagine why, after so many years, she had thought of this while walking through a cave.

And for some reason again, she thought of Annie.

She could hear John Rourke, his voice little over a whisper, “After we reach this other cave, then Wolf, Natalia—the three of us—we’ll go to to free Deiter Bern. It’s now or never.”

There was wisdom in his words. The Nazis would never expect them to attack so soon after the raid on the new government building.

But her thoughts—they drifted again to Annie Rourke and, suddenly, Natalia was unreasonably cold.

The detention area was one side of a gothic-looking structure of twin towers located at the exact center of The Complex, the first official building erected there five centuries ago.

John Rourke sat, reloading the magazines for his pistols, at the mouth of the cave hidden at the fringe of the jungle, Wolfgang Mann sitting opposite him. Both men had changed to SS dark gray BDUs Mann had ordered brought there to the cave along with other supplies. Rourke was convinced of one thing—Mann was terribly thorough. While Natalia changed at the rear portion of the cave, after reminding the boys to keep their voices down, lest they be heard, Rourke and Mann discussed their predicament. Mann sketched out once again the structure of the detention area, with a stick in the dirt between their feet.

“So the only entrance to the building is through the courtyard at the center, one gate at the front and one gate at the back.”

“That is correct, Herr Doctor. And entering from the front as we must because the rear gates are not used, it is then somehow necessary to enter the building at the left side of the courtyard. When you first view the twin towers, do not be mistaken by their antique appearance. The exteriors are quite medieval, but the interiors are thoroughly modern. The walls on both the outside and the

interior are cylindrical. In the tower at the very top is the detention area for political prisoners such as Deiter Bern. He is the only one there now unless new arrests have been made since I departed with the expeditionary force. It is fourteen floors above the level of the ground. But I like your idea for escaping once Deiter Bern is freed.”

“It’s the only way.” Rourke nodded. “This vehicle— freshly stolen?”

“Yes, it will not be recognized as stolen from the internal security forces.”

“But the guards will recognize your face, know that Natalia and I aren’t in the SS.”

“By then the gate will be opened.” Mann smiled. “And we have weapons. Remember, Herr Doctor, it is not important that I survive. What is important is that you reach the fourteenth level of the tower and free Dieter Bern, you and Major Tiemerovna, and then get him from the tower to the communications center which is across the street. On the ground floor, there are guards. There is the high staircase which leads to the upper level. There, the communications facility is actually located—television and radio. The engineering controls are there as well. Major Tiemerovna, you are certain, can operate these controls if necessary?”

“She’s very good at electronics. Don’t worry. It’s getting there that’s hard, and fast enough that they don’t cut the power on us. Where should the leader be?”

“After one has entered the courtyard, the building on the right is his headquarters. It is also where he lives. It is very secure, the twin towers.”

Rourke started to speak—but he turned, Natalia approaching. Her hair was caught up under the peaked BDU cap, her uniform identical to theirs except that it buttoned to the left, as women’s clothing normally did. At her waist was a bolstered German machine pistol. Slung from her right shoulder, the uniform purse—he knew why it appeared so heavy.

John Rourke stood. “Ready?” “Yes.” And Natalia laughed.

The vehicle was electrically powered, little larger than the golf carts of five centuries earlier and Wolfgang Mann was at the wheel, Rourke sitting beside him, Natalia in the seat behind, the warmth of the air in the open top vehicle a good sensation.

The vehicle slowed, The Complex main entrance guard quadrupled since Rourke had passed it on the way to the new government building to free Helene Sturm.

Two guards approached the vehicle on Wolfgang Mann’s side. Rourke’s hands were between his legs—he sat on one of the twin Detonics .45s and his hands were within inches of it.

The closer of the two guards, his voice loud, filled with authority, proclaimed, “Papers!”

Wolfgang Mann handed over a folded set of documents, and as the man who had spoken a second earlier took them, Rourke could hear the man’s hushed whisper, “All is in readiness, Herr Standartenfuehrer—the signal has been received.”

“Very good, Hartman,” Mann whispered.

And then the voice of the guard was raised once again. “These papers are in order—allow this vehicle to pass,” and the papers were returned. Mann eased the controls and the electric vehicle glided ahead.

Mann, not turning his head, said over the wind around them, “We are fortunate my men were able to insert themselves as planned. Hartman—he is my most trusted captain—he transferred to my unit from SS security two years ago. When I gave the radio signal for the attack to begin, he carried out the first phase personally as instructed. We are fortunate he was successful in taking over the guard barracks located by the main entrance. Other

wise …” Mann let it hang.

John Rourke moved the little Detonics from beneath him. A fine gun to shoot but uncomfortable to sit on. He didn’t like being dependent on good fortune—because it had never been anything on which to depend …

Mann’s troops had not moved beyond taking the main entrance. It was the plan that they hold the front entrance under the guise of the SS security team and go no further lest word reach the leader and Deiter Bern’s immediate execution be ordered.

It was a good plan as plans went for insanely dangerous activities, Rourke mused as again the vehicle slowed. Once again, the Detonics mini gun was beneath his rear end. He glanced down between his feet. The gray canvaslike bag contained his musette bag, the second Detonics Combat Master, the two Scoremasters, the Python, the Gerber (the A.G. Russell Sting IA Black Chrome was beneath his uniform) and, more important than the weapons, his medical gear. Clamps for the artery. The scalpel for the incision. The small forceps for removal of the capsule which contained the electrode and the explosive charge which would release the curarelike synthetic into Bern’s bloodstream.

And he knew the contents of Natalia’s bag—her revolvers, spare magazines for the machine pistol, and more important than her weapons, the lock pick set which she would use to remove the shackle from Bern’s neck after the operation was completed.

On the seat between Rourke and Wolfgang Mann was another gray canvaslike bag identical to Rourke’s, and Rourke knew the contents there as well, like the medical equipment and the uniforms, brought to the cave by military personnel loyal to Wolfgang Mann. The special gear needed to cross the booby-trapped room, special gear

Rourke had requested of Mann after agreeing to go with him to Argentina and attempt the rescue of Deiter Bern.

The vehicle stopped, the gates to the twin towers and the courtyard closed. They should not have been. “We have trouble,” Mann murmured.

It was a trouble Rourke was well familiar with.

“We cannot crash through the gates with such a vehicle. And I will be recognized as soon as the guards approach.”

“Follow my lead,” John Rourke almost whispered.

His hands moved closer to his crotch, so he could reach for the small Detonics pistol he sat on. He cleared his throat three times in rapid succession. It was a signal to Natalia.

She cleared her throat twice in response. The guards approached.

The nearest of the guards—a lieutenant in the SS— started to speak. And then his jaw dropped. He started to run. John Rourke stood to his full height in the vehicle, firing the little Detonics .45 across the windshield top and into the face of the SS lieutenant. He kept firing, a single shot for each of the men in the guard detachment, Natalia’s machine pistol opening up from behind him, cutting down more of the SS security personnel, three-round bursts, a burst per man.

Rourke jumped to the ground from the front seat, shouting to Wolfgang Mann as Rourke jammed the little Detonics into his beltline and grabbed up his case, shouldering it. “Better be right that fence isn’t electrified!”

Rourke started to run, the distance to the gates some ten yards still, the German machine pistol in the holster at his belt coming into his hands, no time to fold down the forward support. As both fists tightened on the pistol grip, Rourke stabbed the pistol toward the nearest of the enemy and fired, a three-round burst nearly severing the man’s head from the neck. The SS man fell back.

Rourke was at the gates, turning, more guards streaming

from the guard station just outside the gates. Natalia had mentioned it to him earlier—in passing—that she didn’t like burst control. Neither did John Rourke as he fired the machine pistol, wasting three rounds on one man when a four-round burst would have taken out two. He fired a third burst, conscious that only three more bursts remained.

Natalia was running now, firing her pistol, Mann beside her, one of the machine pistols in his hands as well.

Rourke stabbed the weapon into the holster at his hip, took three steps back from the ornamental wrought iron gates and ran, jumping, grasping for the pointed spikes at the top of the fence.

Both gloved fists closed over them. Rourke’s right leg found a purchase, his right foot bracing between two of the verticals as he pulled himself up, then rolled over, dropping to the flagstones on the far side in a crouch, his legs taking the spring, the machine pistol back in his hands.

Guards from the entrance to the tower on the left—then-destination.

Rourke fired the machine pistol, cutting down one, then another, then a third guard—the pistol was empty now.

Rourke buttoned out the magazine and rammed a fresh one up the well, working the slide release, the slide trailing forward as Rourke touched the trigger—the pistol would not fire until in battery. Another burst—another guard dead.

Natalia was coming over the fence, jumping like a cat to the ground beside him, the machine pistol firing in her hands while she was in midair.

She rolled across her back, coming to her knees, firing again.

Mann—was clambering over the fence—his right sleeve was stuck. “Go,” he shouted.

Rourke rasped, “Bullshit,” firing out the remaining bursts in his machine pistol toward the onslaught of

guards.

Natalia was running for the entrance to the left tower, a machine pistol in each hand—she wasn’t strong enough to fire them accurately that way, Rourke realized. She was spraying both weapons toward the oncoming guards.

Rourke reloaded.

Mann jumped, clear of the fence, hitting the flagstone hard, Rourke glancing back to him once. But Mann was already up, running, limping badly on his left foot. “Broken or sprained, I think!”

“Wonderful—wunderbarl” Rourke shouted, running too now, turning, backing around, firing the machine pistol behind them toward the gates as guards from the outside frantically worked to open them, Mann limping past him.

Rourke emptied the weapon, downing six more men.

He turned and ran—gunfire hammered into the flagstones beneath his feet, impacting the exterior walls of the tower.

He threw himself through the doorway, Natalia in a crouch there, one of the machine pistols on the floor beside her, the second firing toward the guards at the far end of the cylindrical first floor.

Rourke picked up her weapon, reloaded it with one of his magazines, then reloaded his own.

Mann began firing. Rourke opened fire, Natalia’s machine pistol empty—throwing it down, she picked up the second machine pistol.

Rourke rammed a fresh magazine up the butt of his weapon, charging forward, Natalia running beside him, Mann limping after them as Rourke glanced back.

Three guards remained blocking the elevator banks— three guards went down.

At the elevator banks, they stopped. “Gonna have to be,” Rourke proclaimed, glancing toward Mann’s injured foot.

“Agreed!” Natalia pushed the call button and the eleva

tor door to their left opened, Rourke reloading as Mann limped past. Natalia snapped, “Cover you.”

Rourke dodged inside, his left hand working the buckle to loosen the uniform gunbelt and let it drop to the elevator floor, his right hand, still holding the machine pistol, punching the floor button. As the doors slapped shut, Natalia slipped through between them, the elevator beginning to rise.

“If they should cut the power, Herr Doctor …”