Survivalist - 15.5 - Mid-Wake (55 page)

“They wouldn’t start the bombardment for another five minutes at least,” the blonde-haired Marine lieutenant said.

“What bombardment?” Annie snapped.

“They’re timing a Naval bombardment of Marshal Karamatsov’s base camp with Doctor Rourke’s and Major Tiemerovna’s attempt to capture the marshal—”

“Doctor Rourke? My father!” Annie hugged Paul tight.

Michael said it. “Dad and Natalia too—they’re alive, well, and they’re going after Karamatsov on an island in the Formosa Strait called Quemoy.”

The Nixon-Kennedy debates, Paul Rubenstein thought. “But they’re alive. They’re really alive? Where the hell did these Marines come from?” And he looked at the woman officer.

“Mid-Wake, sir. And there are lots more of us where we came from.”

“Don’t ask,” Michael told them.

“Wait—those sounds—” It was Hammerschmidt.

“Those are German!” And Hammerschmidt was crawling out from under the truck, Paul letting go of Annie and going out after him.

In the northwestern sky, like a swarm of insects, black.

Paul Rubenstein started laughing. Annie was beside him now and he heard her shouting. “Han got through. He got through and got us help! Ha-ha!”

Paul Rubenstein realized that the reason he was laughing was because he had just been rescued all in one day by the United States Marines and the German Air Cavalry. And he hugged his wife tight against him, the Soviet gunships veering back toward the sea.

According to the black-faced Rolex on his left wrist, the Naval bombardment of Karamatsov’s base camp would begin in precisely two minutes. John Rourke wound the nylon cord back around his wrists, looking at Natalia. She smiled, but her almost surreal blue eyes showed the fear that he already knew was there.

The Island Classer’s launch rolled over a breaker on its cushion of air and settled into the sand.

They had agreed not to speak out of character lest Karamatsov had them monitored from the high ground where the helicopters were landed by some type of parabolic microphone, or even something as simple as a lip-reader.

Darkwood elbowed Rourke as he stood, saying in Russian, “Do not make any heroic attempts, Doctor Rourke.”

Rourke almost smiled. Darkwood was enjoying his playacting.

Rourke stood and Natalia stood beside him, Darkwood and Stanhope climbing down out of the launch, some of their disguised Marines assisting them and keeping the launch steady, then Serovski, who also looked as though he was playing it to the hilt, climbing down as well.

As John Rourke stepped from the launch, Natalia beside him, her hands, like his, “bound” in front of her,

he looked up into the black rocks. And if blood could turn cold, he felt his do it.

Vladmir Karamatsov was walking down out of the rocks, surrounded by a dozen men in the black uniforms of the KGB Elite Corps, assault rifles slung at patrol positions beneath their right arms.

Karamatsov’s hair had grayed slightly but was still full. His posture was erect, his jaw firm, his eyes dark pinpoints of light as he drew closer. He wore black BDU pants and black jackboots and a gray long-sleeved shirt, a sleeveless padded vest over it, the vest black, part of the harness of his shoulder holster showing from beneath the vest’s armholes.

Darkwood and Stanhope flanked John Rourke and Natalia Tiemerovna, Serovski just ahead of them, the rest of the Marines—three of them—behind them.

Rourke didn’t like it that Karamatsov had brought so many men down with him. It might make Serovski confident enough to try something stupid.

The sun was very bright and John Rourke squinted against it.

Karamatsov, still a hundred yards away, stopped and shouted across the sand over the roar of the surf. “He was not dead, Serovski?”

Rourke looked at Serovski’s back, Darkwood and Stanhope moving up a little to flank the Elite Corps officer. “Comrade marshal. A submarine of the American attack class was intercepted and Doctor Rourke was aboard it, restored to his full health. It required considerable negotiation, but I was able to convince our Comrades that Doctor Rourke should be brought to you as well.”

“Good work, Serovski. My wife and her lover.” And Karamatsov took a few paces further forward. “So, Doctor Rourke—after all this time. We at last meet on my own terms.”

“Fuck you,” John Rourke said in English, because it was in character for him to say it as the sacrificial victim

and just because it felt good to say.

“I bad not realized your tastes bad so changed, doctor.” Karamatsov laughed, enjoying his own humor, it seemed.

Serovski walked forward, John Rourke and Natalia behind him slightly and Darkwood and Stanhope flanking him, the three U.S. Marines in Soviet drag still behind them.

“Where is the rest of the detail, Servoski?”

Serovski had a rehearsed answer again and Rourke waited until the Elite Corps officer started to give it. “Comrade marshal—there were only so many who could fit into the launch.”

Karamatsov stopped, his vest wide open, thumbs hooked into his belt. John Rourke could see Natalia’s pistols stuffed in the waistband of the BDU pants beneath the belt. “Surely, one or two of our men could have accompanied you.”

John Rourke licked his lips.

Vladmir Karamatsov took a half step back and moved his hands from his pockets.

Serovski shouted, “My Hero Marshal—it is a trap!”

John Rourke released the cord that he held about his wrists and with his left hand drew the Crain Life Support System X knife and rammed it forward, his right hand going for one of the twin stainless Detonics .45s beneath the borrowed winter coat, the point of the knife gouging into Servoski’s back as the Russian started to move, severing the spinal column, the body flopping to the sand at John Rourke’s feet, his hand letting go of the knife as his right fist stabbed forward with the little Detonics and he fired.

But Vladmir Karamatsov was already moving, dodging left, Rourke’s bullet striking one of the KGB Elite Corpsmen who had been surrounding him, Natalia’s pistols in Karamatsov’s fists now, spitting fire, John Rourke stepping forward, Natalia about to fire and also

to be hit, he knew, the left side of Rourke’s body shouldering Natalia away. Darkwood fired and so did Stanhope, two more of the Elite Corpsmen down. John Rourke felt a tongue of fire kiss across his left bicep and he dropped to his knees and fired again, a double tap, chunks of rock near where Karamatsov’s head had been exploding.

And Karamatsov was running up into the rocks.

John Rourke had the second little Detonics out now and fired, Karamatsov’s left leg buckling under him, Karamatsov falling, lurching forward and out of sight into the rocks. Sand spurted up into Rourke’s face. Natalia was firing now. Rourke’s right sleeve wiped across his eyes and he blinked. He was up, running, Darkwood and Stanhope at his right, Natalia at his left. He looked back once—the three Marines had fanned out to right and left into the rocks by the lapping surf, their Soviet assault rifles firing, Elite Corpsmen going down. Rourke emptied both pistols into his adversaries.

He reached the rocks, pistol-whipping one of the Russians aside as he started up the path in a dead run, the abdominal surgery hurting him now, running.

“John!” It was Natalia’s voice, behind him. He shoved one of the little Detonics pistols into his belt and buttoned out the magazine from the other one, pocketing the empty, grabbing a fresh one from the Sparks Six-Pak on his belt beneath the coat, ramming it up the well, his right thumb working down the stop, the slide slamming forward. There was no time to reload the second one.

There was gunfire still behind him.

Ahead of him—He raised the little Detonics in both fists and fired, Karamatsov lurching forward, stumbling, then running on. Rourke fired again and missed. He kept running, Natalia almost passing him, real pain in his abdomen now from the surgery, his breath coming hard. He kept running, shouldering past Natalia, shouting, “I want you—Karamatsov!”

“I want him more, John!”

Natalia was even with him again, and in her right fist she held the American pistol, in her left the blood-dripping knife he had used to kill Serovski.

The helicopters—their rotors were turning, Karamatsov running toward the nearest of them, Rourke stabbing the little Detonics toward him, firing it out. Karamatsov’s body lurched once again and he stumbled to his knees, was up, ran on. John Rourke’s body screamed at him to stop. He kept running, Karamatsov just twenty yards ahead, limping badly.

Karamatsov wheeled, Natalia’s pistols in his fists, firing them out, Natalia screaming, Rourke lurching forward as one of the .357 Magnum rounds ripped his left leg from under him. He looked at Natalia, her right arm limp at her side, her body thrown back against the rocks, her left fist still clutching the knife. “Get him!”

Rourke drew himself to his feet, throwing himself into the run, his left leg dragging. Karamatsov kept using the pistols, but they were empty now and he flung the one in his right hand, then the one in his left, Rourke dodging the guns as they sailed toward him, Karamatsov running toward the nearest chopper.

The distance was less than ten yards, Rourke’s abdomen on fire with pain, his left leg numbing. Karamatsov stumbled, fell, spilled into the dirt and snow, pushed himself up. John Rourke hurtled himself toward Karamatsov, his hands grasping for the shoulders, Karamatsov lurching forward, Rourke tearing the vest from Karamatsov’s back, Karamatsov crawling across the ground, Rourke throwing his body against the man. Rourke had him, his hands closing over Karamatsov’s neck. Karamatsov’s left fist hammered up and Rourke sagged away. To his knees now, Karamatsov to his feet.

Gunfire ripped into the ground beside him from the open helicopter door. Rourke pushed himself up and ran. More gunfire, but from along the path in the black rocks,

Rourke seeing the body of the Elite Corpsman in the open fuselage door stitched across the chest in red.

Karamatsov threw himself into the fuselage doorway, reaching for the fallen Elite Corpsman’s assault rifle. John Rourke’s hands closed on Karamatsov’s waist and he threw his weight back, tearing Karamatsov away from the helicopter, the gunship going airborne, the Reagan’s deck guns opening up in the distance, shells landing around them everywhere as they rolled across the ground, Karamatsov’s fist hammering at Rourke’s face and neck and head.

Dirt and rocks rained around them, John Rourke’s left elbow snapping back into Karamatsov’s jaw, the Russian’s mouth suddenly washed with red, Rourke’s right fist impacting Karamatsov’s left temple.

Karamatsov fell back.

Rourke was to his knees. Karamatsov threw his body toward Rourke and Rourke fell back. Karamatsov’s right fist crossed Rourke’s jaw.

Karamatsov was up, running, Rourke lurched forward, to his knees, to his feet.

More shells were falling from the Reagan’s deck guns, helicopters exploding in the air and on the ground, their fiery skeletons falling from the sky. As Rourke ran, he dodged chunks of burning debris.

“Karamatsov!” The Hero Marshal was running for the last of his helicopters, the machine already hovering three feet from the ground, two Elite Corpsmen in the open fuselage doorway, firing, Rourke throwing himself to the ground behind the still-burning tail section of one of the downed Soviet choppers. From over the rise behind the last chopper, he could see Aldridge and his Marines, their assault rifles blazing. Aldridge fired a grenade from the tube beneath the barrel of his rifle. The last Soviet helicopter seemed to hesitate in midair, and then there was a burst of flame and a fireball of black and yellow and orange belched skyward.

“Karamatsov!” Rourke had a fresh magazine up the butt of one of his pistols as he pushed to his feet, running forward. ” Karamatsov!”

And Rourke stopped. He saw him. Karamatsov had reached the edge of the promontory on which the choppers had landed. He stood there. Rourke ran toward him.

Karamatsov’s right hand moved to his shoulder holster and John Rourke dodged left and fired. Karamatsov fired, Rourke fired, Karamatsov fired. Rourke fired again, throwing himself to the ground, rolling, Karamatsov’s pistol discharging still, the slugs furrowing the ground, Rourke firing blindly, emptying the little Detonics toward him.

Karamatsov’s gun was empty and Rourke pushed to his feet as the Hero Marshal started to ram a fresh magazine up the butt of his Model 59. Rourke had no time to reload. He launched his body toward Karamatsov and impacted, Karamatsov’s pistol flying from his hand over the edge of the precipice and gone, Rourke’s hands going for Karamatsov’s throat as they fell, Rourke’s body taking the impact, Karamatsov’s right fist slamming into Rourke’s left cheek, Rourke’s right knee smashing upward into Karamatsov’s groin.

Karamatsov fell back.

Rourke was up as Karamatsov stood. They charged at each other, John Rourke’s left snapping out, catching Karamatsov across the chin, the Russian’s head snapping back, Rourke’s right impacting Karamatsov’s left ear, Rourke’s left hammering Karamatsov’s nose to pulp.

Karamatsov’s body wheeled left, his right foot snapping up and out, John Rourke’s body feeling as if it were exploding as the Hero Marshal’s jackbooted foot struck into his abdomen. Rourke staggered. Karamatsov closed, fists flying, Rourke’s hands and arms going up to protect his face.

Rourke was falling back, the pain in his abdomen washing over him, consciousness starting to go.

Rourke wheeled half right and lashed back with his left elbow, striking bone, Rourke’s right fist hammering forward, Karamatsov’s head snapping back hard, his body rocking back.

John Rourke’s hands gripped at his abdomen and he sagged forward to his knees, coughing blood.

Karamatsov was on his knees, his right hammering forward, John Rourke lurching against him, Rourke’s own right impacting the center of the Hero Marshal’s face.

Karamatsov’s body weaved, fell. John Rourke tried to stand.

Vladmir Karamatsov was crawling away from him. Rourke got to his feet, lurched after him.

Karamatsov crawled to his feet, staggered back, by the edge of the precipice over the sea.