Survivalist - 20 - Firestorm (6 page)

Rourke opened a plain black plastic box, taking from it one of the special subsonic cartridges. The bullet was coated with a black plastic, along the lines of the Nyclad ammunition made by Federal before the Night of the War. But the bullet, although a hollow point, was more truncated and longer than conventional 9mm Parabellums. “Twelve rounds in the magazine. After each shot, if you use the slide lock, work the lock down, cycle the action by hand and raise the lock for the next shot. Without the lock being raised, the pistol functions as it normally would, but of course the noise suppression isn’t quite as effective. Depends on the situation in which you’re using it.”

Rourke set the pistol and suppressor down, then looked at his friend. “When Annie and Natalia and Maria get here, I want you to talk with Annie alone,” Rourke told Paul. Rourke’s hands were sweating. “If, in her judgement, Natalia’s pretty much all right, then do as we planned. Rejoin me. If there’s any doubt in Annie’s mind about Natalia’s stability under the controlled circumstances here, just have the pilot get a message to me or use the radio. But stay put. The Retreat should be as safe as church. Thafs from the outside. Know what I mean, Paul?”

Paul Rubenstein licked his lips. “Yeah. I dont like leaving them here alone, but I don’t want to be sitting back here with four women making me hot meals while you’re out there, either, John. But 111 talk with Annie. She’s -Natalia, I mean-she’s supposed to be all right, or close to it, right?”

“I think so. I pray that she is. I know she wouldn’t harm anyone, but she might harm herself. You’ve gotta be sure, Paul. If you aren’t, then don’t come. Stay here. Eat those hot meals until you are sure.”

The younger man nodded his head. “You know I will.”

“Annie should have my note by now.” And John Rourke began to pack the pistol, the suppressor, the extra baffle material to refurbish the suppressor, the ammunition. He kept his hands busy so he wouldn’t have to speak, the sausage shaped suppressor slick over its anodizing with moisture from his hands …

Annie Rourke Rubenstein felt her eyes widen as she unfolded the message. It had been slid under her door while she was away at the hospital visiting Natalia. Natalia seemed stronger, happier every day. She set down her purse. She wondered if she’d ever get used to carrying one on a regular basis. High heels. They made her legs feel good because they made her legs look pretty but they made her feet hurt. She kicked out of them, sinking to the carpeted floor and wiggling her toes. No more did she have her Shore Patrol guardian angels. She traveled Mid-Wake as she pleased. The note in her hands, she crossed the small room and sat on the small window seat, pulling her legs up under her.

“Annie,

“Your mother was forced to kill a man named Damien Rausch during the battle here with the Soviets. Rausch was a Neo-Nazi. Along with a gang of men, he tried killing Akiro at The Retreat. He was the only survivor and, toward the

end of the battle, attempted to shoot Akiro in the back. Thafs when your mom shot him.

There are some complications, however. Rausch’s brother, Freidrich, is thought to be in this area, is the likely killer of one of the Eden Project personnel whom you may or may not have known, Maritza Zeiss-“

Annie remembered her. Very pretty and very smart and very nice. Some day, there’d be a world where she’d sniff back a tear, but she was inured to death, prayed she’d never be used to it. She continued reading her father’s radio message.

“-and also attempted to kill Captain Darkwood. Captain Darkwood is doing well. Freidrich Rausch will attempt to kill your mother-“

She dropped the note onto her lap, her hands shaking. She wiped her hands on her gray skirt, picked up the note and read on.

“-unless we can get her to a place of safety. We’re doing that until Rausch can be stopped permanently. Paul and I thought-and Paul told me to say he sends his love, as if you didn’t know-that your mom would be safer and happier if you and Natalia came to join her. I understand that Natalia’s feeling quite a bit better. When you feel that the two of you can join your mom, provided Natalia’s willing, notify me through Mid-Wake channels. Admiral Rahn’s office will pretty much know where to find me.

“Everyone is well here. Michael’s been kind of quiet lately. I think he misses Maria. Fm sending a communique to Maria Leuden, as well, with the same invitation. With four of you ladies in one place, once things settle down, Paul and Michael and I are going to expect a terrific meal, kid. Remember that.

“My love to you, as always, and give my love and Paul’s to Natalia as well. Hope to see you soon, honey.

“Love, “Dad”

Annie stared at the piece of paper, then looked out her window at Mid-Wake’s artificial sunshine. It would be good to be home.

It would be good to be with her mother and Michael’s girl, Maria.

But would it be good for Natalia?

She looked at the artificial sunlight for a while.

All of the old problems which had caused Natalia to become ill in the first place still existed. The fantasy that Natalia’s dead husband, Wadmir Karamatsov, still somehow lived might never more haunt Natalia. But there were real things enough to drive her back, over the edge from reason.

More than ever, she knew that Natalia loved her father, John Rourke.

But it was a love that could never be fulfilled because her father was faithful to her mother. It was as simple as that, on the outside looking in (as she had done). Annie tried to imagine a life where she was in love with Paul, as she always had been, but could not be his.

It would be hell. Natalia lived there.

John Rourke gave the suppressor a good luck twist, then removed the Allen wrench from the body of the suppressor and began tightening the suppressor to the Smith and Wesson 6906’s extended barrel.

Thafs a neat gun, Doctor,” Sam Aldridge said, touching up the edge of his Ka-Bar-like Marine Corps knife on what passed these days for ceramic sharpening sticks.

They sat in the German Base hospital’s lounge area, an ordinary waiting room with a moderately comfortable couch and two chairs, a video player and several magazines, the magazines and the few videos from New Germany, Except for the language in which the magazines were written and the video player-a combination tape machine and television set that was a bottom feed unit and only a few inches thick, hung on the wall like a framed picture-the room was timeless.

The waiting room was the ready room for persons on guard at the German base’s hospital or those supervising the guard details. John Rourke began loading a twelve-round magazine for the suppressor-fitted 6906, every few rounds thwacking the spine of the magazine against his palm to more properly seat the cartridges.

“What are you gonna use that for, Doctor Rourke?”

Rourke looked across the low table at Sam Aldridge. Tm not sure, Sam. But when I eventually need it, ni have it.” The magazine loaded, he inserted it up the butt of the pistol; then, verifying that the hammer drop safety was lowered, he worked the slide. One other modification to the little pistol about which he had neglected to tell Paul Rubenstein was the deletion of the magazine safety. A magazine safety on a pistol, Rourke had always thought, was just as practical and potentially useful (and as fraught with hazard) as a screen door on the hatch of one of Mid-Wake’s submarine fleet. That a Colt?”

Rourke smiled. “Ifs a Smith and Wesson.” “I thought they made revolvers, like the one you carry.” “Well, they made these things, too,” Rourke answered patiently. The barrel and the suppressor are sort of aftermarket items.” Think RauschU come tonight?”

“Jason’s set, got his pistol within reach. We’ve got men outside, men inside. If Rausch comes, hell have to be damned good to get away.”

“I mean Jason, Doctor. Is there any chance-“

“I know Jason’s your best friend, Sam. Sure there’s a chance. But Darkwood knows that. There wasn’t any other choice. Rausch won’t want to leave Darkwood hanging around to implicate Dodd, because, evidently, he needs Dodd. The Nazis require a base of operations, supply, like that. Lieutenant Kurinami discovered that the master computer files aboard the command shutde were wiped clean; all the locations of the strategic stores laid away for the Eden Project on its return were on those files. But Kurinami duplicated them. Logic dictates that Dodd copied them before wiping them away. Kurinami being possessed of a duplicate set means Dodd doesn’t have all the power. I sent Kurinami to the front with Captain Hartmann’s men. Hartmann is Colonel Mann’s field commander for the forces covering the Soviet Underground City. Hartmann’s a good officer. I offered that Akiro and Elaine could go into hiding. He wouldn’t. There was a war to be fought, he said. Kurinami’s that kind of guy. Elaine wanted to stay here. She wouldn’t stay with my wife and daughter because if Akiro was going to stay in the thick of things, she had to, too. I talked her into going to Mid-Wake, at least, to help with the war effort there where her scientific background could be of some assistance. And she should be safe there. Both of their attitudes are admirable, but short-sighted under the circumstances. If Dodd can kill Kurinami, or use Elaine to get to him, Dodd will have obliterated any chance for the restoration of the computer files, except by himself. Thafs why Dodd’s playing footsie with the Nazis. As long as there’s a war on with the Soviets, he doesn’t have to worry about the Soviets supplying Eden, certainly. If he can disrupt New Germany, maybe Dieter Bern and Colonel Mann’s people won’t be able to help

much, either. I doubt he caresmuch for Mid-Wake. Dodd wants to be the only source of help to Eden, so he can control it.”

Aldridge put down his knife. “Isn’t it kinda dangerous, Doctor, I mean with the Japanese guy? He could get K.I.A.ed and the files would be lost.”

“No they wouldn’t be,” John Rourke smiled. “You see-” As he began to elaborate, there was a sound in the corridor just beyond the door. Rourke was up, the Smith and Wesson autopistol shoved into the small of his back into the waistband of his black BDUs. His fists closed over the two Scoremasters, snatching them up from the table, stuffing them into his waistband on either side of his abdomen. His left hand caught up first his flashlight and then the M-16 he’d left by the door, his right hand moving to the doorknob.

He heard the rattle of the sling from Aldridge’s Soviet AKM-96, originally picked up off the battlefield after the Soviets were forced back in the aftermath of the attack on Eden. Rourke had noticed a number of the Marines doing the same, preferring it to their issue rifle. It seemed to be a better gun, Rourke had to admit.

Rourke stepped into the corridor, a shaft of light washing over the floor from behind him.

There was no one visible.

“What was it, you think?”

Rourke didn’t look at Aldridge as he spoke. “Probably nothing; just our nerves. You check the guards on Darkwood. Til check by the entrance.”

Rourke started moving, rurming in a long-strided, almost easy, loping gait, the M-16 in his right fist by the pistol grip, in his left the communicator. “This is Rourke. Guard stations, come back to me in sequence.”

Guard stations one, two, three and four reported. There was nothing from guard station five, near the loading dock where nonambulatory patients were brought in for treatment or removed for a flight to better hospital facilities in New Germany. “Guard station six, come in.”

Guard station six came back.

John Rourke quickened his pace, changing frequencies so he could contact Aldridge as he did. “This is Rourke. Do you read me, Aldridge? Over.”

Aldridge’s voice crackled back. “Loud and clear, Doctor. No problems, here. Over.”

“Guard post five on the interior perimeter is not responding. I’m checking it now. Stay alert. Out.”

Rourke reached the farthest edge of the perimeter for the remaining modules of the hospital. It was darker here in the corridor and, despite the insulation, cold enough that, as he exhaled, he could see his breath, like small patches of fog in a night intermittently lit by a sliver of moon, various shafts of lights from die corridors and medical facility rooms he passed providing the only illumination.

He carried a flashlight in his belt and, merely by using the radio, could have contacted one of Aldridge’s men or one of the Germans to flick on every light in the building. But he stayed in the semi-darkness, his eyes accustoming to it quickly, his light sensitivity a benefit to him at times like these.

There was a blizzard surrounding them. Conditions had made it nearly impossible to reach the German base after leaving the Retreat, the high winds which whipped the snow a side effect of the fizzling hurricane in the Gulf. And the wind gnawed through pinhole size apertures and cracks between modular wall segments and roofing here, the sound like a hundred banshees moaning in low whispers from cold, uneasy graves.

He passed guard post three, the German Commando and the American Marine there, alert, ready for arrything.

Rourke kept moving, toward the glow of light from guard post four.

It was the same there, the American and the German on duty, all as it should be.

Guard post five was located near the wards, and to have used his assault rifle near even such a small concentration of people would have been unconscionable madness, the 5.56mm round it fired too penetrative for safe employment.

He slung the M-16 across his back, left shoulder to right hip, muzzle down.

He was better armed for close combat than he had ever been in his life, and close combat it might well be. On the outside of his belt at the small of his back in the Rybka M.O.B. holster was the old two-inch barreled Colt Lawman Mkffl .357 Magnum revolver,

the Lawman loaded with 125-grain jacketed hollow point .357s. At his right hip was the Smith 629, at his left hip the LS-X knife. The little Detonics pistols were holstered beneath his battered brown bomber jacket in the double Alessi shoulder rig he always used with them. The full-sized Scoremasters were in his belt, the A.G. Russell Sting IA Black Chrome hidden inside the waistband of his trousers as well, but at his back.