Survivalist - 22 - Brutal Conquest (20 page)

Video screens dominated three of the four walls, showing maps, intelligence overflight photos, and the like.

A podium, apparendy equipped with sophisticated electronics that enabled the speaker to utilize any or all of the screens individually or simultaneously, dominated the fourth wall, into which were set the pneumatic double sliding doors through that the room was accessed.

There were more names and faces than he could, at this point in time, differentiate. And the name tags on each person’s respective uniform obviated the necessity for memorization.

John Rourke listened instead of talking.

The current speaker was a marine colonel, introduced as being in charge of physical security for the Island of Oahu in general and Pearl Harbor specifically.

He was generously built, broad-shouldered and tall, with a haircut short in comparison to those of his fellow officers that he looked as though he’d slipped through a time warp from the sixties. But, in sharp contrast to his

appearance, his voice was a gentle, warm-sounding, mellifluous baritone as he said, “Depending on their choice of weaponry, we could experience unacceptably severe casualty levels. Eden’s gas capabilities have been talked about, i there’ve been tantalizing hints, but nothing definite. If \ they use chemical agents, we just flat out don’t have j enough protective gear available. And, unless they hold off on attacking for the next six months, we would never have enough equipment to protect the civilian population.

“The question, it seems, is how can we interdict enemy ! action, rather than respond to it. I’ll open the floor to any « comments or what-have-you before I go on here. …” ; “Colonel?” I The man looked up from his notes. “General Rourke, yes, sir?”

John Rourke had almost given up on encouraging people to stop calling him general, so he ignored it. “You spoke before about computer models.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wouldn’t the Eden Defense Forces’ strategic planners have access to your computer modeling programs … I mean, in their generic form?

T … uh … I hadn’t thought of that, sir. I—”

“My point, Colonel,” Rourke went on, “is that if we stay with computer models, can’t the enemy obviate any effectiveness such counterplanning might have by simply running the same basic programs, only more completely? I mean, well be guessing at many of the details, of course, unless your medical personnel can get information out of our guest, Martin Zimmer. But from the briefing my son went through, it wouldn’t seem the sit-reps Croenberg and the other SS personnel are running are that detailed.

“So,” Rourke continued, “we should probably assume they’ll have a better grasp of their plans than we will. Which means their computer models can be more complete. They should be able to anticipate and plan for countering every move we’d make.”

“I … uh … I never thought of that, sir. We use computer models …”

John Rourke ignored the fact that no one in the room smoked, took one of the German non-carcinogenic cigarettes from his shirt pocket, and lit it in the blue yellow flame of his battered Zippo. A cigar would have been socially objectionable. “When I was in the intelligence profession, several years Before The Night Of The War, of course, we had a similar problem.” Rourke exhaled smoke. Several of the personnel in the room looked shocked. A few looked amused. One lit up as well.

Then Natalia lit a cigarette and so did Michael. John Rourke made a mental note to talk with his son about smoking. But for now he went on, saying, “I knew a very fine gendeman who wound up in the intelligence profession—or perhaps counterintelligence is more apt—when he was little more than a boy. He stuck with it in one manner or another throughout his entire life. He once remarked to me that the problem in strategic planning was that none of the planners were doers. That was possibly a bit harsh a criticism, but the fact remains that he was making an interesting point.

“Consider this,” Rourke continued. “If you and your enemies use similar or perhaps even identical programs, you’re planning around each other. And everything is conventional, because all the responses are from the computer, and that means everything it will come up with has been thought of and used or discarded before. You’re limiting your options. Why?”

“Why, sir?”

“Why?”

“Well … uh …”

T can take it, Colonel. Why?”

The colonel looked as though he felt a bit awkward. Rourke knew he was being nasty, but he had to make his point.

After a pause of several seconds, the colonel said, “That’s … uh … that’s the way it is done, sir.”

“Has anyone in this room—aside from members of my family, of course—ever killed anyone? Let’s see hands.” No one raised a hand. “Has anyone ever met an enemy agent other than during a social function?” No hands. “Has anyone ever been part of a combat situation other than an exercise?” No hands.

John Rourke smiled but said nothing else.

The colonel did not speak for a moment. Then, “What are you suggesting, sir?”

John Rourke flicked ashes from his cigarette into the palm of his hand. One of the senior officers said something to one of the junior officers present as an aide, and the man practically sprinted from his seat, presumably for ashtrays. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, Colonel. And this is really none of my business, I suppose. I was very impressed with your briefing. I mean that sincerely, but I thought that a point needed to be made. You wound up as the scapegoat. That point is, if we want to stop the saboteurs and the commando teams we’re expecting here, the best way might be to outthink them rather than to try out-computing them, possibly in vain.”

“Hear, hear!” The voice, a woman’s, came from the rear of the room.

Someone to Rourke’s right started to applaud. The applause spread. John Rourke flicked more ashes into his left palm… .

This meeting was more to John Rourke’s liking. The colonel in charge of security—his name was Roy Stoddard—was present, as was a naval psychiatric specialist, Helen Stickley, the commander of the SEAL team based out of Pearl, Lieutenant Commander Grant Washington, and Fleet Admiral Hayes, barely off her personal Interceptor from Mid-Wake.

Admiral Hayes was saying, “Dr. Rourke, like it or not, you’re still on the payroll. Your salary had been accumulating and earning interest for one hundred and twenty-five years. You are a millionaire several times over. But my point, General, is that I do have the right to order you to stay physically uninvolved with these coming matters. You are, sir, a national treasure… .”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Admiral. And what am I going to do with all that money?”

“The money is your problem. Build yourself another survival retreat if you want. But you are a national treasure. As such, I cannot allow you to risk your life… .”

“No disrespect meant, Admiral, but no one allows or disallows me to do anything of which I’m able. I can be of help here, and unless you attempt to force your will upon me, I intend to help.”

Admiral Hayes shook her head. “If I get you killed …”

“If I die, it’s my fault not yours. So, can we get back to the matter at hand?”

She nodded only, then looked at the psychiatrist. “Doctor, you have results?”

“Yes, Admiral. I personally supervised the administration of several rather powerful truth-inducing drugs to Martin Zimmer—after, of course, running him through a thorough physical examination. The transcript of text should come up on that screen.” Helen Stickley gestured toward a large screen on the far wall of Admiral Hayes’s office. John Rourke reflected that a television repairman could well have made a fortune these days, with the proliferation of video and computer screens for information

dissemination. Martin Zimmers’ face appeared on the screen in reasonably tight close-up, his words—occasionally unintelligible—scrolling away across the bottom of the screen beneath his face. “Part of the time —and that’s usual under these circumstances—Mr. Zimmer’s speech appears slurred and unintelligible.”

“Can we fast-forward into the part you mentioned, Doctor?” Admiral Hayes asked, interrupting.

Dr. Stickley was a civilian, but evidendy well used to the military. She touched a control on the arm of her chair, and the presentation started moving at what Rourke estimated was roughly three times normal speed. The scrolling was impossible to read and Martin Zimmer’s face looked almost funny—but not quite.

When the tape returned to normal speed, Martin’s speech was clear again. He was picked up in mid sentence, saying, “… along on the setup. A house on Sebastian’s Reef…” Dr. Stickley paused the tape. “Sebastian’s Reef, Dr. Rourke, is named after Commander Sebastian, later Admiral Sebastian.”

T knew the gendeman,” John Rourke nodded.

“It’s a rather exclusive civilian enclave on the far side of the island.”

“Numerous estate-sized houses set within a natural enclave of woods,” Admiral Hayes interjected. “I was going to recommend to you that you might consider that area, Dr. Rourke. You could afford it.

The tape continued, Martin saying, “The house is the headquarters for the SS sabotage units on Oahu, Croenberg said once.”

Dr. Sticklers voice was on the tape now. “Only this man Croenberg mentioned it? Did you discuss this with anyone else in your organization? Answer the question, Martin.”

“Nobody. Dad thinks …” The word shocked John

Rourke.

Dr. Stickley said, “He is referring to someone named Deitrich Zimmer, Dr. Rourke.”

“I realized that,” Rourke responded, his voice almost a whisper.

She wound the tape back a little. “Dad thinks that the fewer details any of us know, the less chance for a leak.” “Dad was right,” Rourke observed. “Apparently,” the colonel said. The tape was paused.

Lieutenant Commander Washington asked, “Admiral, may I make a suggestion?” “Certainly, Mr. Washington.”

“Ma’am, I think we could mount an operation against that house right now and not only interdict some of their plans, but perhaps get a line on future activities. Maybe throw a monkey wrench into their timetable a litde.” - John Rourke said, “This isn’t a classic military operation, Admiral. If we hit in military fashion, well get them, but they’ll have the opportunity to burn or degauss every record they’ve got. We’ll wind up with some people, some weapons, and very litde information. If what Martin Zimmer is saying is true, then most likely litde of the information that might be stored there is in the heads of whoever we might net.”

“What are you suggesting?” The colonel asked the question, and John Rourke turned and looked at him.

“Very simple, Colonel. Before The Night Of The War, in addition to teaching and writing concerning survival-ism, as you may know, I also taught special weapons and tactics, usually to counterterrorist units, occasionally to police special response teams, SWAT teams,
etc.
What I propose is that Mr. Washington’s SEAL team people, in conjunction with some of your security cops, be mobilized into the sort of operation we used to run when those

teams were hitting a terrorist safe house or on a big drug bust.

Tf we just go in there and attack,” Rourke went on, “we’ll miss much of the value the raid could provide.”

“My people are ready, Admiral,” Washington volunteered.

Admiral Hayes stared at John Rourke. He stared back and she smiled. “So you’ve made yourself the indispensable man, haven’t you, Doctor?”

John Rourke only said, “Hopefully.”

Sebastian’s Reef itself was a horseshoe of black coral extending more than thirteen miles. Waves crested over it, breaking into almost infinite patterns of white froth whipped into the lagoon beyond on the driving wind.

John Thomas Rourke sat in the helicopter’s copilot’s seat, Emma Shaw at the machine’s controls. He had been told by Admiral Hayes that a personal pilot would be available to him. When he learned the designated pilot was Emma Shaw, he’d evidendy looked surprised. Asked if there was something unsuitable about Commander Shaw, Rourke had replied not at all.

And she wasn’t what he’d come to expect as her usual rather loquacious self. In khaki shirt and slacks and a blue baseball cap with her unit designation on the front, she merely sat there, staring ahead, her only words into her radio headset’s mouthpiece, or to ask if she was passing low enough or slowly enough, or if he required an additional flyby.

They’d come along the coast of Oahu, flying so close to the lapping surf that, at times, Rourke could almost feel the spray when he peered out through the open bubble.

They began following the reef as it first appeared, letting its course draw them inland.

And now they were over the sand, crossing it quickly as they climbed, then over the high rocks beyond, these grey and black, and volcanic, some in massive slabs, flat as a

billiard table, others upthrusting and jagged, like the teeth of an enormous flesh-eating beast.

The trees started then, so densely planted as to form a canopy, almost impenetrable. Rourke was just about to comment on this, when Emma Shaw’s voice came through his headset. “Once we’re over this crest, Doctor, the ground drops off and the palm trees start.”

“Thank you,” Rourke responded.

In another second, the aircraft still climbing, the canopy began to break, Rourke noticing a wide path leading through the trees, from the palm tree-fronted house beyond toward the sea.

He consulted his map on the computer/video console folded out in front of him. Rourke pressed a button and superimposed the map image over the ground image below, the altitude compensator already adjusting image size. The name of the owners of the house, data concerning its size,
etc.
all appeared beneath the image.

Automatically, the program moved on as they left the house behind them. He’d asked before whether or not a helicopter flyby would alarm the personnel at the suspect house. He was told that helicopter traffic here was common, and as long as they did not seem to pay particular attention to one piece of property over another, there would be nothing to arouse interest.

The next house was larger than the first, mansion-sized, a small helipad in the front yard, a chopper only marginally smaller than the military aircraft in which they flew tethered there. Several private automobiles were in a parking area near a large garage beyond.