Survivalist - 23 - Call To Battle (5 page)

The gold chain went on around her neck, then the simple gold bracelet on her left wrist. A ring? No. She’d probably

knock the stone out while she was making dinner and they’d wind up spending the rest of the night going through the food with a sieve looking for it.

She sat down at her vanity mirror and brushed her hair.

Up? Down? Down.

She tossed her hair back and started stabbing the spike from the first gold earring toward the hole in her lobe …

Totally electric, with cruise control to govern speed and headsup map display in the windshield, the For Official Use Only car he’d borrowed from the Navy was like driving no car at all. All John Rourke did was keep his left hand on the steering wheel and occasionally make the steering wheel move slightly. The steering was self-compensating to the road contour and, on a straightaway, the car even steered itself. Should, the vehicle for some reason veer more than a preset acceptable margin to either right or left, beepers sounded and the onboard computer’s voice alerted the driver.

The sailor at the motor pool had shown Rourke how to program Emma Shaw’s address into the onboard computer. Now, on the headsup, he could see the position of this car relative to destination, the car a little blip moving inexorably toward the X which, indeed, marked the spot.

If he stayed here in civilization, he’d have to get a real car, with a manual transmission, no computer gimmicks, an internal combustion engine. Such cars were made, principally in New Germany, but were quite expensive. He wondered if that vehicle of vehicles could be recreated, with 454 V-8 and the pulling power of one of Hannibal’s elephants, the Chevrolet Suburban? John Rourke smiled; there would be some practical application for the wealth he had acquired through his general’s salary for being comatose for the last one hundred and twenty-five years.

But that world of Suburbans and Zippos and all the rest was gone, and to all but a very few like him such things were curiosities from a past known only in history books and old films. At times, John Rourke felt like Rip Van Winkle, as if he had fallen asleep in one world and awakened in another. But in Washington living’s day, the pace of the world was far slower, technology moving at a snail’s pace.

In the Twentieth Century, it was not uncommon to know a man who had been born at the very end of the previous century and grown up trimming the wicks of oil lamps and hitching horses to a wagon only to live to see man riding on a pillar of flame, hitching his fate to the stars with the Mercury and Apollo Programs and into the age of the Shuttle, humanity’s first reuseable spacecraft.

Then came humankind’s self-destruction.

Young and old perished; death never discriminated.

There was talk of a space program, again, reaching off the planet into the unknown.

One thing he had never seen-and he reminded himself now that he should seek out-were the log videos from the Eden Project. While the crew of the Eden Shuttles slept, their onboard cameras did not, but kept on feeding data on a constant basis into the computers. What secrets lay there?

He’d find out, if he lived that long …

Emma Shaw had everything ready. It was eight twenty-five according to the kitchen clock. Dinner was on hold. If John Rourke arrived on time, they would eat at nine, just fashionable without being late.

She’d even dusted off the bottles of liquor as she’d taken them out of the kitchen cupboard and set them at the side of the counter separating the kitchen from the steps leading down into the Great Room.

The finishing touch.

Perfume.

Or would he prefer the subtle scent of kitchen smells about her? It wasn’t as if she’d been peeling onions or cooking cab

bage.

Emma Shaw abandoned her kitchen for the bathroom, taking care of nature, then brushing out her hair again. He’d probably be late.

What if something came up? More Nazis from Eden? Would he have called her? Would there be time?

She heard the video monitor chime and she flicked the switch to activate the display screen set into the vanity mirror.

It was John Rourke.

Emma Shaw swallowed hard. He looked so … She turned off the screen, touched the light switch panel, throwing the bathroom into darkness, then dashed down into the Great Room and across it toward the front door. “Just a sec!” She stopped at the door. She smoothed her dress, straightened her straps so her bra straps didn’t show, patted at her hair.

She should have used the perfume …

When Emma Shaw opened the door, John Rourke took a step back. It was involuntary. Backlit, she reminded him of Sarah. Her hair, her figure, her height, the set of her shoulders with classic feminine slope, yet lowered, not raised as if in fear or apology. And what would Sarah think? Would she understand that they were just comrades-in-arms getting together for a friendly meal and conversation? Of course she would. He had never been unfaithful to his wife, no matter how close he’d come to it with Natalia. And, even though Sarah lay comatose and near real death in cryogenic sleep, a bullet lodged inoperably deep within her brain, John Rourke would not be unfaithful to her now.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” John Rourke almost whispered. “Come on in, John.”

“I was unintentionally rude; I should have brought something, like a bottle of wine or-“

“No. Thafs all right.” John Rourke crossed the threshold and Emma closed the door. “Take your coat?”

“Sure.” Definitely cigarettes and not cigars. He took the pack of German cigarettes from one of the jacket pockets, then John Rourke shrugged out of the jacket. He caught her grey-green eyes as they caught his guns in the double shoulder holsters. She turned away, slid open the closet door and his coat disappeared.

As she turned around toward him, her left wrist brushed back a lock of auburn hair from her forehead. “Have any trouble finding it?”

“The house? No. Took an FOUO out of the Pearl motor pool. The car drove me up here by itself,” Rourke added, smiling. He began removing the shoulder rig. There was a small table opposite from the closet where he could set the guns. His little knife wouldn’t really matter.

“Kind of take the fun out of it, don’t they? Driving, I mean. Must have been terrific to really drive. Like flying still can be when you turn off the right things,” Emma enthused.

But she looked a little nervous. He wondered if he should make some comment about her hair or her dress or something? But, that would be unprofessional. He told her instead, “Nice house.”

“Want the nickel tour?”

“Smallest Tve got’s a twenty” Rourke responded.

“How about a drink?”

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you fix, okay? I’ve got something in the microwave I need to check.” “Fine.”

“This way,” she told him.

Rourke watched her walking across the room for a beat; she reminded him of Sarah in some physical ways. He shook his head and followed her, past a comfortable-looking couch that seemed more like something from his era than hers, up

three steps to the kitchen. The counter had several bottles of liquor set on it and some glasses. He picked up a bottle of vodka. The brand name was unrecognizable. He set it down and picked up the bottle of blended whiskey. It was the same story. He remembered the expression about any port in a storm as he cracked the seal. “Ice?” “No.”

“You don’t have any ice?”

“Ohh, no!” Emma laughed. “I mean, I don’t use ice. I’ve got ice, though.” She went to what Rourke assumed was a refrigerator, opening a large panel which didn’t look like a refrigerator door at all and was set between part of the counter spaces. She touched a lighted rectangle within the door and what seemed to be an icebucket emerged and ice fell into it with a comfortingly familiar clattering sound. The ice stopped falling and she took the bucket away and closed the door. “Here you go, John.”

“What do you drink?”

“Scotch.”

“How many fingers?”

“Fingers?” There was a look of puzzlement in her eyes as she looked at him over her shoulder. He realized she was beautiful. “I don’t understand. Fingers?”

“A primitive measuring system.A lot of scotch or a little?”

“A little.”

Rourke set down the blended whiskey and picked up the unrecognizable brand of scotch. He poured two fingers into an appropriately sized glass. She set the icebucket down on the counter, then gently pressed the rim and the lid which had evidently sealed over it opened. He handed her the scotch. “Put your own water in it. I could never get it right.”

“Fine. I like a lot of water, anyway.”

Rourke took three ice cubes-they were perfectly formed-and put them in his glass. He touched at the rim of the icebucket and the lid fanfolded out toward the center, closing.

He poured whiskey over the ice until the ice was submerged and set down the bottle, closing it. The tap in the sink shut off.

When Rourke looked up, she was standing on the other side of the counter, holding her glass as if raised for a toast.

John Rourke smiled, clinked glasses with her. “To good friends and comrades-in-arms.”

Emma Shaw smiled a little oddly, but touched her glass to his.

Wilhelm Doring looked magnificently handsome. His short blond hair was caught up in the wind and the fine mist of spray blowing over the prow of the hired Russian vessel. His chest swelled beneath the black turdeneck, his strong chin jutting defiantly forward, the set of his brow in profile more than human.

And she was drawn to him like a moth to the proverbial flame.

He was all that was German and strong and pure, a hero of the race.

As if he’d read her thoughts, he turned away from the sea and looked at her. By the yellow light of the lamp swaying in rhythm with the swells, attached to a bracket a meter or so away and just above bis considerable height, she could just make out his expression. Wilhelm Doring seemed at peace. And he smiled at her. “What is it, Marie?”

“I was getting a little nervous, Willy,” Marie Dreissling said with total candor. She had never been able to hide anything from him since the moment she met him, almost nine weeks ago. But it seemed to her that her life had not begun until that moment, that she was reborn.

“Soon we will be moving, and then there will be no time for nervousness.” He rolled back the knit cuff of his sweater and his eyes turned down to look at his watch. “In one hour.” His voice was resonant, a deep, rich baritone, musical, but in no way anything but totally masculine. “So, that is very soon. In another fifteen minutes, we will have the final briefing, and after that the equipment checks, then move into the prelaunch sequence.”

“Can we trust these Russian pirates, do you think, Willy?”

“We require an insertion platform; the Russians will provide that. Afterward, we will require the Russians no longer. Do not worry about it.” He walked toward her. She stood, arms limp at her sides. His hand touched at her cheek and she shivered. “You had best prepare yourself, Marie.”

“Yes, Willy.”

He walked away and Marie stood there, the wind whipping her hair, molding her clothing against her, making her aware of every square centimeter of her body. Willy.

Marie forced herself to breathe …

“You’re a very good cook, Emma” John Rourke announced between forkfuls of potroast. And she looked very beautiful in the light of the candles which burned between them on the smallish table. It would have been presumptuous to mention that, so he didn’t. The music playing seemed to surround them. “Great stereo system.”

“Stereo?”

“Your sound system.”

“Ohh, thanks.” He even liked the music. It was soft jazz of some kind, with a subtle Latin flavor. “More wine?” Emma asked.

“No, never been much of a wine drinker,” Rourke told her. “Your brother’s a good man.”

“Thanks for saving his life,” Emma said, smiling. Rourke felt slightly embarrassed. He hadn’t mentioned her brother in order to solicit a reaction like that. He’d just been making conversation. “Was the fight on the beach as tough as it looked on the news, John?”

“I didn’t see the news.”

“Looked like one hell of a fight.”

“We encountered a more substantially sized force than we’d

anticipated” Rourke said. He set down his fork and knife and leaned back. That was a wonderful meal.”

“I made dessert.”

Til try,” he smiled.

“Apple pie.”

Til force myself,” he smiled again. “Want vanilla ice cream on it?” “A la mode? Sure.” “A la mode?”

Rourke laughed. “It means ‘of the fashion’ in French.” “Ohh. Do you speak a lot of foreign languages?” “Pretty good Russian, okay German, good Spanish. I’ve got a little Icelandic I picked up and I know Sign.” “Sign?”

“Deaf-speak.” He moved his hands rapidly. “See?”

“What did you say? I mean, nobody’s deaf these days with implants and everything.”

“I was just illustrating what I meant,” Rourke said, taking his lighter and the package of German cigarettes from the table beside him. “Mind if I smoke?”

“What did you say, John? With your hands, I mean?”

Rourke asked, “Cigarette?”

“Not just now. What did you say to me with your hands?”

He inhaled smoke, exhaled. He focused his eyes on the cigarette’s glowing tip. “I said ‘You are pretty,’ but I was just giving you an example of Sign. I mean, you are pretty, but I-“

“John Rourke. You’re quite a man.” She started to get up. She was standing before he was able to get her chair, but he stood.

“What do you mean?”

She walked around the table, leaned up and very quickly kissed him on the cheek. Til get your apple pie,” Emma Shaw almost whispered …

Doring watched the faces in the semicircle all but surrounding him. The eyes set in those faces-bright, alert, eager and intelligent-watched him back. The air in the Russian vessel’s salon smelled stale and slightly sour, as if food had been left too long and allowed to spoil. From the cuisine they’d experienced since joining the freighter at Port Reno, that seemed indeed like the logical explanation. The group consisted of ten men besides himself and only one woman, Marie Dreissling.

“Gunther, stand at the door.”