Survivalist - 24 - Blood Assassins (10 page)

Michael’s sister went up to him, kissed him lightly on the mouth, said, “You’re my real brother, and I don’t want to lose you, okay?”

“Okay, Sis,” and Michael took her into his arms, embraced her.

Paul went up to him, shook his hand, and the two men embraced.

John shook his son’s hand. “You’re a brave man, son, and a good friend. I love you.” And John leaned over, kissing Michael on the forehead.

Natalia realized that it was her turn. They had made love this day, said their farewells. But she held him, touched his hair with her fingertips, kissed his cheek. His hands felt strong on her body as he kissed her mouth hard. “I love you, Natalia. Don’t worry. This isn’t goodbye.”

She nodded, temporarily unable to speak, kissed him lightly on the lips, then again, then stepped back, only watching now.

John—damn his always having to be the responsible one, hence the guilty one should something go wrong— administered the injection personally. As the drug which would allow the brain to be reawakened,

without which the sleeper would be in perpetual, irredeemable coma, entered Michael’s system, Michael looked at them all in turn, then at last said, “When I awaken, my mother will be restored to us. That’s what I believe. God bless you all; I love you all.” And Michael—he wore only a loose-fitting pair of black slacks and a loose black shirt—raised his bare feet, swinging his legs over into the coffinlike cryogenic chamber.

Buttons were pressed by the cryogenic specialist, the chamber’s transparent lid started closing, lights flashing from within the interior panel, the bluish-white gas immediately beginning to circulate.

It was so much like death that Natalia could feel tears rim her eyes. Whether Michael Rourke lived or died, she knew, she would always be his. And John had been right, aging him for her by use of the cryogenic process so many years ago. His two best friends— herself and Paul Rubenstein—were now the mates of his children.

Only John Rourke’s own life was in disrepair.

If Sarah survived, possessed her faculties, she would almost certainly leave John after the death of Martin, irrational as that was. She would not leave John out of hatred, but out of a need for her own survival, the reason Natalia had at last given up any hope of becoming John’s lover.

Wolfgang Mann, should he survive this ordeal as well, stood waiting in the wings, as it were, had taken the Sleep with them one hundred twenty-five years ago for no other reason than his love for Sarah Rourke.

Natalia let the tears roll down her cheeks for a moment, and not just for Michael, but for John.

A man who had lived for six and one-half centuries all but alone. Would he continue on alone, someday even losing them? She shuddered at the thought, grateful that, unlike Annie, she—Natalia—possessed no mental gift/curse. Annie, of course, could not foretell the future. Natalia doubted that anyone could, hoped no one could.

She was glad that she could not.

Nineteen

The aircraft’s shadow over the white of the glacier below was suddenly there, almost as if the plane had broken through from one dimension to another in some science fiction story rather than inserted from the upper atmosphere so as to come streaking downward in what amounted to a controlled power dive.

As much as John Rourke was familiar with all the conceptual data concerning transatmospheric insertion—it had been discussed as a means of faster intercontinental air travel as far back as the 1970s—the actuality of it still amazed him.

And it made John Rourke think about Emma Shaw. Her mission to Eden City could not utilize the rapidity of this technology because of the air defense systems involved. In the old-fashioned way, even though the new SR-901s could do Mach Nine in a pinch, she still had to stay atmospheric, following terrain as much as the speed of her aircraft would allow.

The new insertion system was quite simple, really. The aircraft was equipped with sufficient thrust in

order to allow it to break free into the upper reaches of the atmosphere. Then it vectored downward toward its target destination. The old transpolar flights were close to the theory, yet utilized the standard Euclidean geometric truism that a straight line was the shortest distance between two points; but distance was sacrificed in favor of speed with transatmospheric insertion.

Long range trans-Pacific flights, which could consume the equivalent of a day’s travel in the Twentieth Century, were now accomplished in hours, as this flight had been.

In less than fifteen minutes, they would be on the ground.

John Rourke looked away from the window and into the cabin, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the contrasting light. Around him sat Natalia, Annie and Paul. Michael slept in the cryogenic chamber positioned well aft. John Rourke lit a cigarette, mindful of the smell of his cigars within the confines of the cabin. “Michael’s chamber, as was his idea, is equipped with a cylinder of cyanide gas. The ploy that we’ll release the cyanide gas if Deitrich Zimmer’s personnel attempt to overpower us has two major faults, however. First, I won’t release it, of course. Secondly, if Zimmer believes the body in the cryogenic chamber is Martin’s or Michael’s, Zimmer might well be willing to gamble I wouldn’t use the gas and cause the death of my son. Again, correctly. We had to utilize genuine cyanide gas in the event, of course, that it came down to testing the gas, in order to prove our sincere intention of using it.

“Our chances,” Rourke continued, “overall are not very good. We’ll be heavily outnumbered and deep inside territory controlled by the enemy. Unless someone sees a flaw I don’t, I’m planning on us playing this tough, as if somehow we have the upper hand and they don’t. And, even assuming we can pull off a trade, we won’t be out of the woods. And, just getting back to the aircraft won’t insure our escape, because as we all know, the area will be blanketed with air defenses.

“Commander Washington’s SEAL personnel,” he went on, “will be close at hand and well equipped, but not close enough, nor equipped to fight off a truly sizeable force. Similarly, the low level approach pattern they utilized, coming in over Hudson’s Bay out of Lydveldid Island, cannot easily be utilized as a return method. Commander Washington’s people will know that and so will Deitrich Zimmer’s people, should the SEALS engage. So, you might ask what we’ll do.”

Paul grinned. “What’ll we do?”

John Rourke smiled. “Funny you should ask. I don’t have a real plan, because I can’t second guess Deitrich Zimmer. Our only ploy is to let the trade start to progress and do what the situation seems to suggest, and hope for the best. That’s beyond ‘loose’ I know, and I’d welcome any suggestions at all.”

There were none.

Too many variables with which to contend. Paul began a last-minute weapons check.

Twenty

John Thomas Rourke’s eyes squinted against the sun on the glacier and he took the dark-lensed aviator-style sunglasses from his pocket, putting them on. From his youth, John Rourke’s eyes had always been light sensitive. Yet, disadvantage turned to an asset, because his night vision had always been particularly acute.

Rourke stood in the open rear bay of the vertical takeoff and landing cargo lifter, staring out toward the crescent of vehicles and men approaching the aircraft from the west.

Arctic Cat-style tracked vehicles, painted white with the occasional splotch of dark grey, camouflaged from casual aerial visual observation to one degree or another, rolled over a ridge of ice and down onto the plateau where the V-stol aircraft had touched down only moments before.

The men were nearer than the vehicles and moving more rapidly, too. Clad in snow smocks, with the hoods up and their eyes goggled, all other exposed skin

toqued, they looked faceless. They moved astonishingly swiftly on their skis, but most of them without the use of poles, balancing themselves expertly instead and (it seemed) easily with their energy rifles rather the way a tightrope walker would use a balance bar.

The air over the glacier was cold and clear. The ozone layer here was severely depleted. Rourke wore sunscreen, as did the rest of his family, even Michael in the cryogenic chamber, ready for the moment when it would be opened. Although Rourke could hear the sounds of the tracked vehicles, louder still because they were closer, were the swooshing noises made by the skis of the Alpine troops. As Rourke exhaled, his breath turned to steam. The cold—ambient temperature was about six below zero Fahrenheit—was not as bad as Rourke had anticipated it would be, the wind almost calm, at least for the moment.

Even as a child, John Rourke had always preferred cold weather to warm, the tingle of skin touched by icy wind to the greasy feel of sweat derived from merely standing still. He’d grown up in the days before private home air-conditioning was the accepted norm, and despite his fondness for the out of doors, unlike other children, he always waited for the balmy weather of summer to end and the cool breezes of autumn to begin.

Warm weather was not a problem here. At all.

There had been permanent glaciation here for the last several hundred years, partially he suspected as the natural cycle of the global climatic conditions, but in large part due also to the effects of the nuclear detonations on the Night of the War. Yet the sun was more a problem now than in the summertime of his youth. Nearer the equator, the ozone layer was sufficient under normal conditions to ensure that the effect of sunlight on human skin was not potentially lethal. With prolonged exposure, however, or in higher latitudes or at higher altitude, the threat from sunlight was severe. Cancer had effectively been conquered, but that was no reason to flirt with it.

The lead elements of the Alpine troops stopped some fifty yards distant, gradually encircling the aircraft. Natalia moved into the bay beside Rourke. “Well, at least we won’t be lonely here, John.”

“No,” Rourke almost whispered, smiling at her but not looking at her. “Cover us, you and Annie. Paul!” And Rourke started down the ramp, Paul Rubenstein falling in beside him. “If you have any brilliant ideas,” Rourke said to his friend, “now would be a wonderful time to share them.”

Paul laughed. “We’re crazy, but I’ve known that for six centuries.”

Rourke smiled again.

They stepped down from the ramp and onto the surface of the glacier.

The tracked vehicles were forming an outer ring— about sixty yards away—around the Alpine troops.

All except one of the vehicles joined the ring.

The circle of armed ski troops opened, admitting this solitary vehicle, little Nazi flags on each fender, stiff even though there was no noticeable wind. “Reinforced,” Paul remarked.

“That ugly thing needs all the help it can get,”

Rourke told his friend. He had thought of finding some means by which to leave Paul behind, Paul of course being in the greatest danger of any of them because Paul was a Jew. But Paul would never have stayed behind out of fear for his safety while the rest of them ventured here, so Rourke never even brought it up.

The solitary tracked vehicle was through the circle, the circle closing behind it, the vehicle approaching to about twenty-five yards from the tail section of the aircraft. Rourke’s ears were a little cold, so slowly he reached back and pulled up the hood of his parka. Then he settled his hands near his belt, his gunbelt over his coat and the two Detonics Scoremaster .45s, chambers loaded, ready to his lightly gloved hands.

In this sort of temperature extreme, one normally wore a glove liner and an outer shell. The glove liners Rourke wore were of silk, thin, tailored to his hands. They would protect his flesh from contact with metal and retain a modicum of warmth, but more importantly they would allow him full dexterity with his weapons.

The tracked vehicle’s gullwing door opened on the right side, drawing back into the body and disappearing.

Four snow-smock-clad SS Alpine Corps troopers raced out, their assault weapons coming to the ready. “Easy,” Rourke hissed through his teeth to his friend.

“I’d love to shoot those bastards, but good guys don’t do that sort of thing,” Paul said under his breath.

“Not until the bastards give us a reason,” Rourke added.

A fifth man stepped out of the vehicle.

Unlike the others, he wore no snow smock, but rather a class A uniform of SS Field Grey, covered by a nearly ankle-length greatcoat of the same color, brilliantly polished high black boots disappearing beneath its hem. Gleaming like the leather of his boots was the brim of his cap. The runic symbols of the SS adorned both the hat and the lapels of the coat.

On his hands were gloves of soft grey leather. A pistol belt was at his waist, a smallish flap holster all that it supported. In the man’s left hand was a riding crop.

“This guy’s been watching too many World War II movies,” Paul suggested.

“Hardly; he’d know that the Nazis are the bad guys and they always lose.”

“We can teach him that ourselves, John.”

Rourke smiled, taking his eyes from the SS officer and glancing at Paul for an instant. “Or certainly try.”

The SS officer advanced across the snow, his men remaining on station at the vehicle. He stopped three yards from them, his heels coming together with a barely audible click, his right hand rising in the classic salute of his ilk, but with the riding crop for added flare. “Herr Doctor General Rourke! It is a great honor.” He dropped the salute, continuing to say, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Hauptsturmfuhrer Gunther Spitz, at your service.”

“I’d say it’s nice to meet you Captain, but why begin

a relationship based on a lie,” Rourke told him. “Very impressive show of force by the way. I take it you’re expendable to your Fuhrer?”

“How so, Herr Doctor General?”

“I could kill you now, and I might if your men make the slightest move closer to the aircraft.”

Hauptsturmfuhrer Spitz laughed. “You Americans! What a flare for colorful language, and such thinly veiled threats. The cowboy philosophy of course. Those guns, for example, which you wear. They are classic!”

“Rather like your uniform, a bit anachronistic, but in the case of my guns, they’re serviceable and they are not repugnant to anyone save the hoplophobic. And most of those people are already dead. On the other hand, any civilized person is offended at the sight of your SS insignia.”