Survivalist - 24 - Blood Assassins (8 page)

“I’m so happy for you, John, at least there’s a chance for you and your wife, now. I, uhh, got carried away.” She’d tried to smile.

“No. I was carried away by you,” he told her. Then he said the oddest thing. “And, I guess I still am.” And he kissed her cheek and walked away.

She could still feel that kiss.

It burned against her cheek.

Alone in her bed, staring at the ceiling, Emma Shaw realized that she was starting to cry.

The ceiling of her BOQ was stippled, meaning that it had an almost infinite number of tiny bumps in it. The drapes open—she was on the second floor—there was enough ambient light from outside that when she strained her eyes, she could make out subtle patterns in them—the bumps.

Her nightgown, of soft, natural cotton, felt rough against her nipples each time she inhaled, moved. And there was a slightly sick feeling in her abdomen, like an ache.

Emma Shaw could not sleep.

For a while, she’d thought that perhaps even John’s

Fifteen

The communications center at Pearl Harbor was a series of interconnecting rooms built about a central hub, allowing for expansion or contraction of the facility depending on the demands of the situation. The main portion of the complex—the hub itself—was surprisingly attractive by comparison to most military decor, John Rourke felt. The walls—what could be seen of them where there was not equipment—were so deep a grey as to be almost black, and the floor was of synthetic black and grey marble.

The first communique arrived precisely at four in the morning, saying nothing but that a second communique would arrive in two hours. The second communique arrived precisely when it was supposed to, John Rourke returning to his quarters, shaving and showering in the interim.

The eruption on Mt. Kilauea had slowed, and plans were already well along to put into action the plan of vulcanologist Thorn Rolvaag for diverting the lava flow. John Rourke had wanted to be with Bjorn

Rolvaag’s descendant, but that was impossible now. It was hard to equate the survival of two people, one his wife and one his friend, with the lives of so many that would be ended or altered if the volcanic eruption continued unabated, and perhaps he was selfish to look to his own concerns first. But, out of selfishness grew the value for all other things. And, he had to do what he had to do.

Intelligence data to which John Rourke was privy had arrived, indicating that the suspect poison gas facility in Eden City was confirmed by James Darkwood and other Allied Intelligence personnel. Rourke scanned the abstract of Darkwood’s report; reading between the lines allowed him to appreciate the danger to which Darkwood had subjected himself in order to get the information. Like Thorn Rolvaag, James Darkwood was also cut from the same heroic cloth as his ancestor.

A volunteer group of Trans-Global Alliance fighter-bomber pilots was already being assembled for a preemptive strike against the facility.

War was at hand.

Dressed in the color which best fit his mood and his outlook—black—John Rourke read the communique to the Family. It was from Dr. Deitrich Zimmer: “You will fly to sixty-two degrees, forty-one minutes, fourteen seconds North Latitude, one hundred eighteen degrees, seventeen minutes, forty seconds West Longitude.”

The rendezvous time was in exactly twenty-four hours. “You will bring with you my son, Martin. Since you will need assistance in moving the sarcophagi, you may bring with you three other persons beyond the crew of the aircraft. It would be absurd to demand that you arrive unarmed, but any use of weapons or any other action which I might deem threatening will be dealt with accordingly, i.e., the occupants of the cryogenic chambers killed immediately. Should you fail to bring Martin, or attempt to intervene with troops, the result will be the same. The lives of Frau Rourke and Generaloberst Mann are in your hands.”

“Sixty-two, one-eighteen. That’s near Great Slave Lake, in the lower portion of the Northwest Territories in what used to be Canada,” Michael said, turning away from the map which dominated a substantial section of the far wall.

“People of your generation were often accused of having a poor knowledge of geography, Michael. But you were always good at it.” And John Rourke smiled approvingly at his son. Michael, despite his tender years when the Night of the War occurred, had always shown academic promise, a natural intellect coupled with a keen desire to know.

“There are five of us,” Natalia said, “and he’ll only allow four.” She was slowly, inconspicuously opening and closing her Bali-Song. In the days prior to the Night of War, when butterfly knives had first become popular, they were occasionally referred to as the macho pacifier, like worry beads, the opening and closing of the two-handled knife something to occupy the hands and free the mind. “But, if Michael goes through with his idea of impersonating Martin,” Natalia went on, “all five of us will be there anyway.”

Admiral Hayes stood overlooking a tabletop display showing communications satellite positions. Com

mander Washington waited beside her. A third person, in charge of communications security for Pearl, was with them. Rourke walked toward the lighted table as this third person, Lieutenant Commander Wilma Jones, said, “We naturally took shots off the first communique, then set up for the second. His transmitter is bouncing off satellite, of course, but we feel it’s actually in the neighborhood of sixty-two North, one hundred eighteen West. You and your family will be walking into his domain, General Rourke, if I may say so, Nazi Headquarters.”

“Opinion noted, Commander,” Rourke told her, standing beside her, looking down at the display. “He’s evidently quite confident of pulling off more than a trade or he would have picked a more neutral spot in order to safeguard the location of his facility.

“Agreed,” Commander Washington nodded. “It’ll be a tough insertion, but we can put a specially equipped SEAL Team in there to back you up. Arctic gear, the works.”

“Have them standing by, but don’t insert,” Rourke advised Commander Washington.

Admiral Hayes cleared her throat. “Dr. Rourke?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“We can’t afford to lose you to him. If Zimmer had you he could dictate terms. Even if military thinking were to the contrary, public opinion would be such that we would have no choice. Have you watched the television lately, or read the compunews?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” Rourke admitted. Television news, with its ability to editorialize through selective revelation, had never engaged his interest. Compunews was fine, but in the last few days there had been no time to boot up the computer terminal in his quarters and read.

“There’s a cult of personality growing up around you, Dr. Rourke, as a symbol of what the United States once was. If there were a Presidential election being held tomorrow, you’d win in a landslide.”

John Rourke smiled, feeling slightly embarrassed. “Political aspirations are something I’ve never possessed, Admiral, let me assure you. And if Zimmer were to get the upper hand on us, I’m sure I speak for my entire family when I say I would expect you to do whatever you had to do as regards safeguarding national security. If we make our bed, we’ll lie in it.”

“It’s fine for you, Doctor, to encourage us to do what is logical rather than what is expedient. Nonetheless, you’re risking a great deal, Dr. Rourke, a very great deal. This is an obvious trap, we’re all agreed. Five of you will be no match for Zimmer’s elite SS units.”

Commander Washington interjected, “That SEAL Team can be positioned to close in within under two minutes, barring terrain in the immediate vicinity being too flat for cover. And even then, we can pull it off. Unless the Admiral says I can’t have my men there, they’ll be there, Doctor.”

John Rourke looked at Washington as he said, “You can’t be close enough for Zimmer to spot you. Not just visually but electronically. We’re talking about the lives of not only my wife and Generaloberst Mann, but also Michael’s life.”

“Then you’ll do it!” Michael almost shouted.

John Rourke turned to his son. “What choice do I have but for you to pass yourself off as Martin?”

There was no choice. Putting Michael into cryogenic

sleep just might work, if they could outguess how Deitrich Zimmer would have planned to outguess them, assuming they might substitute Michael for Martin as part of a countermeasure. But correspondingly, Michael would be highly vulnerable and unable to be of any direct assistance to them.

However he figured it, for once John Rourke was unable to plan ahead.

Sixteen

His methods were considered almost mystical by some, he knew, and the thought amused him, especially that they had remained so for more than one hundred twenty-five years. The key to his success at the operating table in procedures of the most extraordinarily delicate nature was the use of virtual reality techniques coupled with computer simulation, an area in which he had pioneered.

Computer simulations were employed in all manner of disciplines ever since the latter portion of the twentieth century, when virtual reality methodology was also developed. But the combination of the two was in its infancy then. Computer simulations were high-tech and complex, while virtual reality was still relegated to being little better than interactive video.

The concept of virtual reality was quite simple, but its perfect execution required equipment which, in the twentieth century, was not yet perfected. Virtual reality was a means by which a living human being could, via physical stimulation, mentally enter another

universe, which could be so believable that, when used properly and assisted by drug therapy, the subject could be convinced that he had actually been there physically. In its more conventional application, indeed what it was designed for in the first place, it allowed the subject to vicariously experience physical action inside a computer program.

In the beginning, there was cumbersome headgear, and one or two motion-sensor-equipped gloves, the headgear giving visual stimulation to the wearer’s eyes and ears and the gloves, linked as well to the computer program, allowing the program to read hand movements and simulate their results within the computer image which was also transmitted through the headgear.

It was possible, in the earliest days, for a person outfitted properly to reach to a “wall inside a room” on the computer screen and strike a “light switch,” none of which of course existed at all. The possibilities for the system, in the days Before the Night of the War, were seen as limitless.

In that respect, Deitrich Zimmer saluted those pioneering researchers; they had been quite right.

Through the use of virtual reality Deitrich Zimmer was able to perform simulated operations, actually perform them, not just rehearse. He had added his own special twist, and in it lay the reason why no one had yet attained his degree of perfection. Utilizing a high-speed digitized video-editing apparatus and wearing a complete body suit designed to read and translate his motor responses, he could even experience the sore feet and locked knees of standing for hours at the operating table. The video material was of actual patient operations, in all stages, both the successes and the failures. The programs which controlled the digitized video edits were keyed to his responses, constantly shifting to meet the demands of the situation.

It was bloodless surgery which could be done and redone until it was not only gotten right, but done perfectly. Appliances of his own design enabled him to expand his skills still further.

In some ways, however, the operation which he was about to perform—he had rehearsed it for more than a year—was his most delicate yet. Not only the life of the patient depended on it, but so did the life of his son.

His one last review—an edited video from his final and most successful virtual reality practice session— was complete. Deitrich Zimmer stood up from the console, activated the foot controls and signalled for his surgical assistants to begin.

Looking through the glass of the control booth, he could see the pace quicken as the personnel surrounded the table.

Zimmer activated the door control switch—again, foot controlled—and went through the doorway into the operating theater. Like the other personnel, he wore a state-of-the-art surgical environment suit, the design his own, physically matching the feel of his virtual reality suit, completely self-contained, even for breathing.

There was no possibility of contamination either way, from surgical staff to patient or patient to surgical staff.

Entry to the area containing the operating theaters was through a series of clean rooms employing air locks.

Dietrich Zimmer approached the table.

Below the neck, yet allowing for access to the heart, should that be required, the body was tented. Only a very small portion of the skull—six centimeters square—was shaved.

Zimmer made a last survey of his instruments.

He looked to each of his assistants in turn, getting eye contact and moving on. That each person was in top form was mandatory, because the operation would, perforce, have to move with total efficiency.

Lastly, he looked at the face of the patient. A mask would be placed over the face, allowing for instantaneous application of additional oxygen when required.

Sarah Rourke was rather pretty.

seventeen

She had just done the stupidest thing anyone in the military could ever do, volunteer.

“Oddly enough, Commander Shaw, if you had not volunteered I would have requested that you do so. I couldn’t think of a better pilot or wing commander.”

She didn’t know what to say. Finally, “Thank you, Admiral.”

“Just remember something, Commander. In one respect, I’m letting you go against my better judgement.”

Emma Shaw looked at Admiral Thelma Hayes and realized that she blinked.

Admiral Hayes’s eyes softened and she smiled. “Nothing to do with your abilities, Commander. I realize there was something between you and Dr. Rourke. And, well, with his wife perhaps back in the picture, I didn’t want your mind on anything besides your mission. I’m not trying to interfere in your personal life, but I’ve known you on and off for years, and followed your career in naval aviation. You’re a hot shot, and sometimes that can be great, but most of