Survivalist - 15.5 - Mid-Wake (26 page)

out. You understand?”

“Yes, doctor,” and she leaned up to him, her arms going around his neck tight, her lips touching his cheek. He held her for an instant. “Don’t get killed.”

“I don’t intend to.” Rourke smiled. “You’re a good Marine and a fine woman. Now, hang tough and give me ten minutes. Need my watch?”

“No—I can keep track of the time.”

Rourke released her and started up through the hatchway, Lisa calling to him, “All clear forward—and aft too. At least on the video screens.”

Rourke kept going, calling back to her, “Lock the hatch from the inside and check that all other entryways are secure.”

“Yes, sir!”

Rourke slammed the hatch behind him and moved across the APCs superstructure, one AKM-96 slung beneath each arm now, a full carrier of magazines and both Detonics pistols loaded and ready to go, the Crain Life Support System X hanging at his left side. He made a mental note to find high-tensile-strength nylon cord if he got out of this alive so he could rewrap the haft of the Crain knife fully. He jumped from the superstructure of the APC to the grass which fronted the officers’ residence.

The entire military command dome seemed almost empty. A Gullwing was trying for the tunnel, perhaps to join the battle by the submarine pens. The red emergency lights were a little brighter here, and there were more of them. He broke into a dead run for the main entrance. Lisa had told him one valuable piece of intelligence as they had eluded the APCs on the street and made for the tunnel leading into the dome here. All field-grade officers were given top-floor apartments. Kerenin was a major… .

There were a half dozen of the Scout subs at dockside in the pens and Aldridge—after setting up a ragged but, he hoped, sufficiently effective defensive perimeter—had

asked for volunteers who felt they could crew the little subs. There was a sufficient number to handle half again as many subs as were available. He had ordered them to board, assuming the Scout subs were empty of crew but not taking any chances, sending a party armed with AKM-96s ahead into each of the craft first.

He had been mentally logging the minutes. Rourke was taking his sweet time rescuing his friend.

And Aldridge made a decision. “Martha!”

“Captain!” The woman ran from the edge of the dock toward him, one of the Soviet rifles in her right fist. “Sir?”

“Look—I got somethin’ to do. You’re in charge here. You got the rank for it anyway with me gone. Now—get everybody aboard the Scout subs and pull in your defensive people when the last hatch is gonna close, then get away from the docks so you’re ready for the deep-water passage. Make a formation so you can defend each other, then get through that tunnel into the lagoon for the main sub pens. If you encounter one of the Soviet monster subs, get the hell out. If you don’t, wait for me as long as it seems practical.”

“Where you going, captain?”

“After Rourke. Like he said about the lady. She woulda done the same for him. Well, he did the same for us.” “Need some volunteers?”

Aldridge grinned. “Didn’t you ever learn, Martha? Only assholes volunteer.” Aldridge slipped his rifle forward on its sling and broke into a jog trot toward the fence. When he reached the fence, he looked behind him. The Chinese who had served as their guide, two of his Marines, and another Chinese, the one who spoke English and was probably some kind of spy, were tailing after him.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?”

It was the English-speaking Chinese who spoke. “You are their commander, not mine. And, at any event, we volunteered. These rifles are useless once our people are aboard the small submarines. So …” The Chinese smiled.

Aldridge just shook his head and kept moving.

There were two Marine Spetznas guards at the desk inside the foyer beyond the plexiglas doors. Rourke had crouched beside a hedgerow, seeing them although they were unable to see him. There would be other entrances, but the guards would need terminating in any event in order to make an effective escape.

Rourke moved from the hedgerow, firing a burst from an AKM-96 toward the joining of the two doors, chunks of the plexiglas and the locking mechanism falling away, his left foot kicking in against the doors, the doors swinging open. As he stepped inside, he fired an AKM-96 in each fist, cutting down the two guards as they rose from their desk.

Beyond their desk were potted plants, a table, two chairs, and a couch, all very modern-looking, then a corridor with elevator banks on both sides, and at the end of the corridor a doorway marked “Stairs.”

Rourke ran for the stairs.

It was all too easy and he knew he was walking into a trap—or rather running into one… .

Her tongue felt thick, but she could talk a little and she called out in the red-tinged darkness to Kerenin. “What did—did you …”

“I did not rape you. There was no time. Lie still. I know he is coming. There is an armored personnel carrier parked outside and I heard gunfire in the hall. He is coming.”

Natalia tried to move, but she was tied to the bed again, her wrists and ankles bound. “John!” She screamed his name. And Kerenin only laughed… .

Feyedorovitch climbed into his Gullwing again. The Scout subs that had pulled away from the docks would

have all of the escapees aboard. He leaned forward, telling his driver, “The military dome—and hurry!”

From his belt, he took his communicator. “This is Captain Feyedorovitch of the Marine Spetznas. I request a frequency link with Naval Defense. Quickly. This is maximum priority.” The submarines could get them, even if the Scout subs made it out of the lagoon and into open water. It took some time for the submarines to launch, and they could make no real speed in the lagoon, the Scout subs easily able to outmaneuver and outdistance them. But once they were out of the lagoon, there would be no chance of the Scout subs evading the larger craft or defending themselves against the superior weapons which would be used against them.

But he knew that one man would not be aboard the Scout subs. He was beginning to think there was no Wolfgang Heinz of German Intelligence. This had to be the John Rourke of whom the Russian woman had spoken. And this John Rourke would not leave her behind.

He got his frequency cleared, “I must speak with the duty officer for the submarine pens immediately. This is Boris Feyedorovitch, Marine Spetznas Captain, and this is a maximum priority communication. I repeat—” But already, he was being switched… .

Aldridge had circled around to the far side of the Scout sub pens, and there were more than two-dozen armored personnel carriers there, some of them already withdrawing. So far, he thought, so good.

The crews of the APCs stood about their vehicles, their expressions ranging from intensity to boredom, their individual weapons leaned against the sides of their vehicles or slung over their shoulders.

“That one,” Aldridge whispered, gesturing toward the APC nearest his five volunteers. It had a clear means of getting from the pens onto the street and the crew looked particularly vulnerable. He thought of the old expression about a marriage made in heaven.

“Do what I do, unless I do something dumb—move out.” He started ahead, angling between the hedges which separated the drive which ringed the dome from the greenway on which the APCs were parked. There was no traffic on this portion of the driveway, all non-military traffic barred, he assumed, because of the military emergency.

Aldridge stopped, signaling the men with him to do the same. He wondered if Martha had thought to inquire if all the volunteers could swim, because that was the only way, if they pulled it off, they would reach the Scout subs. He knew his own people could. Citizens of Mid-Wake were taught to be as at home in the water as on dry land from birth. If the Chinese guys couldn’t, they’d learn fast enough.

He slung his rifle back. He gestured with his hands toward the six crewmen of the APC. His volunteers nodded, understanding, he hoped, that without total silence all was lost.

Aldridge started from the hedgerow, breaking into a crouching run, eyeballing the largest of the six men and taking him as his own target. The Marine Spetznas started to turn toward him, as if sensing him. The Russian started to open his mouth, as if to cry out. Aldridge slammed his full body weight against the man, hands going for the throat, thumbs closing over the windpipe… .

Feyedorovitch took his AKM-96 from the seat beside him. Once they had turned into the access tunnel, he had realized he was right, seeing the wreckage of several Gullwings and the destroyed guard kiosk.

His driver turned the Gullwing toward the officers’ quarters on the far side of the dome, where Comrade Major Kerenin was barracked.

“Stop the car—now!”

The Gullwing skidded, stopped, Feyedorovitch activating the doors himself, stepping out, his AKM-96 in his

right hand. An armored personnel carrier was parked on the grass which fronted Kerenin’s quarters, the vehicle’s engine still running.

Boris Feyedorovitch started laughing and he couldn’t stop, really didn’t want to stop.

John Rourke had reached the top floor without encountering resistance, the only shots fired his, after he had entered the building.

He stood just inside the doorway leading from the stairwell, the dim light perfect for his eyes, less perfect for the eyes of his adversaries—he hoped.

Rourke opened the door, swinging it in toward him, stepping away from it as it opened and framing himself just inside the doorway so he could see along the length of the hall. The nearest door bore the name of another major. Rourke almost felt like writing the Soviet High Command a thank-you note for being so accommodating as to place names on the apartment doors.

He reached into the case in which he had the spare magazines for the AKM-96s, extracting one of the partially spent ones he had used when he had entered the building. With his right thumb—the pain in his right hand was something of which he was barely aware, despite its intensity—he edged a half dozen of the caseless 4.86mm cartridges from the magazine lips. He put the magazine away in the case and hefted the six cartridges. He hurtled them into the hallway, across the slick-looking tiled floor.

Nothing happened.

John Rourke glanced at his Rolex. Three minutes gone, seven or so until Lisa, if she followed orders, would take the APC and run for it.

He stepped into the hallway.

Slowly, keeping to the stairwell side, he walked ahead. In American reckoning, this was the seventh floor. On the way up, he had peered through the small, reinforced plexiglas window in each door and seen nothing, no activity. It seemed the same here. He was beginning to think Kerenin had lied. But at the time there would have been no purpose.

“She has to be here—she has to be here,” he repeated under his breath.

John Rourke stopped.

He saw the right combination of Cyrillic characters— Olav Kerenin, Major.

It was the door at the end of the hallway, commanding the entire hall.

And finally, John Rourke thought he understood.

He stepped away from the wall, swinging the second AKM-96 forward as well now.

He stood in the hallway. “Kerenin. I finally got here.”

He heard a scream—Natalia, calling his name, her voice sounding pained somehow. He walked ahead. “Kerenin. Come on.”

He kept walking.

Kerenin’s door swung open inward and Rourke stopped in mid-stride, his body tensing.

“If you want the woman, John Rourke—come and get her. Now!”

John Rourke started walking again.

Natalia screamed, “John—he’s waiting for you—” There was the sound of an automatic weapon triggering a short burst and Natalia screamed again.

John Rourke broke into a dead run for the door, knowing he was doing what Kerenin wanted, not caring, throwing himself through the doorway in a roll, gunfire ripping into the wall inches from his head coming from the end of the apartment’s narrow hallway. John Rourke fired both assault rifles and was up, throwing himself against the opposite wall. It was darker inside the apartment. “You missed me, bastard!”

“I did not miss her!”

John Rourke fought to control his breathing. His palms sweated. His mouth was dry. He licked his lips and edged forward. “If you killed her, kill yourself now because it will be easier for you than having me do it.” He kept edging along the hallway wall, the rifle in his left fist stabbed forward into the red-tinged grayness, the rifle in his right hand raised slightly and almost against the wall.

“Are you coming for me, John Rourke?”

“I am coming for you, Olav Kerenin.”

And suddenly the narrow hallway was bathed in brilliant light and John Rourke could see Kerenin in the doorway, an assault rifle in his fists. Rourke stepped away from the wall, his eyes squinted against the sudden brightness, and he fired, both assault rifles simultaneously. The image of Olav Kerenin shattered, glass fragments flying as the—a mirror—as the mirror exploded. At the far left corner of his peripheral vision, John Rourke saw the open door and started to wheel toward it and at the same time throw his body left, but Kerenin’s assault rifle opened it, John Rourke feeling as if something were hammering into his chest and abdomen, his body slamming back against the hallway wall as the assault rifles fell from his grasp. Rourke’s body skidded along the wall, another burst, Rourke’s left leg swept from under him, and he fell, both hands going for the twin stainless Detonics pistols, his right forearm taking a hit, but his fist still grasping the little .45. His left hand stabbed forward as Kerenin stepped into the hallway, then his right, Kerenin wheeling toward him, the muzzle of Kerenin’s AKM-96 coming up.

“You were easier to kill than I thought you would be. Two full-length mirrors and a field floodlight. Now the woman is mine.”

John Rourke fired both Detonics pistols simultaneously, double-tapping them, then again, Kerenin’s body slamming back along the wall, his AKM-96 discharging into the floor. Kerenin’s rifle fell from his grasp, clattered to the floor.

In English, the words coming hard through the pain, John Rourke hissed, “Kiss your ass good-bye, mother