Survivalist - 15.5 - Mid-Wake (42 page)

He was beside the hull. If the skin of the submarine had sensing equipment, he doubted it would be so sensitized as to detect his presence. Otherwise, every good-sized sea creature which came near it would set alarms ringing. He hoped. He broke the surface and looked right and left and then above. There was no sign of anyone.

Michael Rourke moved laterally along the hull toward the berth for the launch and the ladder which serviced it—on closer inspection he was convinced that was the purpose now. He reached the ladder, then tucked down, slitting open the duffel bag at the top, reaching inside and extracting the large poly bag which held his weapons and his clothing. He had the bag now and used his knife to free himself of the harness, the duffel bag sinking away. He smiled as he surfaced his head and took in air. He had packed a rock into the bag so it would sink away. Like his father, he had planned ahead.

He reached out for the ladder now, moving the poly bag against the lower rungs to make sure that it was not electrified. It was not. The copy of the Life Support System I old Jan the swordmaker had crafted for him after the centuries-old pattern was ill-suited to carrying in the teeth—because of its weight, certainly, but more importantly because of the saw teeth that ran along the blade spine. But, carefully, he brought it to his mouth and clenched his teeth to the steel. The bag with his belongings in his left fist, he started up the rungs.

He heard motor noises behind him and looked to his left—around the prow of the vessel he could see the launch coming. He quickened his pace, reaching the deck and sliding his nearly naked body through the access in the deck rail, the knife back in his fist again.

Michael looked to right and left. All that he knew about submarines was from videotape movies and books and the

story Natalia had recounted of her and his father being taken aboard a U.S. submarine for what was to have been a special mission to the West Coast of the United States, but had turned out to be an attempt to seize control of an unfired U.S. nuclear weapon. There was a series a hatches here on the deck—for missile-launching? He ran toward the sail, nearly slipping in his bare feet. As he neared the massive sail, two uniformed men came from around the other side.

They saw him, shouted. . Michael’s guns were inaccessible to him. He charged toward them as they went for pistols in holsters at their right hips. If he dove into the water, they’d get him and any chance at reaching his father would be gone.

He dove for them, impacting both men at once, the knife gouging into the chest of the man nearest his right hand, Michael and the two Russians impacting the deckplates. He rolled clear, wrenching his knife from the chest of the man he had stabbed, the second man going for his pistol, Michael slashing the knife diagonally upward across the man’s right forearm and abdomen as the gun started moving from the holster, the gun—some peculiar-looking automatic—clattering to the deck. The man’s eyes opened wide in pain or fear or bewilderment, Michael wasn’t*sure which as he brought the knife back and across, ripping open the man’s throat.

The poly bag with his guns—it was too many steps away and Michael dove for the fallen automatic pistol, finding what he hoped was the safety as more men came from around the sail now. Michael stabbed the pistol toward them and fired, the pistol making a strange “plop” sound each time he fired, men swatting at points of impact, still coining for him. What kind of pistol was this? he thought. He emptied it toward the men, then body-blocked into one of them near him who was charging for him just as the man went for his own gun and Michael simultaneously realized his peculiar pistol was empty.

They rolled across the deck, the man’s hands going for Michael’s throat, Michael’s right elbow snaDoine out and

back, finding something hard and suddenly yielding as the man shouted words in Russian that were unmistakably a curse. And then Michael was clear of him, to his knees. The men Michael had shot with the odd pistol were starting to stagger and drop. Michael threw himself toward the bag as another of the Russians came at him. Michael had the bag, rolled, slashing outward with the knife, which was now in his left hand, catching the man across the shins, the man screaming. To his knees now, to his feet. Michael started for the rail. It was time to abandon the plan in favor of withdrawal.

As he neared the rail he felt it, in the small of his back, then another and another, like pinpricks across his back and shoulders, and he lurched forward, nausea sweeping over him in a wave, and he reached out toward the rail, the knife falling from his hand and clattering to the deck plates.

He staggered.

His eyes were washed with green, and suddenly the cold of his nakedness was replaced with cold sweat, and he reached for the rail with both hands—where was the bag?—and …

Paul Rubenstein froze. As he had finally reached the beach—the Russian guard had climbed back into his truck after defecating in a neat pile beside it—Paul had seen the fight. It was Michael, clearly. And he saw Michael Rourke shot down.

There had been no sounds of gunfire—pistols with integral silencers?

He started into the surf, the Schmeisser in his right fist. And he looked hard at the submarine, its immensity. He looked at the gun in his hand. He dropped to his knees in the water.

“There has to be a way!” he shouted into the wind. And as he looked up, there were more men flooding onto the Soviet submarine’s deck, and he could see several men in the uniforms of Karamatsov’s KGB Elite Corps and

some of the others—not Elite Corpsmen but men of the submarine crew presumably—were carrying Michael’s naked-looking body between them like a sack of something.

He could swim out to the craft. He could try to board it. Even if Michael were … Maybe his father still lived.

Paul Rubenstein‘8 breath was coming hard. “You damn fool!” Paul shouted into the wind. He knew no one heard him. “God bless you.” He prayed someone heard him.

Paul got up from his knees. He ran back into the rocks, stripping off the Schmeisser and the musette bag full of spare magazines for it and the High Power. He pulled the High Power from his waistband. He looked up and down the beach. There would be no better place and the rocky promontory overhead could serve as a marker if he ever came back for them. He stripped away the Soviet uniform jacket and wrapped the Schmeisser into it, stuffed the High Power into the musette bag, and shoved the bag and the submachine gun into a niche in the rocks that he hoped was above the high-tide line.

He pulled off his boots and threw them on top of the guns. All he had was the Gerber Mkll knife.

It would have to be enough.

Paul Rubenstein started into the surf. With the confusion on the sub’s deck, he told himself, his chances were vastly better for sneaking on board.

He threw himself over a breaker and started swimming, swallowing water, choking on it, spitting it out. He kept going. Should have stuck with the YMCA classes longer, he told himself. He kept going. Once he boarded the submarine, if it didn’t start out before he reached it or he didn’t drown in the attempt, he had no idea what he would do.

“One thing at a time,” he said aloud, swallowing water again and spitting it out. He kept going.

Jason Darkwood’s helmet broke surface into the mist which perpetually shrouded the lagoon. And immediately, the surface of his helmet began to fog over. He touched a control on his chest pack and the helmet began to defog. He was approximately a hundred yards from the docks, Island Class submarines everywhere, a Scout sub moving low in the water about 200 yards from him. The submarines had to be given exit paths through the sonar net. Otherwise they would produce the same results as errant sharks. He logged the detail away in his mind in case he got out of here alive, which seemed rather doubtful. He felt something tug at his right leg and for an instant panicked—a shark. But it was Aldridge, he realized, tucking down beneath the surface again, letting his wings fan out around him, beating slowly, steadily, so he could hover. Darkwood gave Aldridge the OK sign and Aldridge nodded, then made hand signals to his men.

Now that they had penetrated the lagoon, there was the obvious question of where to go, but hopefully Aldridge could settle that as he had promised. Aldridge signaled to his right and Darkwood understood, letting Aldridge take the lead now that they were out of the tunnel.

The water of the lagoon was quite clear, and the brilliance of the artificial light source above was like sunlight—he had seen sunlight several times. His wings propelled him along, his hands and flippers working too now to speed him on, Aldridge doing the same ahead of him and, as Darkwood glanced back, the Marine com

mandoes doing the same as well.

He touched his chest pack and the central section of his helmet switched from vision intensification to magnification and he could see in detail ahead of them now. Some drum containers were tittered about near the base of the docks. There was even an AKM-96, old and rusted nearly to oblivion. Some Soviet Marine Spetznas had paid for that, he bet himself.

Just barely visible ahead now—the LCD rangefinder which was projected over the image in the front of his helmet read out a distance of twenty-five meters—was a ladder. It was evident that Sam Aldridge was aiming them toward it. The Sea Wings. He brought them to hover, letting the Marines pass him by, then fell in after them. Ahead, Aldridge was ascending the ladder.

Accelerating the vibration of his wings, Darkwood glided toward Aldridge, then hovered, Aldridge half up the ladder, wings cocooned. As Darkwood looked up, Aldridge’s helmet broke the surface, then quickly drew back. The Marine captain touched the crown of his helmet to Darkwood’s. “We’re right between the Scout pens and the lagoon. I say we go for it. Nobody I could see in the immediate vicinity.”

“You and I go for it. You first since you’ve been a guest here.”

“I figured you’d say that, Jason.” He turned in the water and touched helmets with Tom Stanhope briefly, then turned back to Darkwood. He nodded he was ready, then started for the ladder, unlimbering a stolen Russian PV-26 anti-shark/anti-personnel gun. In this instance, the Russian product was better than the American. Darkwood did the same, following Aldridge onto the ladder.

Aldridge’s right foot bumped his helmet and Darkwood dodged back, nearly losing his hold on the ladder, regaining it, continuing up after him. Not a propitious beginning, he thought. He touched his chest pack and switched off magnification and rangefinding.

Darkwood’s helmet broke the surface, and already Al-dridee was dashing across the dock toward the cover of

some parts containers, cylindrically shaped and at least five feet in diameter.

Darkwood pushed himself up onto the dock and ran as well, already starting to feel the loss of oxygen in the atmosphere here, dodging behind the cylindrical containers and to his knees beside Aldridge. Aldridge’s helmet was already removed, Darkwood starting to do the same, gasping air as he broke the seal.

Darkwood shook his head to clear it. Breaking Atmosphere, as the Russians called it, was never pleasant after a dive of such long duration. The body got strangely used to breathing one kind of air, and the sudden change gave a momentary feeling of nausea.

Darkwood started to open the hermetically sealed container pouch built into his environment suit, drawing his pistol. He looked at it for a moment—“U.S. Government Model 2418 A2, Cal. 9mm LC”—then worked the magazine release catch to pull the fifteen-round magazine and replaced it with one of the thirty-rounders that stuck out of the butt but afforded double the firepower. As he looked at Aldridge, he saw that the Marine captain had done the same.

“So—we clear, you think, Sam?”

“As clear as you can be here, yeah, Jason.”

“Go get the guys and I’ll cover you.”

“Right.”

Darkwood moved toward the edge of the makeshift cover as Aldridge crossed the dock and swung down over the side and disappeared for half a second, then reappeared. Aldridge stayed in a crouch, his 2418 A2 Lancer in both fists. The A2 was a better gun, titanium-framed rather than alloy, the slide-release catch ambidextrous like the safety rather than switchable for left-handed use like the Al.

Tom Stanhope reached the dock, the rest of the Marines swarming over behind him, Aldridge pointing them toward the cylindrical containers where Darkwood already was, Darkwood stepping out and letting them pass, some of

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armed with the Soviet PV-26s.

Aldridge was the last one to reach cover/concealment, and Darkwood ducked behind the packing materials just after them. They started stripping away their Sea Wings and the environment suits as they talked, two of the Marine raiders on guard, their 2418 A2s drawn. These two had been designated to return to the comparative safety of the lagoon with the underwater gear for the rest of the team.

Darkwood was out of his environment suit, the black penetration suit beneath it. He took the hood from the compartment on his left thigh and pulled it over his head, only the center of his face unrestrained by the hood. He secured the spare magazine from the hermetic pack on his environment suit to the chest pouches of the penetration suit, all except the fifteen-rounder, which he secured in the thigh pocket that would form the holster if he ever got to put the 2418 A2 away. He doubted he would. He took his knife from the right-leg calf-sheath on his environment suit and resheathed it on the right calf of his penetration suit. The issue knife was a good knife, but there were still people who made knives for a hobby or to supplement their incomes, and they found ready customers among the Marines and some of the Navy personnel as well. Darkwood had found the best of the custom-makers and worked with the man to design a fighting knife that would fit his needs.

He secured the safety strap to lock the knife into its sheath. To his left thigh he secured the grenade array, standard high-explosive, sound/light, and smoke.

Darkwood looked at Sam Aldridge, Aldridge identically attired except for the knife. Aldridge’s personal knife had been with him when he had been captured and was, he assumed, gone forever. A standard-issue blade rode where it would have been.