Survivalist - 15.5 - Mid-Wake (47 page)

Darkwood exhaled so loudly that he realized it sounded like a sigh. This was not a permanent obstacle, only a delay. They had explosives with them which could easily have blown the hatch, but the resultant explosion would not only deafen them in the confined space of the tunnel, but might kill them as well. There was the ancillary benefit that the noise of the explosion would alert every security man and Marine Spetznas in the area.

“This isn’t an explosives job,” he said aloud to Sam Adlridge behind him. “Which one of your men has the magnetic pick?”

“Harkness—job for you. Up the ladder, corporal.”

“Yes, sir.”

Darkwood pushed past the access pipe and so did Aldridge, and so did Stanhope.

Harkness—short for a Marine but solidly built—moved forward on knees and elbows and stood up into the pipe. “Could one of you gentlemen please pass up my pack, sirs.’

Darkwood reached for it. but Stanhone alreadv had it.

“Whatchya need, Harkness?”

“The magnetic pick, of course, sir, and the clamps. But I can’t get the clamps up here while I’m using the pick.”

“Pick coming up,” Stanhope grunted. “I’ll be standing by with the clamps, corporal—tell me when.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Harkness’s voice sounded hollow, reverberating out of the pipe. Darkwood hoped it wasn’t traveling through into the detention area that should be directly above. “Keep the noise to a minimum, corporal, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Darkwood wiped his right sleeve across his forehead again, hearing the scratching sounds of the magnetic pick being positioned. If it worked right and the operating wheel for the hatch had any ferrous metal in it, the wheel could be worked open from this side. If the operating wheel weren’t metal at all, it was back to the unpleasant prospect of using explosives on it.

Darkwood shone his light against the face of his chronometer. Unlike most men these days, he still preferred analog readouts rather than digital, but digital was necessary, so he had saved his money and purchased a Steinmetz, the only handmade watch on the market. It had sucked up two months’ pay like water through a drinking straw, but he had never regretted the purchase. Aside from dual display, it was the best diving chronometer made.

And the Steinmetz showed Darkwood that he was running out of time. If he didn’t get the woman in time to allow sufficient travel time back to the docks, and then swim-out time through the sonar tunnel, if Sebastian followed orders, the Reagan would move from its position near the Pillars of Woe and head for the open sea.

Both the analog and digital displays of the Steinmetz kept ticking away ….

Had the situation been as it was when she had been in

the detention area before, as soon as she was left alone she

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and taken her own life.

But Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna realized now that, although she might save herself, she would be acting in a cowardly fashion. And there were more important considerations to take into account. She might be able to kill her husband. But more importantly than that, she had to attempt to aid Michael. With his father dead, he would be more vital than ever. And it was what John Rourke would have wanted her to do.

She had been taken from the great marble hall and held in an antechamber for some time, and without a word as to why, she had then been ordered to move on and started down toward the detention area.

She had cooperated.

Escape was impossible and her goal now was not escape, but to reach the submarine aboard which Michael was incarcerated, at best to help Michael to escape, at worst to be taken to her husband and to have the chance to murder him, slaughter him like the animal that he was.

Her six guards completely encircled her as they descended along the moving staircase toward the lowest level of the detention area where the maximum-security and suicide-watch cells were located. She hoped they would not order her to undress again.

At the base of the moving staircase as they started to turn into the corridor, she heard something, and so too apparently did the leader of the guard detail. The leader, one of the three women, signaled a halt to the detail and called out along the corridor—in Russian, of course— mquiring if something were wrong. An answer came back that a chair had been overturned. The woman seemed to consider this, then physically shrugged and ordered detail and prisoner ahead.

Natalia sensed something. She did not know what. She slowly began focusing energy, preparing herself. But who? Had Michael escaped the submarine and come looking for her? Had they told Michael she was here? For a fleeting instant she thought of, and almost said aloud, the name of John Rourke. But he was dead and—

There was movement to her right as they entered the detention cell block and she dodged left, figures in black darting from an unelectrified cell, others from behind a desk, two others dropping from the ceiling.

The leader of the guard detail was the only one armed with an assault rifle instead of one of the dart pistols, and Natalia hurtled herself at the woman, Natalia’s left hand grabbing for the rifle as her right hand went for the throat. She hammered the guard-detail leader to the floor. There were thudding sounds, muted cries, all around her, Natalia’s left hand pinning the assault rifle to the floor, her right hand releasing the woman’s throat for an instant, then balling into a fist and crossing the woman’s jaw hard once, then again and again, the woman’s body going limp under her.

Natalia started to grab for the rifle. A gloved man’s hand reached it simultaneously. “You must be Major Tiemerovna. I mean, you do speak English, right?”

She tracked the voice to the face, her hand and his hand still on the rifle. He stood over her, crouched slightly, in his right hand a pistol that looked vaguely similar to a Beretta 92F but with an impossibly long extension magazine. “I speak English.”

“Good. I’m Commander Jason Darkwood, Captain of the United States Attack Submarine Reagan. You’re John Rourke’s friend.”

There was no hesitation when he said the word “friend,” as if he were making more of it. “How do you know?”

“Well, Doctor Rourke told us about you for—”

She was to her feet before she realized it, the palms of her hands flat against his chest. His dark brown eyes sparkled with a mixture of amusement and concern, and what she could see of his face beneath the hood which covered his hair and obscured the sides of his face seemed to exude strength. “John is—”

“Alive? You bet he is, ma’am.” She turned to the new voice. A black man. About the same height as the white man against whose chest her hands still rested. “I don’t know if he got the chance to mention me before he fell off

that balcony, but I’m Captain Sam Aldridge, United States Marine Corps. John Rourke was being operated on but the notion was that he’d be fine. Had the best doctor at Mid-Wake. So, unless something went wrong, ma’am …”

She turned from the man named Darkwood and threw her arms around the black Marine captain’s neck and kissed him full on the lips. “Thank you—bless you.” She inhaled, feeling light-headed suddenly as if she were going to faint. She looked at the other man, the first man, went to him, embraced him, and kissed his cheek.

“I like that—the Marine gets a kiss on the lips ands the Navy guy who got him here gets a kiss on the cheek.”

“Hey, what can I say, Jason?” She heard the black Marine captain laugh.

She rectified the situation and kissed Darkwood on the lips. And she felt herself going faint and his arms going around her… .

Natalia opened her eyes. It hadn’t been a dream. The man named Darkwood and the man named Sam something looked down at her. Her head was resting on something, and she realized it was a backpack. Both Darkwood and Sam had removed their hoods. Sam had close-cropped kinky hair and a high forehead. Darkwood’s hair looked almost too long for a Naval officer’s and was richly dark and rumpled with curls. Darkwood smiled down at her, “I don’t usually have that effect on women, Major Tiemerovna.”

She felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “And I’m not usually the fainting type. It’s just that—I thought—”

“I understand you and Doctor Rourke have been close for quite some years, major. If you thought he was dead and now you know he isn’t, well, the reaction’s purely understandable. You up to travelling? I think we need to get out of here.”

Sam nodded. “That’s for sure.”

“Both of you—all of you.” She looked at the two officers and die twelve men, most of them clustered near her, some guarding the entrance to the detention cells. “I can never repay you.”

“That kiss was good enough for me.” Darkwood smiled. She felt herself blushing again. “How about you, Captain Aldridge?”

“Good enough for me, too, Captain.”

She sat up. “Easy, ma’am.” Sam—Aldridge, that’s what it was—warned her.

“I’m—ahh—fine, really.”

“I wasn’t sure what kind of person to expect. We don’t usually go around rescuing Soviet officers. And if you’re five centuries old, well I’ve just gotten a new insight into older women.”

“Please, commander—or should I say captain?”

“My rank’s commander, my position is Captain. Call me Jason, major. Makes it easier.”

“Jason—Sam. Please. I am Natalia.”

“All right, Natalia. I think we have to get going.”

He helped her to her feet. Then he handed her a pistol like the one she had seen him holding. She looked at the flat of the slide. “U.S. Government Model 2418 A2, Cal 9mm L.C.” It had an ambidextrous safety, an ambidextrous slide release, and balanced well. “How many rounds?”

“Thirty with that extension magazine, plus one in die chamber, 9mm Lancer Caseless. Maximum effective combat range seventy-five yards, if you’re good.”

“I’m good.” She smiled.

“If you’re that good, take these.” And he handed her a shoulder-slung black bag. It was a magazine case, and as she draped it cross body she could tell by feel there were six magazines in it. “Is there a pocket in that thing you’re wearing?”

“Yes.”

“Here—the standard magazine. Fifteen rounds.” Darkwood handed her a standard-length double-column magazine and she Docketed it.

“Are we going to get Michael or is there another team out?”

“Who’s Michael?” Aldridge asked her.

Her heart sank for a moment. “He’s John Rourke’s son. They have him prisoner aboard the submarine which just came in.”

She saw a worried look enter Jason Darkwood’s pretty eyes. “A little boy, huh?”

“He’s thirty years old.”

“Then how old is Rourke?” Sam Aldridge asked her. “He looks like he’s in his middle to late thirties.” “He is.”

“Then how can he have a thirty-year old son?” Darkwood asked.

“Trust me—there’s no time to explain.”

Darkwood looked at her. “All right, we try for the son. But we still have to get out of here.”

“The tunnel, Captain?” Aldridge asked.

Darkwood looked at him. “Gonna have to be.” He looked at Natalia. “Were they taking you with Rourke’s son?”

“Yes. I was supposed to be a peace offering to my husband. He’s the commander of the Soviet forces on the surface. He has a very powerful army and is trying to obtain nuclear capabilities. He’s an evil man. If this Soviet state allies with Marshal Karamatsov—”

“Your husband?”

“Yes,” she told Aldridge. “If there is an alliance, there will be a nuclear war again. I’m sure of it. And the atmosphere on the surface couldn’t take it, and I think it would mean the end of everything this time. For good.”

“Our friends under the domes have nuclear capabilities and have strong interests in conquering the surface, it appears—has appeared for some time,” Darkwood told her. “You might be right about that alliance.” He exhaled loudly. “You’re saying that without you as a gift to him— a peace offering—and without Rourke’s son, the alliance might go in the dumper for a little bit?”

“It would be impeded—yes.” She nodded. “And for

God’s sake …” There was an odd look in Darkwood’s eyes. “What did I say?”

“It just sounded odd for a Soviet officer to invoke God.”

“If it looks like things are going bad …” But she really didn’t know what to say.

“I get the idea.”

She wondered if he did.

“We’re leaving, major—stick close.” Darkwood called to Aldridge, who was already starting further back into the detention-cell block. “Sam—have your security stick about two minutes behind us and have ‘em pick up any weapons.”

“Will do—security team—you have the word?” “We have the word, sir,” a young voice sang back. Darkwood was already moving. Natalia fell in after him.

John Rourke looked at the Rolex that was back on his left wrist, mentally making the adjustment to Mid-Wake time. It was five o’clock in the morning. He had risen an hour before, slept out with almost eight hours, restless to begin the day. He had showered, bandages replaced the previous evening, after Jacob Fellows had left, by waterproof spray-on material which protected the wound, yet was flexible enough for greater ease of movement and sufficiently porous to advance healing of the skin beneath. Biodegradable, it would eventually disappear of its own accord.

He felt good.

Ellen had been in the room by the time he had exited the shower, and had chided him as he had returned to the small bathroom to dress. It was too soon for him to be moving around so much. He had no business getting dressed in street clothes (he had asked for and received them the previous night), and where did he think he was going anyway?

As he left the bathroom, Ellen turned around from the window. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“I told you. Some patients are special.”

“So are some nurses,” Rourke told her honestly. He was starting to pull the black-knit top over his head and when he raised his arms he had a surge of pain.

“What is it?” She was beside him.

He smiled. “Not my operations.” The forearm wound was nearlv healed, as was the head wound, he had

noticed. “Just a muscle. I’m a little stiff from inactivity. And I think I took kind of a beating when I fell off that balcony.”