Survivalist - 15.5 - Mid-Wake (52 page)

The mortar bombardment would start, softening them up, but they would have to be very careful of the range because, despite Captain Grubaszikova’s bravado, Annie knew, the last thing the Russians wanted was to explode the trucks loaded with the deadly gas.

And she had a sudden flash of inspiration. “Maria— you and Ma-Lin. Get the others together and get them to barricade themselves immediately around the gas trucks.”

“But if the trucks are hit, Annie—”

“If the trucks are hit, any men in the vicinity will be affected anyway. But the nearer we all are to the trucks, the more careful the Russians will have to be with their fire. Just do it.”

“What about you?” Maria Leuden asked.

Annie looked at the girl and smiled. “I’ll be right along.” If she could hold to this position long enough,

Grubaszikova would lead her female soldiers up the hill. And once Grubaszikova was in range of the M-16 and Annie’s abilities … “I’ll be with you before you know it,” Annie told her.

John Rourke sat at the engineering station, the Wayne’s Engineering Officer, a pretty Eurasian-looking woman named Su Lin Davis, having left the bridge to personally supervise the monitoring of the Wayne’s portside reactor, a problem she described as “a stuck gauge most likely.” It had freed up a chair and John Rourke, determined not to leave the bridge, had needed a place to sit. Common sense and his own medical experience, the miraculous healing techniques of the Doctors at Mid-Wake notwithstanding, dictated that he was doing too much too soon after such a serious operation.

On one level of his consciousness, he monitored the activity of the bridge. The Reagan was ten minutes ahead of the Wayne in terms of reaching the fleeing Island Class submarine commandeered, it seemed, by Captain Jason Darkwood. The Reagan and the Island Classer, as they were generally called, would rendezvous in less than a minute, it appeared from the last communication between the Reagan and the Wayne.

Transmissions being sent by the stolen Island Classer were still being effectively jammed by the pursuing Soviet submarines, and so there was no definitive word as to whether or not Natalia had indeed been freed.

On a second level of consciousness, John Rourke saw to his weapons. The Life Support System X made for him five centuries before by Texan Jack Crain was as perfect as ever. The sheath had suffered in the saltwater bath it had gotten when Rourke had been taken unconscious into

the waters of the Soviet lagoon, but it was restorable. The same could be said for the double Alessi shoulder rig for the twin stainless Detonics .45s. The leather was a little dry and stiff, but would be serviceable for the time being and, with careful work, would be restorable to full functional efficiency. The sheath for the little A.G. Russell Sting IA black chrome was somewhat the worse for wear as well, blood and salt water having been a bad mixture as a leather dressing, but the knife was in excellent condition and this sheath as well could be restored. The Milt Sparks Six-Pak was in similar condition.

All told, Rourke thought, smiling ruefully, his equipment was in the same or better shape than himself at the moment, functional but requiring some restoration… .

Lang had sufficient presence of mind, despite his lack of skill, to summon Darkwood to the sonar station and for that Darkwood was grateful. “I don’t know what the noise is, sir, but it seemed to come from all four of those Island Classers that are doggin’ us.”

Darkwood took the headset and listened, then checked the visual interpretation displays on Lang’s computer consoles. “You may not know shit from shoe polish about sonar, but thank God you thought to ask. Four wireguides.”

Darkwood crossed to the navigation station in three strides and threw himself down behind the console. “Sam—relay these orders to Engineering.” There was one chance against four wireguides in a vessel that couldn’t outrun them. “Fifteen degrees right rudder and maintain full flank speed. Stand by for rudder changes.” His eyes jumped from the forward video display and the plot. They were alongside the volcanic vent which was the source of geothermal energy for the Soviet domes and for Mid-Wake. And the only chance was to take the Island Classer into the vent. “Rudder amidships and all back one third.” He worked the diving planes down. They were nearing the vent now. “Fifteen degrees left rudder and

back to all ahead full.” There was a pinnacle of rock rising almost directly ahead of them. “Rudder amidships. All stop. Blow auxilliary tanks one, three, two, and four now! Ten degrees right rudder. All ahead full—now, Sam—tell ‘em!” What he was doing was like skimming a rock off the water, he hoped. There were many ponds in the living modules of Mid-Wake, and little boys grew up skipping rocks or pennies off their surface, and he’d always been very good at it. But he had never tried it with a submarine. “Ten degrees right rudder.” He could hear the hull scraping against the upthrusting rock, feel the drag, and then there was a lurch and the Island Classer was moving up and ahead. “Rudder amidships, back one third.” He worked the diving planes again, the vent opening before them. “Fifteen degrees left rudder. AH stop. Ten degrees left rudder.” The submarine was settling into the vent. The composite video display looked like a laser light show, volcanic sediment rising in showers of spray and bursts of color. “Five degrees right rudder, all ahead two thirds. Tell Engineering to advise me if hull temperatures reach into the danger zone. Rudder amidships and all ahead full. Sonar—what’s the story on those four wireguides?”

“Looks like they’re still on our tail, Captain. But my sonar is going nutso. There’s noise everywhere.”

“Keep your fingers crossed those four wireguides are having the same difficulty.” The Island Classer rocked violently to starboard, a brilliant flash of light from the portside of the ship washing over the composite video display, Darkwood nearly sliding out of his chair. “Sam—tell Engineering to talk to me.”

He could hear off the speaker. “This is Natalia—if I’m reading the scanners correctly, we’re not taking in water.”

He hoped she was reading the damage scanners correctly.

The vent widened and he ordered, “Five degrees right rudder,” taking the Island Classer dead center along the vent’s course. “Rudder amidships. Sonar—how’s the wireguide situation?”

“Nothing, sir—oh-oh.” “What’s ‘oh-oh’ mean?”

“Four more sounds like the ones before—maybe they just launched four more after us, Captain.”

If the Russians were insane enough to risk a nuclear detonation in the vent that supplied both their cities with geothermal power, it was a drastic measure. And drastic measures required drastic countermeasures. “Communications—anything from the Reagan?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Good—get the hell out of that chair and slide over to the weapons station quick. I need direct control of the cluster charges and now, Bacon.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Sam—alert the aft torpedo room that on my signal I want all four aft tubes launched simultaneously. Bacon— you at the weapons station?”

“Sure am, sir.”

“Get ready to fire the ship’s entire compliment of cluster charges on my signal.” “Arming now, sir—I think.”

“That’s right, fill me with confidence, Bacon. Be ready. Sam, tell Engineering that I want them monitoring all damage-control scanners until I say otherwise. Sonar—what’s the story?”

“The remaining three out of the first four wireguides are right on our tail, sir—about a hundred yards off the stern. The other four wireguides are moving faster. About another hundred yards back.”

“Tell engineering I want rudder amidships, Sam. And full flank speed maintained no matter what. Bacon, how those cluster charges coming?”

“Armed and ready, sir.”

“Good man—on my command. Fire! Sam! Tell aft torpedo room to fire tubes one, two, three, and four now!

The Island Classer seemed to vibrate, or maybe it was his imagination—he didn’t know which as he hauled back on the diving planes and shouted, “Tell Engineering

I want every ounce of air they’ve got and right now!” “Advising Engineering.”

The video display was a blur now, the Island Classer rising, the detonating cluster charges causing landslides on all sides now, the vent collapsing around them. “More air!”

“I’m tellin’ ‘em. Hold on.” There was a pause. “You got all the air there is.”

“Tell ‘em to red-line the turbines—if I can’t have more air I gotta have more power!”

“Advising Engineering!”

He watched the depth gauge, the Island Classer’s rate of ascent starting to increase drastically, his body being crushed into the back of his chair. “Sonar—can you make out what happened to those wireguides?”

“I’m goin’ deaf, sir—I think—yeah—just like the other noise. There’s one. Another one—holy shit!” And Darkwood craned his neck to see Lang falling from his seat, holding his ears. So much for Sonar.

“Bacon—see to Lang if you can!”

“Aye, sir!”

“Sam—tell Engineering to maintain revolutions no matter what the instrument panels say!”

“Right! What the hell are we doin’?”

“Tell ‘em—if we do it, I’ll clue you in!”

The depth gauge was going wild now, Darkwood’s ears popping as he swallowed, his fists white-knuckled on the diving plane controls.

“I’m back on Sonar, sir. I’ve lost track completely of all wireguides—I think we got ‘em.”

“Good man—stay with it. Bacon—get on Communications and hail the Reagan.”

“Aye, sir.”

“If you get her, tell her we’re surfacing.” Aye, su.

He could hear Bacon reciting the call litany, and then the litany broke. “I’ve got the Reagan, Captain. Wait a minute. They say one Island Class submarine apparently damaged. The Reagan had fired wireguides, sir. Hey!

Hey! Another Island Classer damaged. The Wayne is coming up.”

“Tell Mr. Sebastian to hold off five hundred yards from our bow as we surface and to disengage with the Island Classers and see if they run home to Momma. Convey my compliments to the Captain of the Wayne and ask Commander Pilgrim if he would kindly take up a position five hundred yards off our stern as we surface, and suggest that he might care to disengage with the Island Classers.”

“Aye, sir.”

Jason Darkwood called to Sam Aldridge as he began easing the angle on the bow planes. “Tell Engineering back one third.” They were almost surfaced.

Natalia Tiemerovna stood on the missile deck of the Island Classer, the wind in her hair feeling good to her. The launch the Island Classer had sent out was returning now, and aboard the launch she could see John Rourke coming from the Wayne.

Michael Rourke stood at her right side. He had told her about the internees Vladmir Karamatsov had brought to his little death camp, about the way in which the gas had been stolen, that likely her husband’s forces were trying even now to get it back. There were still so many things unresolved—but John was alive. He was coming to her now.

It was hard to care about anything else, even though she knew that she must.

Jason Darkwood stood at her left side. “I’d always pictured life on the surface as harsh, but peaceful at least. From the way both of you talk, I’m getting the distinct impression we’re all fighting the same war.”

“We are,” Natalia said to him. “Whether the enemy is my husband and his forces or a man like Kerenin, whom John killed, or a man like Feyedorovitch, who’s probably just finding out what happened—it does’t matter.”

“I’m eager to discuss something with Doctor Rourke. Something to our mutual advantage,” Darkwood said.

The launch was coming alongside and moving into its

berth. And as she looked over the rail, John Rourke waved up at her. She blew him a kiss.

He started up the ladder. She stepped back. “Go ahead, Michael.”

Michael looked at her for a moment. “You’re a fine woman,” he said at last. And as his father stepped through the gap in the rail and onto the deck, Michael walked forward and father and son embraced.

And then John Rourke turned to her. His hair was windblown. The dark shirt he wore—black—made his five o’clock shadow more visible than it usually was. His coloring was pale. But he walked toward her vigorously and swept her into his arms.

“I’ll always stay with you—as long as you want me to,” she whispered, his hps touching her cheek. And he turned her face up toward his and his hands exuded strength and life and she wanted to cry and just have him hold her. “Always,” she said again.

And his mouth came down and touched hers and she let her body go limp in his arms for an instant.

Darkwood’s voice. She heard that as she leaned her head against John’s chest. “You seem marvelously recovered, sir. I’m Commander Jason Darkwood, Captain of the Reagan. We’ve met, but I doubt you remember.”

John Rourke turned her around and held her close against his left side as he extended his right hand. She kept her face against John’s chest, her arms holding John tight against her. John Rourke and Jason Darkwood clasped hands.

“Commander—it’s a pleasure to meet again. For saving Natalia and for coming to the aid of my son here,” and he drew Michael against him, his right arm folding across his son’s shoulders, “I will never be able to repay you.”

“Friends don’t have to worry about that sort of thing, do they, Doctor Rourke?”

“No—they don’t.”

“I’m sure you’d appreciate a tour of our captured

Russian submarine, but it appears there are a few urgent considerations still remaining. Want to talk below or up here in the fresh air. I’ll confess, for me it’s a novelty.”

“After the last few days,” John told him, “it’s become a refreshing novelty for me as well.” And John looked at Michael. “How are your mother and sister and Paul? And that Maria Leuden?”

“Michael has been filling me in, John—there are some real problems,” she said, taking her face away from his chest, shaking her hair in the wind.

“And,” Jason Darkwood said, “it appears we also have a chance to nail your Marshal Karamatsov. Major Tiemerovna was supposed to be handed over to him on the Island of Chinmen Tao—it is sometimes called Quemoy—in the Formosa Strait.” And he consulted his peculiar-looking watch. “In just about two hours from now. He was expecting an Island Class submarine, which this is, and he was expecting her to be brought to him by men in Marine Spetznas uniforms, which I am wearing. And we even have the commander of the detail aboard with us, a certain Captain Serovski. Not a nice man. Anything interesting suggest itself to you, Doctor Rourke?”