Survivalist - 18 - The Struggle (16 page)

“I know of what I speak,” Comrade Marshal Antonovitch concluded.

“I knew that you were one of—”

“His original disciples? Yes. I saw something here. A Chairman who seeks war as desperately as Vladimir Karamatsov sought it. A woman who slept with me because she wished to use me as a means of promoting this war. You must understand me,” the Comrade Marshal said, rising and standing behind his desk, looking down on Prokopiev as if for emphasis. “I sought the missiles of the Second Chinese City, I launched the global offensive. But I did all of this and will continue as Marshal of the Soviet Union, because I sought what used to be called a ‘Pax Romana.’ During the reign of Augustus Caesar in the old Roman Empire thousands of years ago, there was almost universal peace because there was almost universal government. My goal was to end war with war, not to risk the end of mankind. While someone else controlled the nuclear arsenal of prewar China, there was the chance that it might be used, as Karamatsov had planned to use it. But now, the Chairman seeks to contact our supposed Comrades beneath the sea, the antagonists of the Americans at Mid-Wake. He wishes to use their nuclear submarines and nuclear missiles. He has authorized the redevelopment of our twentieth century particle beam device with which Karamatsov and

Rozhdestvenskiy after him, when it was thought Karamatsov was dead, intended to destroy the Eden Project and establish clearly total Soviet rule. Rozhdestvenskiy, according to documents unearthed by our archaeological teams at Cheyenne Mountain in American Colorado where the Womb, our retreat, our own KGB Underground City was to have been before Rourke destroyed it, personally ordered the deaths of ranking Soviet officials coming to the Womb for their own survival. Rozhdestvenskiy did this in order to assure his own power. The particle beam technology is now so advanced that these weapons can be mounted on armored vehicles, in helicopter gunships, made in any size or power range. Soon, they will be adapted as infantry machine guns. No conventional weapon except nuclear weapons will stand against these. With the nuclear potential of the Soviet civilization beneath the sea and the particle beam technology, all resistance will be destroyed. There will be an Empire of Death. If the Earth is not totally destroyed when the first nuclear weapon is utilized—and the Germans of New Germany in Argentina are developing nuclear weapons for their defense—the Soviet people will be the only people who will survive, but they will survive to live under the most despotic rule in human history. And still, there will be no peace. Will the Chairman surrender authority to the nuclear-capable new Comrades after their enemies at Mid-Wake and our enemies have all been destroyed? I think he will not. Instead, there will be war again. It will never end until the Earth ends.”

Prokopiev watched the Comrade Marshal’s eyes. “Why do you tell me this, Comrade Marshal?”

“You are in a unique position.” And suddenly a pistol appeared in Antonovitch’s right hand, almost as if he had pulled it from thin air. It was very small, and likely very old. “This is a .25 caliber Beretta, in answer

to your unspoken question. It is almost as old as I am. You are here because you are an honorable man, honorable to the point of willingly surrendering your life because it is the morally correct thing to do. I wish for you to leave me with this in your pocket.” And the Comrade Marshal produced a small object about the size of the spool of thread Prokopiev kept in his kit for the resewing of buttons. “There is film inside this canister. The film contains the plans for the particle beam devices which will soon be used in the field against the allies of Doctor Rourke. Make no mistake, Vassily. I am a loyal Communist. I shall continue to defend the Soviet people to the best of my ability. But my answer, I have realized—and it has taken me five centuries to come to this realization—my answer is not the best answer. Will you serve the Soviet people and all people?” “How, Comrade Marshal?”

“Doctor Rourke is a man like yourself, a man of honor. And, it would appearfrom your report, so is his son. Give this film to him and tell him that I trust he will do the right thing. Will you take it?”

“How can—”

“You are the most highly trained man in the Elite Corps. I cannot believe you could not find a way, Vassily.”

Prokopiev cleared his throat, looked at his hands. They trembled slightly. “Yes, Comrade Marshal.”

The Comrade Marshal tossed the canister across the desk, Prokopiev watching it come toward him somehow as if it were in slow motion. He caught it in his right hand. His hand no longer trembled.

“I have two messages for you. Tell Comrade Major Tiemerovna that perhaps she was right about me after all. She always told me that I was not born to Karamatsov’s work.”

“Two messages, Comrade Marshal?”

“Yes. Tell Doctor Rourke this changes nothing. I would kill him if I had the chance. And I will expect the same courtesy from him. There is a pack, there are winter clothes, there is a fine knife, there is a pistol, an assault rifle and adequate ammunition, foodstuffs and personal medical supplies. Do what you must. If you take a life from within the Elite Corps, it will be one less to hunt you down and kill you. Remember that Communism, if it is good, is to serve the people. Living people. Now take the film, guard it against any sort of radiation. Take this pistol and shoot me in the arm with it. In the fleshy part—here.”

He set the pistol on the desk, then touched at his outer left forearm.

Prokopiev picked up the pistol. It was very small. “The hammer is already cocked, Vassily,” the Comrade Marshal advised. “The gun shoots true at short range. There is little muzzle blast. We fought over the gun, of course; you took it and attempted to kill me, but I shoved you away and that deflected your bullet. The safety catch is on the left-hand side. Push it down. Watch for the web of your hand as you shoot. It is a very small gun. Shoot me.”

Vassily Prokopiev raised the pistol, took a single step, hesitated, then took another step back. He aimed the pistol—it had very rudimentary sights—at the Comrade Marshal’s outstretched left arm. His thumb found the safety catch and he pushed it down as instructed. Why would anyone wish a gun so small?

“Yes, Comrade Marshal.” Vassily Prokopiev pulled the trigger and the Comrade Marshal fell back against the picture of Lenin, clasping his left forearm. The Comrade Marshal smiled.

/

It was necessary, after trying to connect the pieces as best as possible, to rope the dead down through the rock chimney. A mass grave would have been impossible to dig on the volcanic flow. One hundred and twenty men were detailed to the surface warfare group on Iwo Jima. The remains of as many as fifty— at least there were fifty skulls that could be found— were in the giant bonfire, parts of it still reeking of something which smelled like gasoline and which the men of Mid-Wake identified as something which sounded to be the Soviet equivalent of napalm.

There were the remains of plastic ropes, not fully burned, and there was no evidence any of the men had been shot before being set afire. The evidence, on the contrary, seemed clear that the men were executed in the flames, by the flames.

Once their bodies were roped down, the grave was dug. No one suggested that the six Soviet prisoners should be used to assist. It would have seemed, Paul Rubenstein reflected, to dishonor the dead.

John Rourke interrogated the six Soviet prisoners. The remaining survivors of the attack on Iwo Jima were being transported—walked—through the jungle, stripped of their uniforms (hence freezing), toward the

Island Class submarine anchored off the island. They would be taken by the Soviets for “scientific experiments.” The Soviet undersea colony had been practicing surface warfare for the last decade, been aware of the Iwo Jima facility for six months at least, decided to leave a message for the people of Mid-Wake, one they would never forget.

Paul Rubenstein agreed with that; the message would never be forgotten.

“We have two choices,” John Rourke said, Paul Rubenstein watching him as he, John Rourke, Jason Darkwood, and Sam Aldridge walked toward the helicopter gunship, the six Soviet prisoners and the rest of Aldridge’s Marines waiting uneasily near the rock chimney. The Soviet prisoners had to be terrified that they would be executed in like manner to the Americans from Mid-Wake, or worse. And the Marines had to be tempted.

Captain—formerly Commander—Jason Darkwood asked, “Are they the same two choices I’m thinking of, Doctor Rourke?”

“I would imagine they are,” John nodded.

“With your daughter, Mrs. Rubenstein, and Major Tiemerovna and Captain Hammerschmidt safe, you and your flying machine are capable of pursuing other interests.”

“That’s right, Captain,” John agreed. “Revenge sounds like a good start.”

“Can this—this gunship,” and Darkwood gestured toward the German craft, “destroy an Island Classer, Doctor?”

“With a great deal of luck, yes. Although I know what the German missiles will do against Soviet surface armor, I have no idea what they’ll do against a double hull capable of withstanding the depths these vessels routinely sustain. With a great deal of luck, yes—I can probably destroy it. Or, with a little assistance and less

luck, I know I can destroy it. We’ll have to free the prisoners first, of course. Have to free them so that if we do get the Island Classer to blow, when she does their captors won’t automatically massacre them. And we’ll have to do it very quickly—the rescue, I mean—so they won’t have time to radio the Island Classer that we’re getting them. The Island Classer knows about the helicopter, but probably has very little understanding of its capabilities. At best, computer records might give a breakdown of the abilities of late twentieth-century helicopter gunships. This German version is vastly quicker, more maneuverable, better, and more heavily armed. They couldn’t expect that, at least not without some good minds going to work on it, and there won’t have been time for that, either.”

John stopped beneath the now-still blades of the main rotor. “Now,” he continued. “I think we have a chance. The six men you took prisoner are the key. From your account, Captain, of their capture, they couldn’t possibly have radioed in their predicament. Therefore, they’re still expected. Even considering the time we spent in the burial, we can get them to the right spot using the helicopter, making up for the lost time.”

“Get us, you mean,” Jason Darkwood said.

Sam Aldridge smiled. “We put on their uniforms, walk right up to them.”

“No—that suntan routine worked the last time, Sam,” Darkwood said. “You control the second element, for the ambush.”

Paul Rubenstein spoke. “Assuming we get the rest of the Mid-Wake personnel free—what, seventy or so?”

“Aside from casualties,” Captain Aldridge interjected, his voice low. “They might have been heavy. Probably were. Most of the people here were Marines.”

“Then assuming we get them free,” Paul continued, “what if we salvage as many additional uniforms as possible, then walk the Mid-Wake personnel aboard

the Island Class submarine. Instead of you blowing it, John, why not take it?”

John Rourke turned and looked at him. “That’s very simple, very brilliant, Paul.”

“No IT.S. skipper has boarded a major enemy vessel during an action since the U-505 submarine during World War Two,” Jason Darkwood murmured. “I mean, that Island Classer we hijacked wasn’t manned, wasn’t—”

Darkwood referred to the vessel he and Sam Aldridge and a handful of Marine raiders had stolen during their rescue of Natalia from Mid-Wake. Aldridge interrupted Paul’s thoughts. “Well, don’t forget that little scout sub my people took. But you’re right, Jase.”

“How’s that Island Class submarine you and your men took doing, anyway?” John Rourke asked, smiling.

“Well, now that you bring it up,” Jason Darkwood smiled back, “I understand it’s getting very lonely for one of its own kind. In a way, we’d be performing a humanitarian act. Not to mention probably netting ourselves a full complement of Soviet missiles, too.”

Paul Rubenstein watched as John Rourke turned away from the gunship and stared back toward where the six prisoners were. “That Soviet Marine Spetznas Sergeant. He’s a big one. That might be why he didn’t give in entirely to the truth drug. Or maybe he really had no knowledge of the burning of the prisoners and couldn’t tell us. At least I can hope. It wouldn’t be convincing to put someone into his uniform. And anyway, the blood stains on the other uniforms weren’t so bad. I think it will just have to be five of us. You, Captain, Paul here, myself and two other of your men.” John Rourke lit the partially burned stump of cigar, shielding the flame of his Zippo against the wind in his cupped palms.

I f

Falling, blowing snow swirled in kaleidoscopic patterns in the light.

Michael Rourke’s flashlight showed solid rock. But Bjorn Rolvaag tapped him on the shoulder and gestured that they should move ahead. Michael switched off the flashlight and followed him.

The snow which seemed to fall everywhere according to the German meteorological reports was a blizzard here. Michael Rourke doubted that even with Rolvaag’s expertise in Arctic travel and survival and the aid of his dog, Hrothgar, they would be able to go on much farther, nor certainly be able to turn back.

Maria was roped behind him, Michael following Rolvaag, Maria and the German commandos and volunteers from the German Hekla Base following him.

Somehow, the dog would be there one instant and gone into the blizzard the next, totally lost from sight, only then returning to run off once more.

It crossed Michael’s mind that perhaps Rolvaag’s head injury had been more serious than anyone considered, that he was simply leading them on into the blizzard out of delusion. Michael Rourke could feel

Maria Leuden beside him, feel the pressure of her heavily gloved hands on his left forearm. He folded his arm around her, trudged ahead, the snowdrifts at times waist-high, the temperature so cold that his thighs, despite the several layers of thermal clothing, were stiffening, his legs almost refusing to move. He kept going.