Survivalist - 18 - The Struggle (8 page)

It suddenly dawned on Darkwood, as things did at the most ridiculous times, that it was almost crude carrying on such rapid-fire buoyancy orders with a female helmsman. “Warfare.”

“Aye, Captain,” Lieutenant Louise Walenski called back.

“Torpedo tubes fore and aft loaded and operational with HEIS, Captain.”

“Stand by, Walenski. Communications—get on the usual Soviet operational frequencies.”

Andrew Mott called back, “I am already monitoring, Captain. If they’ve seen us, nobody’s talking about it. Who’s out there Captain?”

Darkwood grabbed Sebastian’s microphone from the hanger over the table. “This is the Captain speaking. The island of Iwo Jima is supposed to be a top secret American training center for surface warfare operations. While approaching the island just upon

entering the lagoon, I viewed a significant force of personnel in Soviet Marine Spetznas uniforms and full battle gear. This could have been an exercise utilizing enemy uniforms and equipment. On that off chance, I elected to run. If it isn’t, we’re in potentially deep shit because they wouldn’t be here without one of their Island Classers and we all know how much fun Island Classers can be, right? So stand by. I’ll keep you informed. And keep sharp at those battle stations.” He racked the microphone and called to Lieutenant Kelly, “Sonar—anything I should worry about?”

“Not yet, Captain,” she called back.

“Keep me informed.”

“Aye, Captain.”

He’d made a critical tactical error—something he also intended to note in his log in the hopes of preventing some other Captain from doing the same thing someday. Pulling into an American base, assuming only American personnel would be monitoring his short range communications. Communications—“Communications—anything?”

“Not a word, Captain.”

“Keep monitoring.” They were listing again and the deck didn’t compensate like his chair did. As he eyed the split video image, he said to Sebastian, “If you have any brilliant insights, Commander Sebastian, now’s not the time to hold off on mentioning them.”

“Captain, it seems to me that an analysis of the details suggests why we have not been picked up. If an Island Class submarine isn’t waiting for us when we exit the channel, my theory will likely be correct.”

“Do we have to use that as the acid test?”

“It jwould appear that either indeed the personnel you saw in Marine Spetznas black were merely engaged in a realistic training exercise, in which case we will merely be late for our rendezvous, or, more likely,

since Lieutenant Mott has not received a reply to your Sigma code greeting, there was no one to receive it or everyone was too busy to respond or in fear of their own communications being monitored. Which leads me to infer that the island is under attack. There is ample supporting evidence, however circumstantial, to support such a hypothesis. Marine Spetznas communications equipment of standard issue type of which we are aware is not designed to nor is it ordinarily capable of intercepting short range signals in the range used by our submarines. If an Island Class submarine were surfaced or submerged on the opposite side of an island of the general topographical configuration of Iwo Jima, it is doubtful in the extreme that the said vessel would have intercepted our communications or our running noise, Captain.”

“Then they don’t know we’re here!”

“Unless an Island Class vessel is waiting for us, that seems reasonable to assume based on current data.”

“Did I ever tell you I love you?” And Darkwood clapped Sebastian on the back. He pulled down the microphone again. “This is the Captain speaking. Captain Aldridge and Lieutenant Stanhope to the bridge on the double.” He looked at Sebastian as he racked the microphone. “If you’re right, we’re going to have to play this close to the vest, Sebastian. What’s the nearest American vessel you know of?”

“Commander Pilgrim’s ship, the Wayne, Captain.”

Darkwood nodded. Walter Pilgrim was a good man under fire and the John Wayne was a good vessel. “All right—we can’t risk trying to contact the Wayne—yet. Plot their approximate position as soon as we’re out of here and in deep water, then update the plot so we’ll have an idea how close some assistance might be if it gets that far.”

They were nearly out of the channel, the shoaling

gone. “Navigator. Right the helm.”

“Aye, Captain, righting the helm.”

His fingers were too busy at the plotting table to keep them crossed, but they were crossed in spirit…

“I can help you. My mother had volunteer nursing experience before the war and she’s had a hell of a lot since, my father’s a doctor and I’m not half bad at First Aid.”

“All right,” Margaret Barrow told her, Annie Rourke Rubenstein belting a lab coat over her hospital gown with a little over two feet of dental floss. “Can you check syringes? They’re like the ones in your day, more or less.”

“I’ll fake it,” Annie told her, muttering, “Your day” under her breath, going to the cabinet Margaret Barrow gestured toward. Annie Rubenstein realized, of course, that she was a living breathing walking and talking anachronism.

“And first chance you get, in my office I’ve got some extra clothes—just in case there’s a bleeder and I zig when I should have zagged. Just take the rank insignia off the collar, okay?”

“Okay.” She began to check the syringes.

Darkwood sat in his command chair. There had been no Island Class Submarine waiting for them and they were hiding now well off the coast of Iwo Jima in deep water, still at Battle Stations.

In a ragged semicircle between his chair and the steps stood Sam Aldridge, Tom Stanhope, and Sebastian. “I’m betting Sebastian’s right, gentlemen. That means we’ve got a bunch of our GIs in shit up to their elbows back there on Iwo Jima. And aboard the Reagan we’ve got Doctor Rourke’s daughter, a German officer, and Major Tiemerovna, the two women certainly potential bargaining chips our garden variety Soviet enemies could use as a wedge with the Soviet forces on the surface. An alliance like that could mean the end for all of us. There’s one clear course of action. And that’s our only chance. Sebastian?”

“Yes, Jason.”

“You’ll take the Reagan and make best speed toward Mid-Wake. Once you’re out of range of the Island Classer our Marine Spetznas friends came from, attempt to contact the Wayne. Notify them of the situation and ask them to come to our aid. Mr. Stanhope—”

“Sir!”

“Lieutenant—you’ll be in charge of security aboard the Reagan and that means looking after our passengers. If anything happens, they go before the women and children. Got me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Sam. You and I are taking the majority of the Marine Security detail and heading for Iwo Jima. No sense attacking some damned Island Classer with bare hands and Bowie knives. We hit the side of the island where the lagoon is, on the assumption that some of our guys are still going to be operational. The plan’s loose, but the crux of the whole thing is that we win. You can fill in the blanks however you wish.”

“Gee whiz, Jase.”

“Yeah—I knew you’d love it.” And Darkwood looked at Sebastian. “I’ll expect you back here for us as quick as you can get our charges to Mid-Wake. And don’t forget about helping Mrs. Rubenstein to contact her father and her husband. There’s got to be some way of doing it. And knowing Doctor Rourke, he’ll be looking for her and for Major Tiemerovna.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I’ll want you to get us within range of the island. I’m officially transfering to you temporary command of the Reagan as of—” And Darkwood looked at the Steinmetz. “As of 0952 hours, and Captain Aldridge and Lieutenant Stanhope witness that and I’ll make certain the log reflects that. God Bless us all.”

“Amen to that,” Sam Aldridge grunted.

Her office was at once Spartan and luxurious, elegant in its austerity. The desk was unadorned, but was of real wood, something almost impossible to obtain within the underground city. The wristwatch she wore was of the most expensive brand. Her clothes, tailored, functional, also of the finest fabrics. He had known many women of the Underground City. This one dressed like the mistress of a commissar.

“This is the original prototype of the plasma-powered particle beam gun. It has been successfully tested on armored vehicles, helicopters, and bipod mounted as a replacement for the conventional caseless machine gun in the current inventory.”

She was beautiful. Nicolai Antonovitch was having a hard time concentrating on anything else but that fact. “How many and how fast, Comrade Doctor Alexsova?”

“At present, Comrade Marshal, the weapons must be calibrated by hand and this requires considerable testing. Should one of these overload, it will, of course, explode. We have approximately one hundred of the weapons in operational order, none of these the model designed to replace the machine gun. The power packs

are still a difficulty, but my people are working on it in three shifts throughout each twenty-four-hour period. The solution is forthcoming, I assure you. More of the weapons are being produced daily, and the calibration process is even now being streamlined to meet full production needs.”

He recalled the Americanism about clouds with silver linings. Here was the opposite case, certainly. “These one hundred weapons which are available to mount on helicopters and armored vehicles. They are fully operational and can be relied upon thoroughly?”

“That is the only way they leave here, Comrade Marshal. I have full confidence in them.”

“Where are they?” Antonovitch asked her.

“Ready for you to examine, Comrade Marshal.”

“Tonight?”

“If—if you wish,” and she averted her eyes.

He had known Karamatsov long enough to recognize deceit and treachery. He knew she was practicing both and decided he would enjoy it. “Tell me, Comrade Doctor. Just how deep are your feelings— loyalty to the State?”

“There is nothing I would not do, Comrade Marshal.”

“Svetlana—it is one of the most beautiful of names for a woman. May I call you by your first name—of course, only when we are alone?”

“I am honored, Comrade Marshal.”

He doubted the chief science advisor to the Soviet government was all that terribly honored at the prospect of having a soldier’s boots beside her bed. He was being courted, and not by Svetlana Alexsova. He reached out his right hand and closed it over her hand. “Svetlana. Your beauty has captivated me. But, you must know that. I must be obvious.”

“Comrade Marshal—I—”

“You are overwhelmed,” he nodded, smiling. It was evident that the Chairman wanted him happy, wanted him eager to serve the Soviet interest. And Comrade Doctor Alexsova was to ensure that loyalty, that enthusiasm.

There was no need to provide him with some added incentive to serve the Soviet people. It was his life. He smiled. Comrade Doctor Svetlana Alexsova did not know that. And she, too, was willing to serve the Soviet interest. “You have captured my heart, Svetlana. It is very hard, out there, fighting constantly. One loses sight of what ordinary humanity must be like. The loneliness is intolerable.” He had used that speech several times in the past, and often wondered why some intelligent woman did not simply laugh at him when he used it. Certainly this woman should laugh. She did not. “I want to possess you, Svetlana.”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal.”

He stood, walked to her desk. She stood. She took a step nearer to him. There was little choice, really. Should he not attempt to seduce her, the Comrade Chairman might suspect disloyalty or homosexuality, in either case disaster. And she was so very beautiful.

He did not ask if she had a health certificate. She obviously did as did he. “Do you—ahh—do you stay where the other scientists stay, Svetlana?”

“I have a room there, of course, but I find my apartment in the city more conducive to thought.”

“Umm—I would like to see it very much. Might I do that? See it?”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal.”

“Nicolai, Svetlana—Nicolai,” and he held her hand more tightly. The late-morning meetings would have to wait, as would be expected.

The cloud cover remained unbroken as John Rourke piloted the German gunship over the Daito Islands, almost a border line between the East China Sea and the Philippine Sea, toward, the Tropic of Cancer. Paul Rubenstein sat beside him. Rourke’s eyes flickered over the horizon indicator. They were in level flight, but visually it was hard to be certain, the gray of the sky and the gray of the sea blending unnervingly in an effect that made them seem one.

It should have been warm here, but the outside cabin temperature at the comparatively low altitude at which they flew was below freezing. Wind-tossed whitecaps formed the only relief from the gray monotony surrounding them, the only possible means of sensual orientation for up and down. In the interests of not attracting Soviet attention, Rourke elected not to send out constant signals which might be picked up by Mid-Wake vessels because they might also be picked up by the Russians. But such radio silence caution didn’t preclude listening.

The cacophony of natural radio emissions coming through the headsets they both wore was maddening,

Paul Rubenstein saying over the whir of the rotor blades, “I’m getting a headache listening to this stuff. And to think all of this is natural radio emission. Wild.”

Paul had been starting fragmentary conversations ever since he’d come out of his sleep period, John Rourke not yet taking his. He’d taught Paul in the first few hours how to hold the machine on course at altitude, which was enough to allow Rourke to catch a few hours’ rest He did not look forward to rest, because it was inactivity and there was too much to do. Paul spoke out of nervousness over the fate of his wife, Rourke’s daughter, Rourke knew. And he tried to keep the conversations going because he, too, was frightened that Annie, and Natalia and Otto Hammerschmidt as well, might be lost.

“That explosive device we have. You sure they’ll pick it up?”

“If we detonate it directly over Mid-Wake,” Rourke nodded, “they’ll pick it up. Might even send a submarine up to investigate. They’d better or we’re out of luck. Once we’re over the Bonin Trench, I’ll tack us almost due south toward the Marianas. That way, we can set her down and do any last-minute checks before we strike out for the open sea between Midway and Wake Islands. Be good to stretch our legs, too.”