Survivalist - 19 - Final Rain (18 page)

And then there was Commander Christopher Dodd. With Dodd for their ally, they might well be better off turning their backs to the enemy.

There was a fire. When he opened his eyes, he saw the fire. But, with his eyes opened or closed, he felt the fire burning in his head.

His body was racked with chills.

And Vassily Prokopiev realized he was naked.

He lay there in the snow.

The child.

He moved his head slightly and there was an explosion of pain which nearly brought on the blackness again.

The child.

He could see feet covered with pieces of blanket, leggings made of uniform sleeves. And he saw a pair of feet in his boots, but the boots on wrong, the left on the right foot. It was maddening to watch.

The child.

And now he knew what awakened him. The child screaming.

It was being held down on the far side of the flames.

Some of the Wild Tribesmen, he’d heard rumors, had resorted to cannibalism.

As he strained his eyes to see past the flames, he saw something which almost made him scream. It was a bone the size of a man’s thigh.

He remembered now.

He’d been struck with a human bone. Why was the child screaming? He forced his eyes to focus.

The child was being held down on the other side of the fire.

Several of the leathery skinned men were bent over her. Were they raping her, the beasts?

And he saw the flicker of steel as fire flashed off it, a Soviet bayonet.

He knew why the child was screaming when he saw one of the Wild Tribesmen, the instant after the little girl uttered a hideous scream, raising a strip of white flesh to his mouth.

Prokopiev got to his feet. He didn’t know how. He stumbled as he lurched past the flames, reaching down into the snow and catching up the human thigh bone.

He crashed it downward across the face of the man eating the flesh of the living child.

Her screaming never stopped.

Hands reached for him and he moved, wheeling first toward one of the Wild Tribesmen and then the next, wielding the thigh bone, striking foreheads and jaws and the crowns of skulls.

A knife flickered toward him and he felt a horrible burning. He backhanded the human bone across the forearm of the Wild Tribesman holding the knife, then struck at the man’s face again and again and again.

He was tackled from behind, falling toward the fire, his left leg passing through the flames.

He rolled across the snow, hearing his own screams as if they were distant from him, disembodied.

Five meters from him, he saw his pistol belt and the CZ-75 Marshal Antonovitch had given to him.

He was up, a bone smashing down across his right shoulder, paralyzing his right arm. He fell, his left hand reaching for the pistol.

His fist closed over it and his thumb pulled back the

trigger. As the bone swiped down for his skull, he fired, then fired again and again, the face of the man who was trying to kill him seeming to disintegrate.

He edged his bare behind across the snow, three of them coming for him now, two with knives, one with a burning log from the fire.

He fired, blowing out the left eye of the one with the log.

But the two with the knives were on him. He fired, fired again, a sudden spasm of pain across his abdomen. He fired. He fired, the second of the two with knives falling down.

The howl of the wind.

The crackle of the logs in the fire.

He tried to stand up.

Pain washed over him, but he fought the darkness which was coming with it. “Little one!” To his knees.

Vassily Prokopiev couldn’t stand. He crawled, the pistol still cocked in his left fist, blood spilling onto the snow from his abdomen. He couldn’t see her.

But then he saw her, her body bluing with the cold. Screaming again. She was alive.

John Rourke and Paul Rubenstein walked side by side, along the sub pens’ main wharf, the sail of the recommissioned Island Classer USS Roy Rogers rising like some huge monolith above the sails of the smaller Mid-Wake vessels.

Men and some women walked all around them, eight or sometimes ten abreast, the wharf blocked from shoreward to seaside, like John Rourke and his son-in-law and friend, each person carried or wore his weapons, carried a pack with a few necessary belongings. Each was dressed in black battle dress utilities. There was no time for training as a unit, no time even for standardization of uniforms beyond those for the personnel of Mid-Wake.

There was laughter and loud talk. One man whistled. One of the women—Marine Lieutenant Lillie St. James, security officer of the John Wayne—hummed a sad little song under her breath.

Marines.

Naval personnel.

All now were members of the First Special Operations Group, and those who lived would form the nucleus of the attack force with which the allies would fight back.

They were bound for the surface where German helicopter gunships would land on the missile deck of the enormous Island Classer and ferry them to a nearby island where Mid-Wake personnel, along with German engineers, had spent the last several hours preparing landing and departure zones for the J7-Vs which would fly them over the North Pole toward North America.

And from there to the staging area.

Along the route, they would be joined by a token force of Chinese Intelligence Commandos, under the command of Han Lu Chen. Some of the German personnel accompanying them were destined for the unit.

Rourke turned his head, his eyes finding Otto Hammerschmidt, pain etched in Hammerschmidt’s face, too soon out of the hospital, but to have left him behind would have been dealing him a more mortal blow than death could ever have been.

Enough of them were left behind… .

Annie Rubenstein watched the live television coverage as the First Special Operations Group moved along the wharf. “The Star-spangled Banner” was playing. A moment before, Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America” had played.

She looked away from the television monitor—it,was nearly two yards diagonally and hung as flat against the wall of the hospital room as a photograph or a painting—and turned her eyes toward Natalia.

Doctor Rothstein said she was doing well, that the sedation was all but eliminated.

She slept.

Annie smiled.

She looked back to the television screen.

There was her father, well over six feet tall, the high forehead, the few touches of gray in his dark brown hair not noticeable on camera, his twin Detonics .45s in the shoulder holster he always wore, over a black knit shirt. His backpack and his coat were carried in one hand, his

rifle in another.

And there was Paul, her Paul, her very own. Not so tall, his hair thinning, his shoulders not so broad, his legs not so long, but his stride as confident.

She loved him.

“Don’t die, either of you, please.”

He had bandaged the little girl before he’d bandaged himself, but that might have been a mistake. He was light-headed from loss of blood. Massive blisters had arisen on his left leg and, as he fought the clothing onto his body, some of them burst and he nearly fainted from the pain.

He sat, rocking her by the fire, the dead surrounding them, not certain what to do. The sky was too overcast to see stars and the tribesmen who had attacked them had either discarded his pack or never taken it from the half-track. In either event, he had no compass.

Reaching the half-track, if he could, was his immediate goal, but he doubted the vehicle would be anything more than a shelter. The ignition switch was turned off, but the dome light was left on and in this terrible cold, might likely have drained the batteries. The girl ran a fever and he thought that he likely did himself.

But there was another reason to reach the half-track, survival aside, even survival of the child. Secreted in the half-track was the canister containing the data on the particle beam technology entrusted to him by Marshal Antonovitch to deliver to Doctor Rourke.

Much of his own clothing was ripped or blood drenched, but with scraps of clothing and his own boots—his feet crawled in them after removing them from one of the cannibals he had killed—he had covered his body, everything that was warm and cleanest of the rags covering the little girl.

When he stood, his abdomen ached, but the wound there didn’t seem deep, just bloody, a slash rather than a puncture. His leg pained him more, from the burns when his leg had passed through the flames.

Vassily Prokopiev realized two things: The child’s parents had not been cannibals, too undernourished for that; and, if he didn’t set out for the half-track, in whatever direction it was, right now, he would never leave the campsite alive.

With the girl—she had passed into sleep or unconsciousness—nestled in his arms, his right arm still half numb, he started to walk, his pistol freshly loaded and ready.

One step.Another. Another.

The snow was very high.

The little girl’s face seemed to radiate heat.

His leg.

Chills, but the kind from pain, not cold, traveled along his spine. He held her tightly against him… .

Michael Rourke stood up, all the eyes of the German officers and Rolvaag’s eyes, too, riveting on him. “My father is leading a force against the Soviets attacking Eden. We all know that from the radio traffic your own people have intercepted. But the Russians may know it too. I know we don’t have any orders to do it, but with a refueling stop in northern Canada, a dozen gunships loaded with every missile and machinegun and every man you can spare from this command, could surprise the Russians, maybe make a difference.”

Captain Hartman, one of Wolfgang Mann’s key officers, had flown over from the European Front to personally supervise the evacuation and relocation of the Hekla community, under specific orders from Colonel Mann himself.

He was scheduled to return to Europe, taking with him the bulk of his force, leaving a small but heavily armed helicopter assault group to see to the defense of the remaining Icelandic communities.

And, if a decision could be made, Hartman would be the one to make it.

Michael sat down.

Hartman stood. He walked toward the north wall of the hermetically sealed, environmentally controlled tent. On the wall was suspended a map of the world, similar to the familiar Van der Grinten projection. Hartman spoke. “Herr Rourke may have a point.”

Michael breathed.

“Colonel Mann applauds initiative; he also very strongly disapproves of disobedience to orders. However, such a force as you suggest, Herr Rourke, twelve gunships and an appropriate complement and men, materiel and fuel, might indeed have some impact. The most recent dispatches I am privy to indicate that a modest force, moving in three distinct elements, was dispatched from New Germany.” And he pointed to the map of South America, his finger coming to rest on what Michael had always called Argentina. “Logic dictates that one element would fly along the American Gulf Coast, here,” and he gestured toward Texas, “and another along the Atlantic Coast and up along the Savannah River, then down, the third element flying a relatively direct course from the staging area in the Yucatan to Eden Base, thus minimizing. the effect of any possible Soviet

interdiction. The logical route for the Special Operations Group led by Doctor Rourke is across the Pole, refueling unnecessary, down along the Great Lakes and directly to Eden Base, anticipating encountering Soviet resistance along the way since the Soviet staging area is in extreme Northern Georgia or the Carolinas.

“If, on the other hand,” Captain Hartman continued, tugging at his uniform blouse where his pistol belt had caused it to bunch up, “this small force Michael Rourke suggests were to fly from Iceland across the tip of Greenland but fly on to here,” and he gestured again to the map, “Hudson Bay, the gunships could then refuel and fly a central route, generally following the contours of the Mississippi River course to the base of what was Southern Illinois, then strike across the mountains over the site of the ruins of Atlanta directly to Eden Base, bypassing all likely Soviet intelligence, striking by surprise.”

“Can we do it?” Michael Rourke asked him.

“It would be a mission I could not order my pilots to carry out, but I could ask for volunteers.”

To a man, every officer around the table, pilots all, stood.

Michael Rourke looked at their faces, most younger than his own, some his age or older.

“Gentlemen,” Captain Hartman said, “it appears I have sufficient volunteers. We will draw lots, the winners accompanying Michael Rourke.” And then Hartman laughed, adding, “And walking that thin line between initiative in an officer and disregard for orders.”

There was laughter, forced.

Hartman walked over to the table, standing in front of Michael who stood now as well. “So.” “Yes.”

“I must leave with all good speed for the Urals. Somehow, I have the feeling that there may be surprises forthcoming from the Underground Soviet City and I must be with my command when the surprises reveal themselves.” He looked at his wristwatch. “Leave within the hour, Michael, so you will make it on time. And, good luck.”

Hartman extended his right hand. Michael took it.

John Rourke stood on the beach, the surf behind him, the sky so deep a blue that it seemed impossible to imagine that an aircraft of any sort would penetrate it. He was dressed all in black, the wind blowing his hair across his forehead, at the height of his physical prowess, a man like no other.

Despite the crashing of the surf and the numbers of men, there was no trouble hearing his voice. Paul Rubenstein stood at the rear of the group, knowing that he was watching history, the journal he kept increasing in its fascination for him. These were the moments which would determine mankind’s destiny.

“Some of us, individuals, have fought together before, side-by-side. You, Han Lu Chen,” and Han, hatless, his eyes raised, nodded solemnly. Translators murmured among the Chinese, the Germans, too. “And you, Captain Hammerschmidt.” Otto Hammerschmidt clicked his heels and bowed his head for an instant. “And Captain Sam Aldridge of the United States Marine Corps.” Not to be outdone by the German, Aldridge drew to stiff attention, unmoving. “And you, Captain Jason Darkwood, commander of the USS Ronald Reagan.” Darkwood grinned and gave a half salute, his damnably thick curly hair blowing in the wind. Paul Rubenstein laughed at his own thoughts. “And, I’ll remind you, gentlemen and ladies, that a captain in the United States Navy is a field grade officer.” There was some laughter, most suppressed and mostly from the Marines, Aldridge looking back at his men harshly. The Mid-Wake forces were ranked into two platoons, at the head of one, Lieutenant Tom Stanhope of the Reagan, the head of the other, Lieutenant Lillie St. James of the Wayne. Aldridge stood at their head, beside on his right, Jason Darkwood. There were three squads of the Chinese Intelligence commandos under Han’s command beside them, the Chinese flanked on their opposite side by the Germans, Otto Hammerschmidt at their head, an entire platoon of commandos. “And then, of course, the man I consider my brother, who also happens to be my son-in-law—” Paul Rubenstein felt his face start to flush, despite the cold. “Paul Rubenstein. The president of Mid-Wake gave me the rank of brigadier general. That’s fine, I suppose, but you men are military commanders. I’m not. But if you’re looking for someone to speak for me in my absence, it’s Paul. His word is mine. We’ve fought together for five centuries, he and I.