Survivalist - 21.5 - The Legend (13 page)

Such thoughts, although she tried to keep them from her heart, were always there …

Michael Rourke began to undress. “Wasn’t she a beautiful bride, Michael?” Maria Leuden asked him.

“Yes, Elaine was very beautiful.” And he turned around to face Maria, already in her nightgown, sitting on the edge of the bed in the guest officer’s quarters. “Would you like to get married?”

“Michael?” Her green eyes-she still wore her glasses-went

wide, her shoulders raising, arms at her sides, tiny fists pressing down against the bed. “Will you marry me?”

She licked her lips, then ran from the bed and into his arms and he held her against his bare body. He didn’t love her, but she loved him, and he liked her so very much.

He knew the difference.

He had loved Madison, always would. And Michael Rourke was convinced that true love came only once in a lifetime, at least for him …

John Rourke inspected the medical imaging results from the examination of Sergeant Reimensschnieder once again. Rourke could try the therapy here, of course, but the cancer was too far along to take any risks. At Mid-Wake, to accomplish the therapy, would be the proverbial piece of cake.

He began the memo to the German base commander, recommending that the sergeant, a likeable old guy if ever there was one and very close to his retirement, be flown at once to Mid-Wake for treatment.

Many types of cancer, especially in the early stages, could be instantly and permanentiy eradicated with drugs developed in Mid-Wake, now available to all the Allies and their former enemies. But some-like pancreatic cancer, always a tricky type to deal with-required specialized implant techniques. To accomplish these in a normally equipped hospital meant major surgery, but the time release drugs could be inserted through special appliances at Mid-Wake, where the medical imaging equipment was vastly advanced over anything possessed even by the Germans in their most advanced facilities.

After a few days in the hospital at Mid-Wake, the sergeanfs condition would be vastly improved. In a few weeks, he would be in total remission, the damage already done by the disease undone through the miracle of Mid-Wake’s gene splicing technology.

Finished with the memo, John Rourke looked at the Rokx on his left wrist and realized it was nearly one a.m. And he also realized that he was very tired …

Annie sat bolt upright beside him, awakening Paul Rubenstein instantly.

Annie’s nightgown was wet with perspiration, and she was breathing very rapidly.

He didn’t turn on a light, but could see her well enough in the faint light which came through the windows of the officer’s quarter billet.

His right hand went to her thigh, his left hand to the battered Browning High Power on the floor beside their bed. “What is it? Whafs wrong, baby?”

“It’s momma and daddy. They’re in terrible trouble.”

He sat there in the darkness beside her, collecting his thoughts for an instant longer. In a television sitcom from five centuries ago, the exhausted husband would have rolled over and gone back to sleep, dismissing his wife’s fears as groundless nervousness.

But Annie Rourke Rubenstein, ever since the Awakening, possessed what some would call a gift and others would call a curse. At a library in Germany on a videofiche of an English language book, he had discovered the proper term for it: Remote Viewing, as distinguished from Clairvoyance.

She could not see the future, but she could see the present, wherever she was, if it somehow affected someone she loved.

He swung his feet over the edge of the bed, grabbed his pants from the chair nearby and started into them, telling his wife, “Get some clothes on.” Maybe things had been quiet too long for the Family.

And then a thought came to him which chilled him.

For the first time since the War against the Russians had ended, the entire Family-John and Sarah, Natalia, MichaeL Annie and himself-were together.

Ever since childhood, when he had heard the stories of how Hitler had guided his armies by astrological projections, he had rejected the idea that there was any such thing as Fate.

But if there was, it was at work here tonight.

Fate …

Michael Rourke’s lips touched at Maria Leuden’s nipples and he sagged against her, his body still pulsing from the moment passed, her breathing hard. “I love you,” Maria whispered.

The telephone rang.

Michael Rourke stared at it, then picked up the receiver, reaching across Maria as he did so, her lips caressing his chest, his shoulder. This is Michael Rourke.”

“Me, Annie. Momma and daddy are in trouble. We’re going to the hospital. They aren’t at their quarters and Paul tried calling the hospital. Either they’re talking to somebody or the tenrunal has been disconnected or something.”

They set it up so it thinks ifs talking to itself, and nothing gets through but it gives the caller a busy signal. Fm on my way. You guys be careful.”

He pushed the off button to sever the connection and pushed up from between Maria’s legs. “What is it, Michael?”

There might be a problem with mom and dad. You stay put and lock the door after me.” He knew better than to ask if Paul or Annie had called the authorities, because the hospital was under the jurisdiction of Eden and, if there was a problem, the current leader of Eden would be behind it. And he knew better than to ask Maria to accompany him. She would have, as the expression went, followed him into hell, but when they got there she wouldn’t have been much help, despite loyalty, sincerity, and desire to try. She was a wonderful, intelligent and talented girl, but in the ways of violence no amount of desire could compensate for her lack of abilities.

But there was something she could do. “Call Colonel Mann. Give me about five minutes, then tell him to think up some

pretext for entering Eden.”

His sister’s psychic flashes had the annoying proclivity for accuracy.

Six

Natalia heard something.

Her left hand swept over the pink chiffon and silk that was the skirt of her bridesmaid’s dress, her right hand moving toward the Walther PPK/S, in the black fabric Galco, thigh holster.

The httle stainless .380 pistol was in her hand in the same instant, her right thumb working the slide mounted thumb safety up and off.

And then she stood stock still, waiting.

Her little gun was loaded with German fabricated duplicates of the Federal 90-grain jacketed hollow point load she had used in the gun ever since the first day she had taken it out of its black plastic box. Not long after that, the barrel was threaded (losing about a quarter inch of rifling at the muzzle) to accept a suppressor. The suppressor, along with the shoulder holster in which she so frequently carried the Walther, was in her suitcase, back at the bachelor officers quarters at the German base outside Eden.

If she needed to use the gun, waking up some of John’s patients would be unavoidable.

She still listened for the sound to come again.

And it came again, like something scratching at the synth-glass windows.

The medium heel shoes she wore had hard heels and would click as she walked.

She stepped out of them, the hem of her dress tumbling over her toes. The gun in her right hand, her dress pinched

between the thumb and first finger of her left hand, Natalia started toward the windows, her stockinged-feet-cold against the corridor floor.

Young Lieutenant I^rrimore’s baby had started spitting up. and although John had not thought anything was wrong, to humor an anxious first time mother he had agreed to examine the baby in greater detail and observe the child until it was asleep.

John’s trouble as a physician was exactly the same as his trouble during the War: John Rourke could not remain uninvolved or uncaring. And his trouble was also his greatest virtue.

She peered through the windows into the swirling snow of the night, seeing nothing but her own reflection because of the work light over the reception desk, well down the corridor.

The trouble with a hospital or a hotel or motel or anything like that was the multiplicity of doors behind which someone could hide. She started along the corridor. A door opened to her right and she wheeled toward it, realizing instantly that she had made a fatal error when she heard the sound of another door opening behind her.

Natalia recognized the smell immediately, the classic scent of bitter almonds. Cynanide.

Automatically, Natalia turned her face away from the cloud of gas that billowed toward her from the doorway and pulled the trigger of her pistol as she collapsed to the floor, having used a cyanide gas pistol enough herself in the days prior to The Night of The War, to realize that she was a dead woman …

Munchen lifted the receiver of his telephone, automatically opening his case and extracting one of the custom blend non-carcinogenic cigarettes. “This is Munchen.”

“This is Colonel Mann, Herr Doctor. I may need you. Bring your bag and your pistol. A corporal will be in to collect you

in a moment.”

The line clicked dead, and in the same breath as Munchen exhaled smoke, there was a knock at his door.

John Rourke looked away from the baby as he wheeled toward the doorway, the Centennial coming into his hand from the waistband of his uniform trousers in the same motion …

It was clearly the sound of a pistol shot, nothing else.

And her husband’s little office was suddenly a very vulnerable place, with too many windows, no secure door, very little potential for covered positions from which to return fire.

Sarah Rourke’s right hand groped for the Trapper Scorpion 45 in the pocket of her German arctic parka, the garment draped over the back of her husband’s chair.

The pistol’s chamber was already loaded and she thumbed back the hammer as she stood.

Pain shot through her, from groin to chest.

She was cold and hot at once.

Fluid burst from her, spraying downward between her legs and onto the floor, her water bag broken. Her knees went weak.

As she upped the safety on the .45 and doubled forward over the desk, choking back a scream, she realized the baby was coming early …

It sounded like a shot. Annie fell into a run at the same moment her husband did, with her left hand catching up the skirts of the nightgown and robe she wore beneath her parka, drawing the Scoremaster from the holster cinched about her waist with her right hand and cocking back the hammer …

Michael Rourke’s hands moved under his open parka, tearing first from the leather, the Beretta 92F beneath his left armpk, then the one from beneath his right, flicking off both safeties as he broke into a dead run for the hospital…

A burst of automatic weapons fire, the sound of synth-glass shattering.

There was a dull thudding sound at the far end of the corridor, metal or ceramic bouncing over a hard surface, John Rourke halfway along the corridor’s length when he heard it. He felt a cold draft of wind, a synth-glass window punched through. An explosion, and a fireball filled the corridor there, the fireball blown along its length, rolling toward him on the air current from the destroyed window.

Rourke threw his body weight against a patient door, hitting the floor in a roll, coming down hard on his left shoulder, the flames gusting past him.

And he was up, framing himself just inside the doorway, the Smith & Wesson revolver in his right hand, his left hand moving to his trouser band where the A G Russell Sting IA Black Chrome was sheathed, snapping it free. The sprinkler system switched on, Rourke instantly soaked in icy cold water, the spray like a very heavy rain.

The fireball was gone, but flames licked everywhere along the corridor, hissing as the water from the sprinklers contacted them, but the fire was still spreading.

The building’s fire alarms were sounding.

John Rourke tentatively stepped into the corridor, the little .38 Special revolver tight at his right hip, the knife in a rapier hold along the outside of his left thigh. Gunfire tore along the wall near him, a submachine gun from the sound of it, and he ducked back.

Who had fired that first shot?

But the more important concerns now were his wife, their unborn child, Natalia, Lieutenant Larrimore and her baby and

the other patients.

To deal with those concerns effectively, he had to get out of the room, capture a more effective weapon if possible, and at least neutralize the attackers sufficiently, that he could act.

There was a bedpan, stainless steels wrapped in its sanitiza-tion seal, on the sliding table near the foot of the hospital bed. John Rourke turned toward the patient room’s window and fired the Smith & Wesson, twice, the synth-glass taking the bullet holes but not shattering, merely spiderwebbing around them.

But the webs of fractured synth-glass interwove and Rourke seized up the bedpan, the Sting IA clamped between his clenched teeth; his left fist, the bedpan armoring it against the glass, punching through the window between the two bullet holes, making a hole roughly circular and about eighteen inches in diameter. Rourke let the bedpan fall through the opening, drew his hand back inside, shoved the Hip-Gripped revolver into his waistband and tore the pillow off the bed.

Icy wind licked through the opening, chilling Rourke instantly, but his mind was elsewhere. Using the pillow like a giant padded mitten, he reached into the hole, closing his eyes and averting his face as he pried back, a huge chunk of the synth-glass snapping inward. He threw it to the floor, grabbing the next piece, prying again, the razor sharp wedge splitting free.

Rourke threw it down and the pillow as well, grabbed the visitor chair from the foot of the bed, put it beside the window, stepped up and clambered through the opening, jumping down into the drifted snow beside the wall.

The cold thoroughly numbed him now, but Rourke started moving nonetheless, opening the cylinder of the little five shot .38 Special, dumping its contents into his hand, discarding the two spent cases, pocketing the three live rounds, in the same movement recovering the Safariland speedloader. He rammed the five 158-grain lead hollow points into the charging holes, the speedloader releasing as its center piece, contacted the