Survivalist - 21.5 - The Legend (4 page)

John was nearly into the pack for the energy weapon, movement of any kind in the rear seat cramped because of the modest leg room to begin with and the added problem of the removed seat.

She helped him fasten the last buckle for the pack around his chest, then squeezed back against the door so she could give John more room. He rose to his full height, threading his tall, muscular frame through the opening in the roof, dragging the energy weapon itself with him.

Natalia twisted herself around and wrestled open the door, the slipstream catching her hair, suddenly chilling her legs, her skirt up to her thighs. She clawed at the seat, pushing it outward, through

the open doorway and out, the ATV bumping as it rolled over it. From under her greatcoat, she pulled the German submachine gun, pushing it forward, the sling still wrapped over her body beneath her coat. And she stabbed the submachine gun through the open door, wedging it open with her right knee, opening fire now on the nearest of the enemy vehicles, the half track.

Men clung to its superstructure, returning fire, Natalia drawing back.

“Look out! Grenade outgoing!” She glanced behind her for a split second, catching a quick glimpse of Michael hanging out the passenger side door, pitching the grenade. The only time she ever wished to be a man was when she needed to throw a grenade. She could never get the distance Michael got, the grenade hitting the roadbed and rolling under the front of the APC she’d swapped shots with, then detonating. The APC lost a tread as it careened toward the shoulder, men falling from it into the roadbed.

The vehicles behind the lead APC did not swerve to avoid casualties, but ran over the hapless trooper’s bodies instead.

“Let’s see if this works,” John called out.

There was a hum, a crackle and, as she watched a tongue of bluish white energy like a hghtning bolt move toward the staff car that was right behind them. And the staff car exploded, a fireball, black and orange and yellow, belching skyward, then engulfing the APC that drove through it…

All of the security was on the gates themselves, but Jason Darkwood and his five commandoes were already inside the fence. They started for the stairs leading up to the harbormaster’s tower. From there, as best intelligence estimates indicated, the sonar net and the sharks which guarded the entire area except the new sonar free tunnel were controlled.

The sharks were controlled electronically by the Soviets and used like the sentry dogs. Darkwood had seen them in video movies from before the Night of The War. But the sharks were, literally, controlled; there not just to alert their masters of an incoming diver, but to attack and devour that diver. Darkwood and the twenty-three Marines had entered through the new sonar tunnel, a necessity for the Soviets so the sharks could enter and leave without putting the en

tire sonar net on alert. But no ship could pass through such a small tunnel.

If control for the movement of the sharks and the sonar net itself was based in the tower above, and that tower could be taken over, then American vessels could enter beneath the Soviet domes, surface in the lagoon and do so in total surprise. To destroy the tower would have been easy enough, but the element of surprise, critical to any hope for success against the superior numbers beneath the Soviet domes, was crucial.

Admiral Rahn’s plan was brilliant-seize the submarine bays, blocking access to the docks from within the domes and set up a perimeter defense to block any Island Classers on patrol from getting back inside. Then, form a cordone sanitaire through which Mid-Wake vessels could travel, bringing in more and more troops, most of these German, eventually taking the city, block by block if need be.

There was always the chance the masters here would detonate explosives which would collapse the domes, thus destroying not only the enemy but themselves as well. If that happened, at least Mid-Wake would survive.

Jason Darkwood neared the steps leading up into the tower. There were two guards stationed at the base, with AKM-96 rifles at port arms.

It was serious business even to consider firing a conventional projectile type weapon beneath the Soviet domes because of the possible catastrophic damage which might result. Mid-Wake engineers had perfected an effective anti-personnel round which would not penetrate the dome material itself, but there was nothing to suggest the Russians had a similar round.

For one of these sentries to open fire, only the most dire circumstances could be the justification.

9mm Lancer Caseless rounds, however, would not penetrate the dome material; or, at least, that was what the engineers said. Indeed, no handgun round could, not even the .44 Magnum (which was still in use by some firearms hobbyists at Mid-Wake). Yet, by way of example, Darkwood and the commando unit had been told that even the relatively anemic 5.56mm round in use by the United States Military during the Viet Nam and post-Viet Nairn era could penetrate.

A single penetration in the domes might not bring catastrophe, but if the penetration hit at an architectural stress point, or there were several such penetrations, one of the domes might fracture. Then they would all go, and the sea would rush in, the air suddenly compressed and domes rupturing outward.

Disaster.

The only solution to the problem of the two guards, since there were no suppressed pistols available, was the Pv-26 shark guns or knives.

The shark guns were relatively silent, but not silent enough, with more Marine Spetznas personnel dangerously close by. Darkwood handed off his pistol to a young Marine near him. Holstering the Lancer would have been grossly impractical because of the thirty-round extension magazine. Swapping magazines to the shorter one would have been too noisy, the clicking of the magazine’s being reseated possibly loud enough to betray them to the guards they would have to kill. He drew the Randall from his leg sheath instead, (the closure was an advanced hook and pile fastener system which was essentially noiseless), gestured with his knife toward the two guards, then looked from man to man. All five Marines drew their issue blades by way of volunteering.

Despite the circumstances, Jason Darkwood smiled. But, he wasn’t surprised. After all, the men with him were United States Marines …

The wind, unremittingly, bitingly cold, numbed the back of his neck and tore at his hair as he stood in the ATV’s roof opening, the energy weapon locked in both fists. John Rourke fired the energy weapon. There was the hum, the crackle, but there was no recoil felt, no pushing back against him nor was there any muzzle rise. Accuracy from the hip was outstanding.

The APC was there one instant and gone in a ball of flames the next.

He twisted the weapon upward as the Soviet gunships-the second one had joined the first only a moment ago-started trying to outflank them. It was a classic Soviet maneuver, and an effective one. Once both machines were in position-a matter of seconds only now-they would most likely fire their inboard missiles, the

objective to literally shatter the object they wished to destroy between the tandem explosions. He doubted they’d perfected tactical use of the energy weapons with which they were doubtlessly armed, doubted they would try the same tactic.

But John Rourke had no intention of waiting to find out.

He swung the energy weapon to his shoulder. The stock’s length was too short and the comb was.too low for a proper spotweld, but he did the best he could, steadying himself as he squeezed the trigger, only a crude switch.

A bolt of the plasma energy lightning lashed outward and upward, toward the Soviet gunship on his left, missing. But the gunship drew back. Submachinegun fire from within the car, Natalia firing at the choppers as well, either that or Michael using Paul’s MP-40.

The second chopper fired a missile and John Rourke threw the upper half of his body flat over the staff car’s roof, protecting his face and chest as best he could and, at the same time, covering the energy weapon.

The explosion of the missile so close to him was ear-shattering, and a shower of dirt and debris crashed over him, the car swerving maddeningly.

Rourke raised himself upward, shouting to Natalia below, “Steady me! Steady me!”

He felt her hands on his thighs and hips now as he wedged himself into a corner of the roof opening, bracing himself for maximum steadiness.

Rourke fired, missing. It wasn’t just the bumpiness, but the sights were off, Rourke realized it as he turned the weapon in his hands, shouting to Natalia, “Let go of me and duck!” He threw himself forward again, protecting the weapon and protecting his face as another missile fired, this time impacting still closer, the entire fabric of the staff car pulsing with it.

Rourke’s squinted eyes flashed to the energy weapon’s rear sight. A screw had worked out, the sight blade slid all the way left. “Dam-nit!” There was no time to secure another of the energy weapons from inside the car. The next missile strike would have them, and the first chopper was coming back.

“Hold me again!” Rourke shouted below, feeling Natalia’s hands on him once more as he wedged Wmself into the corner of the roof

opening. The tear sight be damned, he told himself, almost verbalizing it as he swung the weapon to his shoulder like a shotgun, settling the front sight on the center of the chopper and firing, then firing again on the same breath.

The helicopter, close now, was suddenly aflame, the fireball rushing toward the roof of the staff car. Rourke twisted and threw himself downward, his arms going around Natalia to protect her lest the fireball be sucked in through the open driver’s side rear door.

The car rocked, Rourke’s skin hot, then cold. He was up, Natalia shouting to him, “Be careful!” He grabbed up the energy weapon again, feeling her hands on him, swung the weapon to his shoulder and fired on the first helicopter.

He missed.

He fired again, then again, catching the machine at the tail rotor, * the tail rotor seeming to melt, then a line of flame rurining back from the tail rotor engine toward the fuel tanks, the fireball belching outward. Rourke threw himself down again, the staff car almost upending with the concussion.

John Rourke, holding Natalia Tiemerovna against him, looked up.

No more choppers.

“We’re almost at the main gate, John!” Paul Rubenstein shouted. John Rourke twisted around, still holding Natalia, his eyes focusing on the entrance to the Underground City. This was the moment…

Jason Darkwood moved along beneath the open steps, no kick panels fitted to them. He could see the the feet of the two guards. If all he wanted was to kill, it would have been ridiculously simple. A slash across an artery and the man would be done for, but not so quickly that he couldn’t raise an alarm with a scream of pain or a wild shot-and with a stray rifle bullet, there was always the possibility of doing considerably worse damage.

The young Marine beside him-Lance Corporal Mondragon-looked at him.

Darkwood’s raised the palm of his free hand toward Mondragon, gesturing for patience. And Darkwood’s eyes tracked along the steps themselves. When

he and Mondragon had left the other three Marines, the guards had been standing by the base of the steps, easier prey. But while Darkwood and the Marine circled around the tower’s legs to get at the guards, they moved, one on the lowest step, leaning against the handrail, the other on a step about midway along the length of the upward run.

Darkwood exhaled, nodded to himself.

He signalled to Mondragon, to wait until he - Darkwood - made his play. And Darkwood sheathed the Randall, flexed his shoulders and jumped. He jumped only a few inches, resisting the impulse to go for the next higher step, knowing that the vibration might alert the men he stalked. He swung there, waiting for something to happen, which never did-he was unheard. Ami he started climbing, hand over hand, from step to step, upward.

His old injuries from New Germany plagued him as he moved, not all his muscles back in tone and some of his wounds not fully healed.

But, Darkwood kept climbing, slowly, his hands on the same tread as the ferther away of the two guards now. The man moved, started to turn around. Darkwood held his breath, that the guard would not look down and back and see gloved hands on the same step on which he stood and that Lance Corporal Mondragon would not overreact, opening fire or in some other way trying to take out the guard.

Darkwood hung there, his fingers stiffening, his shoulders and the horseshoe muscles of his upper arms screaming at him. The guard’s feet shifted, and there was no more movement.

Jason Darkwood waited for another few seconds, then began again to climb, running out of strength, moving as quickly as he could. He judged himself to be just below the landing, looked up and confirmed that. He shifted his left hand to the landing surface, then his right, chinning himself with considerable difficulty, glancing upward along the second set of steps, seeing no movement from the door leading into the harbormasters tower, but realizing full well that someone could be inside, just beyond one of the many windows, watching the loading of the Island Classers, perhaps grabbing a cigarette. If such a person looked down, he-Darkwood-would be seen instantly.

It was a chance he had to take.

Darkwood swung there, then pushed upward, changing his hand positioning, getting his right knee over onto the landing, then clambering up, sliding beneath the hand rail.

Darkwood rose into a crouch.

He drew the Randall Smithsonian Bowie.

On the balls of his feet now, keeping to the side of the steps along the near handrail to minimize any possible creak from the steps themselves, Jason Darkwood started down, the Bowie in a rapier hold, his left hand outstretched.

He was counting on Mondragon’s training coming to the fore. If it were Sam Aldridge waiting down there, Sam would know what to do. But Sam was in Europe, fighting with the Mid-Wake contingent of the Allied force attacking the Soviet stronghold in the Ural Mountains.

Would Mondragon have the presence of mind to wait for the precise instant that Darkwood attacked the guard at the middle of the steps, then attack the guard at the steps’ base?