Survivalist - 21.5 - The Legend (7 page)

The explosives he wore, powerful new German plastique, could destroy much of the building, probably do the required amount of damage if detonated from the outside. But, to do that, it would almost certainly be necessary to die in the process.

He’d spent his life telling himself that there had to be a better way, and he was trying to convince himself now that he’d just thought of

it. The plastique, unaffected by a bullet strike, unaffected by flame, etc., was only capable of being detonated electrically. Its intended purpose, after reaching the air defense control center and hitting the equipment with the energy weapons, was to blow the entire complex from within, so nothing could be hastily repaired that would allow the system to become operational again.

He eyed the door at the end of the downward leading driveway.

If the idea he had worked, the mission would be accomplished and they just might live through it. His hands had been busy, pulling the second safety from each of the grenades he wore. Natalia, trading occasional shots from her energy weapon with the enemy personnel, seemed to be reviving somewhat.

A bolt from one of the enemy weapons hit the wall near them, a rain of synth-concrete dust falling on them. Rourke, grateful now for the synth-concrete’s resistance to the energy weapons, leaned back against the wall, telling Natalia, “Here’s what we’re going to do. The explosives Fm carrying can be detonated only electrically. Tm betting that a steady stream of shots from one of these,” and he patted what corresponded to the receiver area of the energy weapon, “can detonate the plastique and heighten its effect. I’m running down, while you cover me.”

“Where? The driveway! You could be-“

“It’s not all that healthy waiting here, is it?” Michael and Paul, as best he could tell just through hearing, were still pinned down by the other end of the tunnel. As long as he-Rourke-and Natalia held out here, no one could get into the tunnel from this end to catch Paul and Michael in a crossfire. “But the company’s marvelous,” and he touched his lips to Natalia’s forehead. “I can’t detonate even half the stuff from up close without getting killed, so Tm leaving my energy weapon with you. Keep the Elite Corps concentrated on this position as best you can, but don’t take any needless chances. Try to pin them down. Make certain you don’t deplete the batteries on both guns, though. Well need one to activate the explosives.

“Once Fve got the charges dumped-there wouldn’t be time to set detonators or precise charge placement-Fll start ranning back. Once Fm a safe distance away, start shooting at the plastique. If it goes up, the door will come down. We use the energy weapons and conventional weapons to shoot our way inside, and we use these.” And Rourke nodded to the grenades beside him. “The remainder of

the plastique should do the trick inside to destroy enough of the building’s electrical systems that we can temporarily cripple the equipment. Using it in conjunction with the energy weapons against a synth-concrete load bearing wall, we might be able to collapse the building. Not as good as the original plan, but it should get the job done.”

“How do we avoid getting blown up with it?”

“We use the energy weapons to detonate the plastique, then the energy weapons, more grenades and conventional weapons to get a far enough distance away that well have a chance of staying alive.” The alternative was certain death and failure in their mission if they waited it out here. There was no need telling Natalia that, however, because she knew as much about this sort of thing as he did.

“It could work. I’m moving better. I’ll make it.” And Natalia leaned across to him, rose up on her knees and held his face in her hands, then kissed him hard on the mouth. “I will love you forever, John.”

“I love you. You know that.” And he smiled. “Keep a good eye on our grenades, huh?”

He gave a squeeze to her hand, then started shifting out of the backpack for his energy weapon …

Nicolai Antonovitch stood over the Premier’s body. With the double doors closed, the shots would not have been heard outside in the secretarial suite. The Premier’s office, conveniently enough, was soundproofed.

From a spare magazine pouch on the holster itself, he took a fresh load for the pistol, pocketing the empty magazine.

Several options presented themselves now, but the most likely one to succeed in bringing this thing to a close with rriinimal loss of life was to cut all power for the City. It seemed obvious that the small team, which even now was presumably still fighting, wished to reach the controls for air defense radar. Killing the power would kill the air defense radar. That could only be done at the main power station or at Commissariat for Special Contingencies, at the headquarters for the civil police, about a quarter mile from the Premier’s office along a series of tunnels through which he should, he presumed, still be able to travel easily enough because of bis position.

The Commissariat for Special Contingencies was a crack team of anti-riot police on constant alert for quelling civil disturbances, which there rarely were. Recently, however, there had been small groups of dissenters within the City, protesting the continuation of the war. On the wall inside the inner sanctum of the commissariat there was an illuminated map which showed all power grid sectors, and a series of switches which could shut them off one at a time as necessary, or all of them at once.

Antonovitch walked to the double doors, the trick now was to get out of the office without anyone seeing the dead body lying inside…

John Rourke, three of the now precious grenades in his pockets, the plastique parcel cut in half, the strips-the material smelted faintly like bleach-wound around his shoulders in long ropes, drew both Scoremasters from beneath his belt.

Natalia could see him, he knew, just as he could see her. He gave her a nod. She blew him a kiss.

John Rourke broke into a dead run toward the driveway leading down to the massive garage door. The color of the door stuck in his mind for some reason; the color was green, a very deep, yet bright green.

Behind him and to his right, he could hear the sounds of energy weapons being fired, the hum, the buzz, then sometimes what sounded like an explosion.

There was some conventional weapons fire, but none of it so far aimed toward him, because where he ran now he was beyond sight level for the enemy personnel swapping shots with Natalia and, so far at least, none of the personnel from the air defense center had apparently noticed him.

But that changed in the next instant, automatic weapons fire pouring down into the synth-concrete roadbed over which he ran. Rourke punched both .45s upward, toward the source of the gunfire, firing the ScoreMasters simultaneously. Accurate return fire was impossible for him now, but if he could get close enough he could drive them back and keep them from firing at him anymore.

That was working, both ScoreMasters empty in his hands, their slides locked back. Leaving them that way, he thrust both pistols

into his belt, grabbing for one of the three grenades he’d taken from the pile. He pulled the pin, broke stride and hurtled the grenade toward the small balcony from which the personnel of the air defense command were firing at him.

It was a lucky throw and Rourke knew it, the grenade going over the balcony rail, the explosion coming in the next instant, bits of people and equipment and the balcony itself raining down around him. He raised his left forearm over his head to protect his eyes. With his right hand, he drew one of the little Detonics CombatMasters from the double Alessi shoulder rig beneath his uniform tunic.

As the shower of debris abated, he drew the second of the twin stainless Detonics .45s.

He was into the driveway now, the downward pitch of the driveway itself drawing him downward at an even faster rate than his normal rurming speed. He kept going, eyes back on the green garage door.

The nearer he came to it, the more massive it appeared.

But he could not afford to use all the new German plastique to get inside the building, because then there would be no point to the exercise, no way to destroy the equipment which controlled the Soviet antiaircraft defenses.

Energy weapons were being fired at him now, the synth-concrete near him taking the hits, blackening as the blue-white flashes of plasma energy passed, the surface beneath Rourke’s feet vibrating with the concussion.

He kept nmning, eyes on the green door, pistols in his hands.

Conventional small arms fire came at him again from above. But Rourke kept ranning this time. To have slowed at all might give the Elite corpsmen who were firing the energy weapons at him just enough time to make an accurate hit.

Machinegun fire rippled across the synth-concrete near his feet, Rourke squinting his eyes, averting them as the dust rose around him. He kept running for the door. A bullet struck his left thigh and he stumbled, but didn’t fall, pressing his hand and the butt of the pistol in it against the wound to staunch the blood.

He heard the sound of a grenade exploding, realizing it must be Natalia, trying to cover for him.

And, at last, Rourke was at the green door…

Antonovitch entered the Commissariat offices, the first time he had ever done so. He was struck by their austerity. There was the customary photograph of the Premier (now late Premier) and the photo of Lenin painted in an heroic pose, chin whiskers pointing defiantly forward.

“Comrade Marshal!” The receptionist was on her feet at attention, her flat chest under her loose fitting uniform singularly unappealing. And Antonovitch still resented this artificial rank which had been bestowed upon him, which he did not feel he had earned, but this was not the time to ignore her, appear odd in any way.

“Comrade. To combat the emergency precipitated by the emergency near the main gate section, I require access immediately to the power grid controls.”

“I shall-“

“You shall summon no one because there is no time. Were there time to waste do you think, girl, that I would have come here myself?”

“No, comrade Marshal, but I have-” “And now you have new orders. Be quick. Lives are at stake here!”

She fetched a small book from within the center drawer of her desk, leafing through it quickly enough as she said, “Follow me, please, Comrade Marshal.” And she started down a narrow corridor with its origins to the right of her desk.

Antonovitch followed her, watching her rather skinny legs for a moment; her stockings-heavy, disgusting looking, very typically Russian-were actually loose on those spindly legs.

And, for some reason, he thought of Major Tiemerovna.

Now, there was a woman, well-practised in a woman’s art, beautiful, perfectly dressed, yet it all seemed so natural for her.

And Antonovitch felt a flash of remorse for the time when he had abetted Major Tiemerovna’s maniacal late husband in entrapping her for torture and death.

He had respected her then, respected her more now.

The receptionist stopped before a vault-like door, with a standard touchtone security lock in place beside it.

She looked at him, imploring, “But Comrade Marshal-“

Nicolai Antonovitch cut her off mercilessly. “Open the door now,

girl.”

She turned on her heel, the movement almost provocative, a body gesture which would have been provocative in any other woman under any circumstances other than these, but not with her, not under any circumstances.

And he realized suddenly, as she tapped out the door entry code, that he was transferring to this girl with the faded blond hair and pale pimply skin, all of the disgust he harbored for the system which had built this girl, made her what she was, made him what he was, too.

She opened the door. Lights came on with an audible click and buzz.

He started to walk past her, but turned and looked into her faded brown eyes. “I am sorry if I spoke rudely to you, but there is something I must do that cannot wait.”

She seemed shocked, and there was the hint of a smile in her eyes that might almost have made her barely pretty if she had allowed it to fully happen.

She did not. She was not.

Antonovitch walked into the room, the lights on the map just as he had been told they looked, just as he had pictured them. And, encased under a plexiglas cover, there was a set of switches. He crossed the room and walked toward these. The cover was merely set in place over the switches. He started to lift it. “Comrade Marshal!”

He didn’t look at the bland girl, merely told her, “Go away.”

He never bothered to look if she did.

He tripped the switch and the entire room was in darkness, just as he knew the entire city would be.

He drew his gun, stood there in the total darkness and waited for the girl to stop screaming at him long enough to grope her way back down the corridor and summon help. By the time all that was done and they came and he shot it out with them, the Allies would have done their work, if they were clever.

If they were not clever, nothing would help them. He tried to think of something happy, knowing these would be the last thoughts of his life.

And he started to cry, because he could think of nothing happy at

all.

John Thomas Rourke froze.

No lights, total darkness except for the flash of the energy weapons, and those were few and far between in these last few seconds.

He was beside the door, and he bent awkwardly, setting out the plastique, wondering why there were no lights, and was the power failure general.

Rourke heard Natalia’s voice from the darkness, shouting to him, “It could be a trick!”

He knew she would not expect an answer.

Although he always carried at least one flashlight, he moved in darkness now, his only light the occasional futile flash of the hoped for lucky shot with one of the energy weapons the Elite Corps still fired sporadically.

Rourke’s left thigh pained him badly, but the flow of blood, as best he could tell in the darkness, had eased; and, since he was not dead yet, he theorized that the bleeding was not arterial.

He kept moving, dragging his left leg slightly, focusing his attention on the job at hand instead of the pain. If all the power in the city were out, either the Hand of Providence had hit the switch or something unfathomable had occurred.