Survivalist - 22 - Brutal Conquest (14 page)

“Thank you, sir.”

She turned, starting to leave. And she wondered what she was getting herself into now. As she stepped into the outer office, Captain Rahn’s

secretary handed her a video packet marked, “Eyes Only.”

She knew exacdy what she was getting herself into-something that would probably turn out to be more trouble than she could imagine.

Paul Rubenstein had inched his way through the snow along the north side of the slope until he was within twenty yards of the nearest of the two APCs.

Time was running out.

At any second, he expected to hear gunfire from the defile, where all nine of the field party had disappeared.

The APCs, aside from their standard sensing equipment, were equipped with intruder alert systems. All he had to do was touch one of the units and the system would kick on.

In New York City in the wintertime, he used to get together with his friends occasionally and go out to the park. All of them would pretend they were kids again, which usually meant getting into a snowball fight by the end of things. He had been a pretty good hand with a snowball, even as a litde boy. He pulled off his outer and inner gloves, his hands instantly starting to numb even more than they had been. He kept the gloves under his left upper arm, pressed against his torso to trap the warmth inside as long as he could.

As his hands dipped into the snow, there was stinging pain.

But he had a proper amount of snow. And it was good packing snow, nice and wet. He formed it into a sphere that, to the naked eye at least, looked as perfecdy round as round could be.

There was no time to waste, because his hands couldn’t take the cold much longer. He rose to his feet and launched the snowball toward the rear door of the APC nearest him, then ducked, waiting for the hoped for reaction.

As he got his gloves back on, his hands shaking with the cold, the hatch started to open. There would be men waiting just inside, he knew.

But he had his Schmiesser to his shoulder, ready.

And in his pocket was another ball, this of plastique, about a quarter pound’s worth, with a detonator displayed prominendy, imbedded into it. Only the detonator was disabled.

He trusted that the intended recipients of the ball of plastique would not realize that.

The hatch was halfway down now, about as far as prudent men would lower it.

He lowered his weapon, took the ball of German plastique explosives from his pocket, and lobbed it toward the doorway where the opening was.

If he missed, he had a second ball prepared. He had learned that from John a long time ago: Plan ahead.

But Paul Rubenstein did not miss, the ball of plastique explosives and the neutralized detonator disappearing inside the APC’s hatchway.

Nothing happened for a second or so.

If the men inside were nervy, they’d take a second to inspect the ball, albeit from a distance.

If not … the doorway opened downward all the way, the three men who had been inside now outside, running, pulling coats on and holding weapons at the same time. Paul Rubenstein had the German MF40 submachine gun back to his shoulder and he fired, hosing out three long bursts, taking out all three men.

Then Paul was up, running toward the hatchway of the

APC before the turret gun on the second machine could open fire on him.

Now, if he could only have enough time to switch detonators… .

Natalia Tiemerovna heard gunfire.

She anticipated Mary Ann’s scream, so she smothered it with her gloved right hand as the girl opened her mouth to utter it.

She heard voices, the men with the boots that crunched snow, very close to her, shouting to each other in beautiful German that something had gone wrong. -Natalia certainly hoped ….

Paul Rubenstein didn’t bother pulling the neutralized detonator but simply inserted the fresh one, then slapped the ball of plastic explosives against the bulkhead near a row of riveted armor plates. The second ball was already in his hand as he moved forward, and Paul stuck it to the bulkhead near the hydraulic lines for the brakes. He set the timer.

And then he started aft, toward the open doorway.

The turret gun on the APC beside him was already firing, blue-white bolts of electrical energy cutting furrows into the snow just outside the doorway, far enough away not to hit the APC itself.

Paul Rubenstein dodged right, counting seconds as he ran. Fifteen seconds remained.

Now fourteen.

He jumped from the ramp and into the snow, a bolt from the energy weapon mounted on the second APC’s turret just missing him, but a shower of partially vaporized snow falling around him, drenching him.

He threw himself beside the tread at the APC’s left rear.

Nine seconds.

He could hear the transmission of the second APC, the vehicle starting into motion.

If the commander of the second machine were really smart, he’d guess.

Paul hoped the man wasn’t that smart.

Four seconds. Paul burrowed as deeply as he could into the snow, almost but not quite in contact with the tread.

Three. If he had calculated the strength of the vehicle incorrecdy, he would be dead.

Two.

Paul Rubenstein’s hands were over his ears and his submachine gun was protected beneath his body.

The blast came, not loud at all to begin with, then peaking in volume with a screech, the ground shaking, the sounds of metal groaning, tearing, the APC beside which he’d taken shelter lurching sideways and away from him as he watched.

And then there was a second explosion, and Paul Rubenstein knew that what he’d done had worked, turning the armored personnel carrier into a gigantic fragmentation bomb to destroy the second identical vehicle.

Now all he had to worry about were the nine men armed and afoot in the defile.

Natalia Tiemerovna was up, moving, hissing to Mary Ann under her breath, “Stay here with the horses. Do as I say or you will be in trouble!” She was taking advantage of the girl and she knew it, capitalizing on Mary Ann’s low self-esteem, but there was no time to do otherwise.

Natalia ran obliquely along the wall of the defile, so she would not run right into the men who searched for her. Whatever had happened, from the sound of the explosions, it had to have affected their vehicles.

So they would be returning to the vehicles. Natalia reached the height of the defile, staying just below its crest so she would not silhouette herself against the skyline. The night was bright.

She ran into a stand of scrub pine, her short-barreled assault rifle ready, her coat open at the chest so she could access her suppressor-fitted pistol should the need arise.

And it did.

As she cut through the trees, she .saw the rear edge of the party of searchers, counting at least nine men, running toward a descending fireball and a twisted pile of blackened wreckage.

She saw a figure moving from the far side of the wreckage.

The only way she could tell it was Paul was because Annie was back in skirts. Natalia flung herself down into the snow, letting the as

sault rifle fall across her back, her right hand rir)ping the suppressor-fitted Walter PPK/S from the shoulder holster, her right thumb—she had her outer gloves off—flicking up the safety into the fire position.

She thumbed back the hammer, both elbows steady in the snowy ground, holding her breath, letting a litde of it go, then starting the trigger squeeze. With any luck she could take out two of them before they realized where she was shooting from… .

Paul Rubenstein, his ears ringing so loudly that he couldn’t have heard a third explosion if there had been one, had the Schmiesser to his right shoulder, firing controlled three round bursts. He put down two of the nine men, one of them a Land Pirate, before the others started returning fire.

And as they returned fire, he threw himself behind the cover of the left side of the APC.

Energy pulses pinged off the armor work, electrical charges flickering across the hull… .

Natalia had one man down, and was squeezing the trigger on the second, when a third man—she had him at the edge of her peripheral vision—started to turn around. She let the second man live for a moment longer, swung her pistol to the man who was turning around, and put a bullet into his throat.

His energy weapon discharged into the sky, a blue lightning bolt arcing upward.

Natalia swung her weapon back to her original target.

Paul had swapped shots with some of the men, but she didn’t know why he wasn’t firing still, unless, of course he’d been hit. She finished the trigger squeeze and the man who’d been her original second target became her third, grabbing for his left ear as the bullet struck.

She was pushing her luck and she knew it. Dropping the safety on the American Walter, she stuffed the longish combination of pistol and suppressor into an outside pocket of her parka. Grabbing for her assault rifle, she rose to her feet and ran back into the trees.

An energy pulse impacted a tree about a meter from her, engulfing the trunk with fire, the sapling pine toppling over and nearly falling on her. She dodged right.

There was standard submachine gun fire now from behind her… .

Paul Rubenstein emerged from the far end of the demolished second APC, already firing.

He cut down one man, a Land Pirate, as the man was firing toward the trees.

John or Natalia was out there, Rubenstein bet with himself.

He charged forward, firing into the remaining three men who were running toward where the defile began.

Paul couldn’t hear anything at all, and there was a dull roar in his ears. It would pass, he hoped. But, for the moment, he was deaf.

The three men were at the crest of the defile.

As Paul brought his weapon to his shoulder, he caught a flash of movement to his right and wheeled about toward it.

Natalia.

She had the short-barreled assault rifle she carried up to her shoulder, firing it. Paul fired.

The three men running for the defile started to fall.

And immediately, especially since he had just destroyed the best transportation they could ask for, the reality of beating the cold before the women died of exposure washed over him like the sounds of the waves crashing in his still-ringing ears.

It was nearly dawn, and John Rourke guided the big grey to the height of a rise.

In the valley below, there was a farmhouse.

The coordinates on the map he had memorized, his compass bearings, and a gut feeling told him he had reached the safe house.

It was still well over a mile away, and there was no sign of a fire from the house’s crude stone chimney. If the Allied agents Hilda, Dan, and Margie, were not there, at least there should be a radio for making a satellite uplink and contact with Allied Intelligence Headquarters. But that would take even more time.

His hopes rested on the barn.

The weathered grey clapboard structure, it’s roof half collapsed, was big enough to house several vehicles. And the Allied agents had said there would be transportation available for however many personnel he brought out of the Land Pirates’ stronghold with him.

He hoped it was there.

The night had been long and cold for him, and he knew it had been worse for Paul and Annie and the freed women. Natalia would have long since reached them, and with ten horses used wisely, they would have made better time and might be close to the town again—those seven buildings in the middle of nowhere where he’d had the gunfight with Mary Ann’s “old man” and company.

He urged his mount ahead, telling both animals, as if they could understand him, There’s gonna be the best-tasting feed you guys ever had, and I’ll rub you both down and youll be warm. I promise.”

John Rourke hoped he was right… .

Emma Shaw zipped into her flight suit, then slung her shoulder holster into position. The Lancer 2570 A2-C was cleaned and freshly loaded. She strapped her knife to the outside of her right calf, a Bowie pattern with a six-inch blade made from five-sixteenths stainless stock. Anything longer could have interfered with movement, and the thickness of the stock in conjunction with the short length of the blade made for a combination that was virtually unbreakable in human hands.

Emma looked into the mirror, picked up her spare brush, and ran it through her hair several times. Then she caught her hair up almost at the crown of her head with a rubber band, which had a bead at either end, winding it around twice so it would stay put under her helmet.

It looked really sexy just to make a toss of the head and pull on the helmet, but when she took it off, she had a head full of knots. This way, with a ponytail to start with, she at least had a fighting chance.

She grabbed up her helmet and her flight bag, which had already been checked. A survival kit, spare ammunition for her pistol, marker flares, and such were right where they should be, along with a change of underwear and a sweater.

She shrugged into her A-2, then took a final look at what had been her home for the last one hundred eighty-seven days. Maybe she’d be back here, and maybe she wouldn’t. But she hoped Marie Hayes or somebody wouldn’t be packing up her stuff and sending it back to

Honolulu to two cops with the last name of Shaw, in the custody of some Lieutenant jg in a dress uniform with a note signed by the President of the United States; She loved the American flag, but not enough to wear it… .

Michael Rourke’s body was about at shut-down level by the time the antique V-stol aircraft setded on the field fifty or so miles south of Eden City.

Manfred Kohl, who seemed to be the least happy man Michael Rourke had ever met, commented dryly, “You realize that to get under Eden air defense sensors is very risky and we might all be killed if they fire a missile at us.”

James Darkwood looked at Michael, then at Kohl. “Manfred, you know I like you … that you’re my best friend in the whole world, right?”

“This is true.”

“Right. But why the hell do you have to be so depressing all the time, Manfred? Gee-whiz!” James Darkwood then spoke into his radio, saying, “This is Orphan, Fairy Godmother. We’re on our way. Acknowledge. Over.”