Survivalist - 22 - Brutal Conquest (19 page)

“Well have a permanent badge for you within the hour, ■st as soon as you smile for the ensign here so your pic-tare can be taken.”

Michael smiled at the pretty ensign. She was in her ■id-twenties, a redhead and cute.

She took his picture with something the size of a ciga-aette pack, then told him, “Thank you, sir.”

Perhaps to keep him from getting lost, perhaps just to hep him, the young ensign was assigned to accompany Michael.

Pearl Harbor, along with all other structures on the is-lmds, was swept clean by the fires of The Great Conflagration, so nothing remained except, curiously, some ■■nor bits of wreckage from the battleship Arizona, sunk ■■King the original attack by the Japanese on December 7,

■mi.

A new monument to it had been built, this one of the

first spots on the tour the young ensign—her name was Harriet Collins—was apparently giving him, whether he wanted a tour or not. But he was enjoying it. Aside from vaguely remembered trips as a boy Before The Night Of The War, he had never been a tourist.

Marine and naval personnel were everywhere, and security at the facility seemed tight. No one was without an identity badge, and as the lieutenant commander had told him, everyone was armed.

They left the memorial, taking a launch to the far side of the base where the airfield was situated. The airfield stretched farther than he could see, hangars flanking it on two sides, several control towers, various radar and other sensing installations in evidence. There were six principal runways, she told him, and during scramble drills it was possible to launch an aircraft every thirty-nine seconds.

Pearl Harbor seemed ready, but Michael wondered if it were ready enough.

Croenberg’s plans to use sabotage to knock out power facilities, communications, and cause general disruption, coupled with an electromagnetic pulse Over the fleet, might make all these preparations useless. Air defenses would be blinded, the aircraft on the ground and in the air within reach of the pulse would be dead until major repairs from shielded parts could be accomplished, and it would be down to guns, knives, and knuckles to defend these islands.

And the free world.

As before in history, the United States was the linchpin of an alliance against a terrible aggressor. Should the United States-Hawaii and Mid-Wake in this century-fail, the alliance would certainly crumble.

Which was, of course, what Martin and Deitrich Zimmer and Croenberg and all the others counted on.

John Thomas Rourke sat in the copilot’s seat of the Interceptor, reading from a video screen that was set into a folding console. What he was reading was the Intell digest concerning his son Michael’s report on the forthcoming attack on Pearl Harbor.

Michael had not only acted bravely but also well. Both of his children had grown to be people of whom he was terribly and justifiably proud.

Over the ages, various philosophers had held a cyclical view of history; and history, it seemed, was bearing out their contentions.

But it was also apparent that missed opportunities were gone forever, somehow escaping the cycle of repetition. If, following Germany’s surrender at the close of World War II, those who had championed the idea of destroying world Communism had been heeded, the hostilities between the United States and Communist nations could have been avoided, together with suffering on both sides.

John Rourke recalled a conversation he had once had with a particularly bright and perceptive fifteen-year-old, a young man. In that fellow’s case, the appellation “boy” would have been grossly inappropriate. Discussing the geopolitical situation at the time, Rourke had the usual adult prejudice: Listen to the young person, certainly; but learning from him would be highly improbable.

The young man had voiced an opinion that was at once

ruthless and practical: What was the sense in fighting a bitter and protracted war, conquering an enemy nation, then financing the rebuilding of said nation’s economy, when it might potentially become an enemy power once again?

Certainly help in the rebuilding, but toward a better purpose.

Further exploring this idea with the young man, there was no evidence of malice in the fellow’s thinking. Punishing a former enemy was not only inhumane but also counterproductive. Why not simply bring that nation into the fold, as it were?

A bit simplistic, yes, Rourke thought at the time, but when considered in the light of the form of government of the United States, as opposed to less free states, the idea of imposing such a comparatively enlightened form of government on a conquered nation that was annexed had considerable merit, most particularly to the conquered nation.

This was not a perfect solution, certainly, nor was it perfect when the Romans had, indeed, practiced it, imposing the Pax Romana on the then known world. But the Roman system was vasdy less close to perfection than the American system.

Had the United States and her allies taken this additional step following World War II, none of what ensued would have happened.

John Rourke did not consider himself politically naive, and any solution viewed simplistically was dangerous. Divi-siveness could have arisen between the allies, to be sure, and there might have been other unforeseen pitfalls. Yet, none of this could conceivably have been worse than what did happen.

But, perhaps, the United States of those days was too politically self-conscious, rather like the pretty girl at a party who doesn’t realize she is pretty at all and, instead of dancing every dance, becomes a wallflower. Was it modesty or a lack of self-confidence?

The world was heading into a new epoch of mortal conflict, more rapidly perhaps than this ultramodern aircraft sped over the Pacific now.

Six hundred and twenty-five years ago, he had been unable to do anything, unable to prevent a war that nearly destroyed all of humanity and the very fabric of the planet.

This time, he would not fail.

It was a silent pledge John Rourke made … to himself, to his God.

Such a pledge, although often the most difficult to fulfill, was the hardest to break.

This war would not happen while any honorable means presented itself by which the conflict could be prevented and breath remained in his body to work toward that end.

Conciliation to tyranny was incomprehensible to him, as well as objectively futile.

So he would make peace by destroying those who would inflict war once again on humanity.

He looked away from the screen, and realized that Emma Shaw was watching him. “Something wrong?” John Rourke asked her.

“No. I was just looking at you. I’m sorry. It was rude of me, I guess.” Rourke didn’t know what to say.

But, as he had learned, silence was nothing Emma Shaw allowed to last. Tm a shameless hussy.”

“What? I haven’t heard that word in years!” Rourke exclaimed, smiling.

“Women are more direct these days, Doctor. I like you.”

“Well, I like you, too,” Rourke told her honesdy.

“No, I mean I like you.”

“I don’t follow you,” John Rourke responded.

Emma Shaw let her laugh happen again. “We’re heading mto a war, Doctor. One of these babies”—she patted the in-atrument console in front of her—“can outrun or outfight almost anything. But accidents happen. Life expectancy’s

close to a hundred these days, in case you didn’t know. But people still die, all the time. I learned a long time ago that life isn’t something you can count on to be there, that the breath you have inside of you might be the last breath youll ever experience. So, I figured it was best to be honest.

“When I was a litde girl,” she went on, “I used to say the damndest things. I know my parents must have wanted to dig a hole sometimes and crawl into it out of sheer embarrassment. I guess I haven’t changed much, and I know saying this to a man like you is perfecdy silly. But, if you’re ever lonely, you don’t have to be alone.”

She looked away.

John Rourke said nothing. The idea was a litde amusing—not what she’d just said; that was sweet. But the realization her words brought to him was what amused him.

Perhaps he should have consulted with that rather astute fifteen-year-old concerning advice about women, too.

By circumstance alone, the most confusing and morally troubling relationship of his entire life had been resolved. Natalia was Michael’s now.

He’d never thought he wanted to be free of her, and he still loved her and always would.

But he was free, now, free to be Sarah’s husband when she was revived, restored to him.

Emma Shaw was not only pretty—in a much earthier, less incredible way than Natalia—but she was also attractive to him as a person. He liked independent women. He’d never cared for a woman who shrunk from life, was afraid of challenge.

But, never again.

Michael Rourke stood on the runway as the fuselage door of the first of three unmarked Interceptors to land opened and his father stepped out.

John Rourke smiled, and as he moved down the steps almost in the same instant in which they folded out, he unslung a medium-sized black duffle bag, just carrying it in his hand.

He stopped about two feet from Michael, setting down the bag. “You did well, son.” John Rourke extended his right hand. Michael Rourke clasped it.

Then John Rourke’s smile broadened even more. “You’re not too old; give me a hug, damnit.” And they embraced, quickly, each stepping back from the other, Michael feeling a smile breaking out on his face. John Rourke nodded his head toward the black duffle, saying, “Got your handguns and your knife there. Figured you might need them. Nice Uzi carbine. Reproduction?”

“One of the Lancers.”

“Yours or borrowed?”

“Germans gave it to me,” Michael smiled again, shrugging-

“A very underappreciated firearm in its day, that semi-auto carbine. Have to let me try it sometime.” John Rourke cleared his throat. “You did well with playing spy. Understand you took one getting away.”

The wind blew hard and cool over the tarmac as Natalia climbed down out of one of the aircraft. Michael wanted to take her into his arms. “Like they say in the movies, Just knicked me.’ I’m fine.”

John Rourke glanced back over his shoulder. “So, what are you waiting for?”

Michael didn’t understand.

“Natalia … son. But don’t forget to give your sister a hug and say hi to Paul, huh?” “Can you … uh …”

“I’ll get the bag dropped off in your quarters. Go on.”

Michael nodded, clapped his father on the shoulder, then broke into a hobbling run across the field toward Natalia. His right hand held the Uzi against his body so it wouldn’t pendulum against him as he moved.

Natalia saw him and started walking, then running, into his arms. “Michael!” Her arms went around his neck and he crushed her against him, kissing her harder than he’d ever kissed her, then just holding her… .

John Thomas Rourke watched Michael and Natalia.

What they had seemed very good.

He picked up the duffle bag and started to walk toward the knot of naval brass about a hundred yards distant… .

Annie Rourke Rubenstein had left Martin Zimmer handcuffed to one of the structural supports in the cabin bulkhead. Unless he was a magician, he wasn’t going anywhere.

She stood halfway down the egress steps, Paul already standing on the tarmac. Over her husband’s right shoulder, she watched her father.

Her skirts caught in the cool breeze off the sea. Annie lifted her clothing with her left hand as she walked down the remaining steps and stood beside Paul, felt him reach out and take her hand.

The wind had her hair, too, but she did nothing to fight it, merely leaning her head against her husband’s shoulder. “I love you.”

“I know?

“I feel so sorry for him.” “Your dad?” .

“Uh-huh. He’s so alone. I have you. Michael has Natalia. He doesn’t have anybody.”

She felt Paul exhale, felt his hand gendy turn her arm behind her and his arm bind her to him. “Your mother’s down but not out. Hell make things right. Then they’ll have each other.”

T don’t think so,” she told him, her head still against his shoulder.

“Psychic flash?

If anyone else had said it that way, Annie would have thought she was being made fun of. But Paul never did that. She told him, “No. Not even woman’s intuition. Maybe just odds for and against. Even if he gets her back, somehow I don’t think hell keep her.”

“Sarah’d never—”

“It’s different with you and me,” Annie almost whispered, a catch in her throat. “And for Michael and Natalia, too. It’s not the same for them. They love each other, but I don’t think they like each other. And I think Dad knows it and so did Mom.”

“Sufficient unto each day is the evil thereof,” Paul quoted.

Annie didn’t say anything. She hoped Paul was right. She prayed he was right… .

*

Emma Shaw watched John Rourke. She stood in the doorway, her helmet off, the rubber band out of her hair, which was blowing in the wind.

She’d made a fool out of herself. Dr. Rourke had been very polite, but she knew it anyway.

Maybe they’d never see each other again.

She rubbed the fingers of her right hand against her palm.

John Rourke shook her hand. He told her, “It’s been great flying with you.”

She wanted to fly with John Rourke very badly, more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.

He stopped before a group of officers, both Naval and Marine Corps.

Where were the brass bands and the red carpets?

He was a living legend, come back from near death to try to save the world one more time, mankind’s reluctant, quiet champion. And Emma Shaw wondered if they appreciated that. Because of all the impressions her few hours with Dr. John Thomas Rourke engendered in her, the most indelible was that he was a quiet man who merely wanted to live his life.

Fate just refused to allow that.

Considering the propensity for size—the Intercepter fighter aircraft, the carrier-sized vessels that doubled as surface and submarine warfare vessels, even the acreage of the Pearl Harbor base itself—the conference room was rather small, even appearing crowded.