by Jerry Ahern
Roseninsel, or Rose Island, had been the site of a royal villa of King Ludwig II of Bavaria. In the mid-1800s, his father Maximilian had started the project but died before its completion. Ludwig, fond of the island, had hosted Richard Wagner, Prince Paul of Thurn, an Austrian empress, and a Russian Czarina there. The villa had been transformed into a small museum, open to the general public, but that was before the Night of the War. Now the island was deserted except for the occasional fisherman or young couple looking for an au natural sexual experience.
Stiff and shivering from the cold, he crawled all of the way to shore, careful not to show a silhouette against his surroundings; he spat out the mouth piece. After catching his breath, he removed ankle-high hiking boots from his watertight bag and stowed the rebreather before heading inland. With a total land mass of just under five acres, he didn’t have far to go but the going wasn’t easy. Gone were the formal gardens that had given the island its name; in their place grew wild vines with almost quarter-inch stickers. By the time he reached his goal, what remained of his pant legs were ripped by the vicious thorns; blood ran from lacerations on his forearms and dripped from his fingers.
Peering through the brush, he could see the flashing lights of the rescue boats in the distance and the small helicopter circling the crash site looking for his body. So far, so good, he thought.
Chapter Eight
Göbekli Tepe, Turkey:
Natalia knew what was coming next—rape. Her feet were untied, her hands now secured in front of her naked body. Her attacker jerked her to a standing position. He leered and his eyes bore into hers. Glancing over his shoulder he nodded his head in the direction of the tent; his leer came back and she knew that would be the scene of her debauchery. Slumping her shoulders she looked at the ground; she hoped her signs of submission would be taken for resignation. If the bastard bought that she had resigned herself to his attention, it might give her the chance that she needed. She mentally measured the distance to her target—the neck of a broken bottle on the ground.
The Mongol pulled the tent cover back and shoved her inside. She fell on the floor of the tent, grabbed the broken bottle and hid it between her palms; she whimpered. So far, so good, she thought, not much of a weapon but still a weapon. The Mongol jerked off the heavy coat and undid his trousers. His guttural speech was indecipherable but his intent was plain. He pulled a wicked dagger as his pants dropped and held it point up under Natalia’s throat; again she whimpered, louder this time.
Using the rope as a leash, he positioned her on her back and stabbed the knife into the ground next to her head. Here it comes, she thought as the filthy bastard dropped on top of her. She squirmed and the Mongol slapped her, hard; her head swam and her vision blurred for a moment. Going limp seemed the best way to get the advantage so she relaxed. The Mongol was on his knees between her thighs ready to penetrate her; he leaned down and that was when Natalia struck.
Her hands still lashed together with the bottle neck nestled inside them; she viciously whipped the broken bottle neck up burying two inches of it in the man’s Adam’s apple before jerking it out through the right side of his neck, severing the carotid artery. She wrapped her legs around his body, pulling his head down; she held on for dear life as he struggled. With his windpipe and voice box destroyed, the only sounds that escaped could be mistaken as sounds of passion. After a minute, his struggles grew noticeably weaker; another minute passed, the man had bled out and was still.
Natalia roughly shoved the man’s body off of her. The left side of her body was now sticky with his blood from half way up her arm to her shoulder; her back was covered with it. Her attack had been perfect and her results what she had expected. Now what? She thought as she allowed her breathing to return to normal. Periodically, she moaned loudly so the others would believe the rape was still going on. She grabbed the dagger and cut the rope binding her hands. She grabbed the bottle of water on the desk and washed the blood from her body and pulled on her clothes; the first she had worn in hours.
Quietly searching the tent, she found her Bali-Song knife and her back up pistol, a Model 39 Smith and Wesson, and three magazines. The Smith had a single stack magazine which meant she only had nine rounds available before she had to reload. It will have to do for now, she decided. Better than nothing. Moving to the corner of the tent she found what she was hoping for, a guitar case. Unzipping the case she pulled out a CAR 15 and an MP-5 from their custom cutout slots in the Styrofoam, and three 30-round magazines for each weapon.
She took a deep breath. Ok, she thought, I’m on foot, miles from help in a camp full of crazies—shit. Taking a deep breath, she placed a magazine in each weapon, stowing the spares in her coat’s cargo pockets. She jerked the charging handles, loaded a round in the chamber of both rifles and flipped the selector switches to full auto. Now, she thought, I’m as ready as I’m going to get.
Pulling the tent flap slightly open she glanced outside and then she moved. The camp was still asleep. I might actually be able to make it out of here. She didn’t see one of the Mongols walk around the edge of the tent behind her—but he saw her.
Chapter Nine
Kamchatka Peninsula:
The attack lasted only fifteen minutes but it had been fifteen minutes of hell. While the attack had been a total surprise, Sanderson’s insertion team reacted quickly and effectively. The only good news was the Russian attackers, while well placed before they attacked, were a small force and they had underestimated their opponents.
Four of Sanderson’s insertion team had died almost immediately, caught in the initial cross fire. Six others, including Paul Rubenstein, had non-life threatening injuries. Eight of the attackers had survived, including one that had caught Sanderson’s attention. The boy was a local, dressed in garb that Sanderson recognized. Sanderson pulled the young man out of the circle of Russians being interrogated. They walked away from the group; Sanderson motioned for his captive to sit.
A look of surprise jolted the captive’s face; Sanderson was speaking to him in his own language. Though it was a different regional dialect, they could communicate. “How do you know my tongue?” he said.
“Because I am one of the people,” Sanderson said quietly and handed the man a cigarette. Lighting it he asked, “Why are you with these people?”
“How do I know you’re one of the people? You may have just learned our language.”
Sanderson thought and reached inside his uniform blouse, pulling out the bone carving. “Long ago my father gave this to me. My village was wiped out and I went to live with these people. Satisfied?”
The captive studied the horse carving and nodded. “I had no choice; they came to our village three days ago and took me. They promised they would let me go after I guided them here to you, but I did not believe them. I have heard stories about some of our people who left. I always thought they were just stories though.”
“Are there more of them?” Sanderson asked.
The captive shook his head, “I don’t think so, I never saw any others. They came from the sky in one of those flying machines with whirling blades on their top.”
Sanderson nodded but kept his expression blank, A helicopter, there’s a piece of luck. “How far is your village?”
“Two valleys over,” the captive said. “At least what is left of it. I saw them kill many and burn many yurts. I don’t know who or what is left of it.”
Sanderson stood and motioned for Rourke to come over. Rourke was tending to the three wounded, he patted Rubenstein’s shoulder and said, “Paul, give me a minute. I’ll be right back,” then walked toward Sanderson. “What do you need Wes?”
“Got something John, this guy is one of my people. Three days ago a chopper landed in his village and these guys took him prisoner and made him guide them to us.”
“A chopper, huh,” Rourke said with a smile.
“Yep,” Sanderson said, returning the smile.
“That’s lucky.”
; “More than you know John. Our radio and communication equipment were knocked out in that attack.”
“No one back home got our distress call?” Rourke asked.
Sanderson shook his head, “Don’t think so but I can’t be sure. Sparks just tried to get a message out but the radio and satellite equipment is fried.”
“How far away is the village?”
“Two valleys over,” Sanderson said. “At least what is left of it. This one saw several people being killed and yurts burning.”
Rourke nodded and thought for a moment. “Then we need to head toward that village. If the chopper is still there we can make contact with our own folks and have the injured evacuated and our prisoners turned over for interrogation.”
Several shots rang out behind him and Rourke spun dropping to one knee, the Detonics from under his left arm at full extension.
“We are under orders John to take no prisoners,” Sanderson said, as his operators executed the remaining wounded Mongols.
Rourke nodded, stood and reholstered the .45 nodded saying, “Then let’s get our wounded out of here.”
Chapter Ten
Göbekli Tepe, Turkey:
She never saw her attacker but, in the last second, she heard the swish of the blow driving toward her head; she twisted. That slight turn of her head kept the impact of the pummel of his heavy sword from crushing her skull. The glancing force of the blow was enough to stun her; pain and darkness swirled around her as she dropped to one knee. Both rifles went skidding across the dirt, unfired. Body odor and the foul smell of airag—the fermented mare’s milk that passed for Mongol alcohol—assailed her sense of smell as she was jerked to her feet. She was thrown through the air landing back inside the tent.
Her attacker leaned down to pick her up again; she slashed the Bali-Song in a sweeping arch, transecting his trachea and carotid arteries in one sweep. The crash of his body slamming into the storage locker contained in the tent was the only noise he made. But it was enough to bring a second attacker.
Rising to one knee she slashed again, lower this time, severing the muscles of the second man’s stomach and dumping his intestines on the floor of the tent. There was just enough time for one thrust before her head and neck slammed into the edge of the table; she was unconscious. Her last thought had been a vague awareness of the sound of an engine. The filthy Mongol lay on top of her—dead, while Natalia lay there slowly bleeding out from her own wounds—dying. The sounds of the engine were gone.
Chapter Eleven
Kamchatka Peninsula:
Rourke saw the aircraft first and pointed to the sky, “Are those ours or Russian?”
Sanderson strained his eyes, “Looks like they are ours, they should be the combat air patrol planes. If they’re ours they’ll start a circular pattern overhead. If they circle, they’re protecting us with a combat air patrol protocol and the transporters should be here shortly to evacuate us. If they don’t—we’re toast; that’ll mean they’re Russian and we’re going to get hammered.”
Rourke walked over to Paul, putting his hand on his shoulder. “How’s the leg?” Paul had taken a taken a hit in his right leg; while painful, it wasn’t life threatening.
“Hurts but I’ve had worse. Those planes are ours I hope.”
Both watched—neither sure if the approaching planes were their salvation or their ruin. Rourke smiled, “They are starting the circle pattern, they’re ours,” he shouted to Sanderson.
“Won’t be long now then,” Sanderson hollered back after he scanned the skies himself.
Thirty minutes later, the wounded had been loaded and two giant jet powered vertical takeoff and landing transports, or VTOLs, were lifting up. The crew chief came back to Rourke, “Aircraft Commander wants to see you up-front, Sir.”
Rourke unbuckled his seat restraint and stepped over Rubenstein’s stretcher, secured on the deck at his feet. “Back in a minute, Paul,” Rourke said and went forward. He climbed up the access ladder to the flight deck and knocked. Someone flipped the latch and pushed the door open, “Come in Sir.” The flight engineer sat back down at his console and handed Rourke a headset with a boom microphone and flipped a switch on his console.
“Do I call you Doctor, General or what Sir?” the pilot said, turning slightly in his seat to face Rourke.
“How about, John, Major,” Rourke said.
“Roger that John, need you to listen to something. Play it for him Sparks.” Rourke, holding one earphone to his head heard a garbled message that ended in mid-sentence. He frowned, “When did you get this Major?”
“Mid-Wake got it yesterday over the satellites. We’re headed there now.”
“Does the President know?” Rourke asked.
“Yes Sir,” the pilot said. “Would you like to speak with him directly?”
Rourke took a deep breath, wiped his face with one hand then nodded. The pilot keyed his radio, “Rescue, Rescue this is Alpha 357.”
“Go ahead Alpha 357.”
“Do you have that connection ready? The other party is standing by.”
“Roger, 357. Connecting now.”
“No names or titles Sir, the bad guys may be listening.” Rourke nodded and slid the headphone into position and held the microphone switch in his left hand.
“Are you there? Over.” Rourke recognized the voice immediately. It was his son Michael.
“I am, go ahead. Over.”
“I am rerouting you to another location, your pilot will explain. The Göbekli Tepe project has been attacked. There has been no further contact and I don’t know what you will be walking into but you’re the closest help available. You know what is at stake there? Over.”
Rourke took a deep breath and let it out slowly before answering. “Affirmative, I’ll find her. Over.” He had heard the anguish in his son’s voice.
“I have a follow up force coming to assist you, but it will not arrive until after you have made contact. What you have with you is what you have, but you do have the air support from the combat air control with you; do you copy? Over.”
“Affirmative, I’ll advise you as soon as I can. Over.”
“Tango, Yankee, Delta. Out.” Michael had spelled out the first letters for Thank You Dad.
“Yankee, Whiskey, Sierra. Out.” You’re welcome Son. The connection was broken and Rourke grasped the pilot’s shoulder. “How long before we get there?”
The pilot looked at his watch and answered, “You’ve got about an hour and a half at this speed. Check with the crew chief, we brought a resupply of ammo for you. Here is what we know right now,” he said and handed Rourke a printout. Rourke scanned the printout quickly, “This says a transport plane is en route to rendezvous with us.”
“Yes, Sir and it is on schedule. I’ll give you a fifteen minute heads up before we land.” Rourke slapped him on the shoulder, stripped the headphone and headed out.
Rourke spotted Sanderson and waved for him to come. Stepping through the maze of stretchers on the deck, Sanderson asked, “What is it John?”
“We have a problem,” Rourke said. “How many of the men can still fight?”
“Four dead, six wounded; that leaves fourteen counting you and me,” Sanderson said. “Two of the wounded are relatively minor; we could use them if we had to. What’s going on?” Sanderson listened as Rourke briefed him. He checked his watch and said, “We’re less than an hour and a half out; excuse me, I have things to do,” Sanderson said as he turned. Rourke went to Rubenstein and briefed him.
Chapter Twelve
Near Göbekli Tepe, Turkey:
The VTOL transports landed about three miles from the encampment and off loaded the special operations team. Rourke watched as the transport approached from the west; the rear ramp opened and discharged something—several chutes deployed. Through his binoculars Rourke saw a speck; it was a man in free fall. Suddenly, he spread his arms and legs, flying horizontally instead of falling. Wing suit, Rourke thought. This should be interesting.
>
The lone jumper dove to catch up with the other chutes. The cargo and the jumper floated gently to less than 100 yards from the team; Sanderson and six of his men jogged to the landing site. As Sanderson and his men detached the chutes, Rourke could now see they were vehicles but unlike any he was familiar with. Engines cranked and the vehicles headed back with drivers; it looked like the jumper was riding with Sanderson.
The strange vehicles parked in a row; Sanderson’s passenger approached on foot, “You Dr. Rourke?”
John nodded at the man while he stripped the wing suit off. A battle dress uniform came into view; a Colonel’s eagle insignia on each collar. “General Sullivan has stood up a new Joint Commando Brigade, Dr. Rourke. My name is Colonel John Ball, friends call me Jack. Sullivan ordered me here to help in this mission. I’ve spoken with Chief Sanderson and he and I are good. Hope this won’t be a problem for you.”
Rourke shook his head, “If Wes doesn’t have a problem I don’t either. But you need to understand, we’re here to rescue my daughter-in-law. That is my only concern; do anything... anything at all to jeopardize that...” Rourke let the sentence fall off as he pulled his battered Zippo and a thin dark cigar from his pocket. Once it was going to his satisfaction he looked back at Ball. “Do anything to jeopardize this mission and you and I will have a problem. Understood ?”