by Jerry Ahern
Rourke cut the buckle off with the hunting knife Roth had provided, dropped it along with earlier recovered small items into what police would reference as an evidence bag. There was no clue as to propulsion system and, with the time constraint; Rourke doubted any meaningful intelligence could be acquired.
Rourke discarded the elbow high over-gloves, removed the outer pair of the double-gloves and donned the more complete protective gear. Like a surgical gown, but with built-in over-gloves that were one with the sleeves and made from considerably tougher material—he guessed it was Kevlar—it covered Rourke from throat to ankles. Rourke pushed down the hood of his parka and put on the face shield with its built-in Kevlar hel met. And, Rourke began work on the alien’s brain, murmuring, “Sorry fella.” The skull yielded to a battery powered saw—a little larger and definitely more ruggedly built than what Rourke had seen in surgical theaters—and Rourke turned back the skull cap. The number of lobes was the same as that found in the human brain, but the lobes were larger, which could suggest greater intelligence—or, not. Rourke removed and bagged them.
Roth seemed to be finished with the explosives as Rourke looked up. Rourke felt he was finished with the alien’s body. He removed the special surgical gown and draped it over the dead alien. As Rourke pulled up his hood and put on his conventional outer gloves, he called to Roth over the howling of the wind. “Why don’t you get over here and give me the detonator. You take what I’ve recovered so far and get back to the snow tractor. Wait for me—I won’t be more than a half-hour behind you—and follow protocols if the Russians get here and things get violent.”
Rourke helped Roth pack the artifacts, tissue samples, blood samples and the brain, all into a pack pretty much the size of a teardrop rucksack, then Velcroed and zippered the pack to Roth’s existing backpack. The surgical tools went in there as well. Rourke had been notified of the specialized gear by the man in civvies who had met with him where the SR-71 had landed, the equipment already stowed in the waiting Suburban. As Roth trudged off for the snow tractor, Rourke reflected that the rumors concerning numerous crashes and retrieval missions might very well be true. Such mission specific items weren’t picked up in a hurry at the local hardware store.
Rourke got to work, searching the wreckage for any technical items he could find. Less than ten minutes into his search, the Russians arrived in a snow tractor of their own, also red, in their case the color appropriate. And, the gunfire began…
More gunfire, Rourke was trapped in the safety of the wreckage. Then, there was silence, except for the keening of the wind and the hiss of ice spicules striking the twisted and torn fuselage parts of the alien spacecraft. During the lull in shooting, Rourke surveyed the ship one last time. It would have to be blown up to be kept from the Russians. Even if Rourke were able to somehow get to an even marginally safe distance before detonation, the odds on getting shot down were hard to ignore. He always carried a pocket handkerchief, never liking tissues. He’d taken two extras from his suitcase before stashing the bag in the Suburban with Cal.
Rourke had seen downed aircraft on several occasions. He prided himself on logical thinking and not guesswork, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that this craft behind which he’d taken shelter had been shot down, not merely met with an accident.
A voice called out from the KGB position, “I decided to set aside a few moments for our ears to stop ringing, American.”
“How do you know I’m not a Canadian?”
“American is my guess and I’ll stick to it.”
“Right you are, Doctor Batrudinov,” Rourke responded cheerily.
There was a pause, then, “And how do you know my name?”
“I’ve read many of your articles and I admire your work. It is an honor to meet you, sir, even under these circumstances. Who else would the KGB send to a UFO crash site, after all, but the Soviet Union’s expert of experts?”
Batrudinov paused again. Perhaps he was being fed questions, or just pensive. “I assume you’ve already done a great deal of work and that you have the craft set with explosives, to deny it to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.” Rourke didn’t say a thing. After a moment, Batrudinov asked him a question. “Assuming you have placed explosive charges about the craft and are willing to die in order to deny us access, I would ask one simple favor—in case you are successful.”
“At blowing up the spacecraft, dying or both?” Rourke asked.
Batrudinov laughed. “Is the pilot a gray, about human height, but with a considerably larger head?”
Rourke looked at the detonator in his hand. “I’m going to have to go in a moment, Doctor Batrudinov. If we both survive, I’ll deny I said this. But, he’s a gray, as you suggest.”
“Thank you, sir!”
“You are welcome, sir!”
“You can just walk away. We will not shoot, unless you detonate.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Doctor. As I’m sure you have to yours, I’ve taken an Oath of Allegiance to my Country. Great meeting you!”
John Rourke had planned ahead. Before slipping across the border between the USA and Canada, John Rourke had asked Cal to stop at a liquor store. He’d purchased two fifths of Smirnoff 100. Rourke lit the first Molotov cocktail and hurtled it toward the Russian position. He lit the handkerchief in the neck of the second Smirnoff bottle, hurled the Molotov and dropped his Zippo in his pants. The HK-91 slung muzzle down from his right shoulder, John Rourke was already off at a dead run, trying to keep as much of the spaceship’s wreckage between him and the KGB personnel, gunfire already ringing out between the explosions of the Molotov cocktails. Bullets plowed the snow and the ground beneath it, pinged off the occasional errant bit of wreckage, zinged past him, frighteningly close. Rourke kept running.
Rourke had to get at least a hundred yards between him and the wreckage before detonating; and, that could be cutting it close. He kept running, slipping on the snow, nearly falling. Rourke swung the HK-91 forward on its sling, running. His right fist balled on the rifle’s pistol grip. He kept running. The gunfire still hammered into the ground around him, but the natural contours of the terrain were helping him to dodge and weave without even trying.
One hundred yards. One hundred ten. Rourke kept running. After the run, if he couldn’t raise Roth, Rourke was setting himself up for disaster, working up a heavy sweat as he ran, a heavy sweat that would instantly start to dry and chill him the moment after he stopped.
Rourke flicked the safety lock on the detonator, glanced over his shoulder once as the Russians advanced on the wreckage. Rourke had no desire to kill them all. They were merely doing their jobs as he was doing his. He would miss Batrudinov’s musings concerning extra-terrestrial visitation. Rourke found hi mself wondering what the man really knew, but couldn’t say. Rourke flipped the switch. From behind him, he heard a low roar, becoming louder and louder as the charges—set in series—began to explode.
Rourke didn’t look back…
Roth had not quite followed protocols, returning when the explosions started, looking for Rourke. Rourke knew men in the Company who would have ratted out Roth, albeit what Roth did turned out for the best.
As he sat at the snow tractor’s controls, driving them toward the rendezvous with Cal and the Suburban, Roth suggested, “You know, we could just eighty-six all the stuff from the wreckage.”
“And?”
“Do you think they’ll have us whacked because the crash was too sensitive?”
Roth seemed genuinely nervous. “I doubt it. I’ve come to the conclusion this sort of thing happens on a semi-regular basis, hence the specialized surgical gear and the like. No. You stick with the Company and you’ll probably be fine. Now, as far as I’m concerned, I was planning on resigning before they grabbed me in transit and drafted me for this. They may not want me to do that.”
The CIA had not wanted Rourke to resign and, in the end, Rourke, although he never intended to—nor did—work for the CIA again, was
carried on the “active” list. He knew better than to mention to anyone what had transpired at the crash site in Canada. For those he loved, the knowledge was too dangerous.
Vassily Batrudinov survived and, quite sometime later, Rourke, on a 747 flying back toward Atlanta after conducting survival training with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, read a magazine article by Batrudinov. The Soviet expert stated unequivocally that, although his belief in extra-terrestrial visitation was unshakeable, he had to admit that, to his knowledge, no physical evidence had ever been found—at least not by the Soviet Union.
A balding, young man with glasses, sitting not far from Rourke, walked past him down the aisle. Noticing the magazine, apparently, the man asked, “You believe in UFOs?”
“I try to keep an open mind. How about you?”
The younger man smiled, nodded. “Yeah—me, too.”
Chapter Three: Over 650 years in the future
Natalia sat in the women’s lounge aboard the Presidential deep dive submersible, the vessel mere moments away from Mid-Wake. Adjusting her hat in the mirror, she laughed a little, shaking her head. Natalia and her husband, Michael, dress ‘40s. In the last several years, it seems, those who could afford to had started dressing as if they are going to a costume party. The young people who dressed ‘20s looked foolish and the young people who dressed ‘60s—at least the girls—looked good. As the wife of a possible Presidential candidate and as a mother, mini-dresses would be a bit much—or not enough, depending on how one looked at it. She glanced at her legs, checking to be sure her seams were straight and walked out of the room.
Joining Michael at the front of the craft, they sat together holding hands and watched the Presidential DDS on security camera images being broadcast from Mid-Wake. Once the docking procedure was completed, Michael stood up said, “Okay, my lady, it’s show time,” donned his fedora and snatched up his E-case. Glimpsing their image in one of the security monitors she remarked, “We do make a lovely family.” Standing next to them was their son, John Paul, 12 and daughter Sarah Ann, age 9.
“You’re the one that’s lovely,” he said squeezing her hand. Approaching the security station they pulled out their ID tags for the guard to verify, he nodded and waved them through. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” Natalia said affixing Michael’s tag to his lapel, “Having a wife who was at one time a Major in the KGB, could be a detriment to a man with Presidential aspirations.”
“Yes, it could,” he agreed, “were that lady not looked at as one of the Heroes of Mankind, chief among that illustrious ‘pantheon’ my father, John Rourke.”
“Michael,” she said turning serious, “I have to admit I’m worried and Annie and Paul are worried. We are worried that you may have to compromise your integrity in order to get elected President and even to do the job. You know how politics work; it is the art of compromise.”
Michael turned on his heel, fixing her with a steely gaze and said simply and finally, “Annie and Paul are wrong...”
Chapter Four
Sarah Rourke-Mann, wife of the President of New Germany had a soft spot in her heart for children. Her old life had started off as a story book. Then the Night of the War had ripped that to pieces and scattered those pieces, never to be totally reclaimed. It hadn’t been her husband John’s fault, in fairness to him he had done more than anyone would ever really know to find her, Michael and Annie and save their lives.
His preparations, his skills, his sheer tenacity were the only reasons any of them had survived. But that survival had come at a terrible cost to Sarah. After countless battles the end of the world as she had known it had finally come and they entered into a long sleep. When they all had awakened 500 years in the future she found that John’s plan, a plan he never discussed with Sarah had robbed Sarah of her children’s childhood. When she awakened, Michael and Annie had been awakened before her; long enough to have grown from early adolescence to adulthood. She had missed out on so much. And there was the issue of her third child, a second son named Matthew.
John had been so excited when he learned she was pregnant again, she had thought it was the chance for them to find some type of repair. A new beginning, a child she could watch grow up, the thing that had been denied to her with Michael and Annie. Then came another threat. Sarah delivered Matthew during the Nazi attack on Eden City, led by the bastard Dr. Dietrich Zimmer. Matthew had been ripped from her arms; Sarah had been shot in the head but the saga of Matthew didn’t end there. John Rourke had also been injured and both were at deaths door. The decision was made to re-enter the cryogenic sleep in hopes its restorative powers could save both of them.
Upon awakening, Sarah had learned that Wolfgang Mann had given up his old life and had entered the sleep with her. He hoped that if she ever awoke, he would be there to share a new life with her. Instead of killing her child, Zimmer had raised him as his own but had modified baby Matthew’s DNA with strands from the monster, Adolf Hitler. Zimmer’s mad scheme had played in a way that both saved her life and had doomed Matthew who had grown to adulthood. Zimmer’s brainwashing and genetic manipulations had resulted in a monster, and evil sadistic monster, just like Zimmer.
John Rourke had been forced to kill his own biological, albeit, modified child. Sarah had witnessed it, again Rourke had done what was necessary and Matthew had died, corrupted by a monster. He had been turned into a monster and Rourke had had no choice. Intellectually Sarah knew that and was reconciled to the facts but her emotions were another matter; while she truly loved John—she could no longer live with him.
Wolf’s selflessness had won her heart and her hand. The last few years had been filled with peace and a love she knew could never have been with John. Knowing that she could never again conceive a child left her incomplete. There would be no chance to complete that kind of cycle again. Now, she tried to participate in the childhood of others, although it never seemed to fill that horrible longing she knew she could never fill.
In a few hours, her ex-husband John Thomas Rourke was going to step back into her life. While she truly, honestly loved John—it was in a complex and convoluted manner. He was her hero but at the same time she hated him because of Michael and Annie and she could never completely forgive him for Matthew’s death. It had been both a terrible but freeing day when she finally admitted she would always have love for John Rourke; she just couldn’t live with him any longer. Her love for Wolfgang Mann, now her husband had its own complications, yet it was simpler and more fulfilling than her love for John. Sarah shook her head forcing her conflicting images back into the recesses of her brain.
At the last minute, she had decided to stop at this elementary school to spend a few moments reading to the children before Wolf joined her after picking up John and Emma at the airport before the dedication of the new medical college. She needed a few moments of simplicity and sanity before John Rourke came back into her world. She had called Wolfgang and told him what she was going to do and he had told her, “That sounds like exactly what you need. Enjoy yourself.”
She ordered her security detail to the new location and walked into the school unannounced. She had her travel team, only two vehicles and four guards. The team leader was not happy about the change in plan but agreed to it, “Provided we are only there a few moments, Ma’am.” Sarah had given her word.
The first ten minutes were absolute joy; she felt so full of life reading to the eager students and taking them to places of wonder and magic. Then a man rushed in and said, “There’s been an accident in the parking lot.” Two of her guards had gone back out with the man to investigate and if necessary call for help. Less than a minute later, the man returned and while trying to explain some complications to the security detail team leader, he moved closer to Sarah before suddenly pulling a revolver. He grabbed Sarah, ordering the two guards to drop their weapons and lie on the floor.
A loud whistle brought the rest of his team along with the other two security personnel inside. Sarah could tel
l from the dress of the perpetrators they were neo-Nazis. Skin-headed with Swastika tattoos and patches, the terrorists forced all but one class of third graders to “Leave the building and spread the word, we now hold the First Lady of New Germany.” He shouted, “Seig” and the others responded with “Heil” and the straight armed salute that Adolf Hitler made famous during the Second World War.
As a sign that meant business, four of the terrorist casually walked over to where the security team laid face down with plastic zip-ties securing their hands behind their backs. Each terrorist calmly fired a single round into the back of the heads, killing all four of Sarah’s security. She knew that the two adults and the children and yes, even Sarah herself were all on their own.
Em ma Rourke adjusted the controls of the aircraft she was piloting herself and her husband in as they approached New Germany, in Argentina. A new medical college was being dedicated and named after John Rourke. Rourke, sitting beside Emma in the co-pilot’s seat, said, “You know I never did much having to do with medicine, despite being an MD. I was always too busy with other activities or fighting in a foreign country or learning secrets nobody wanted to give me. Why would they want to name a medical college after me?”
With a sideways glance at him, Emma said, “Well, it might have something to do with the fact that, without you, if anyone were still alive in the world, which would be doubtful, those persons would al most assuredly be living under a totalitarian regime. So, stop complaining.”