The Inheritors of Earth

by Jerry Ahern

  Rourke realized for the first time that he might actually pull this off. It was no longer a case of strategy; it would be a case of slaughter. If he could kill the five in the other room and Jäger could take out the two on the roof that left only three as a primary threat, but the element of surprise would definitely be gone. Were they professionals, they would execute Sarah at the first gunshot. Rourke’s gut told him that maybe he could pull it off; maybe, and that was a big “maybe.”

  Another big “maybe” was if he had the correct count on the enemy numbers, maybe and maybe not. If the count was off—he was the one about to die and he would die before he was able to save Sarah. The third “maybe” was if he was correct in his assessment of his opponents. If there was a single professional in this group and there could well be, he was in trouble. Yet, often his strategies had been sound, but his gut told him something else. Strategies had occasionally failed him, usually because of something unknown or unpredictable happening that changed the equation. His gut had never failed him and he had learned to trust that gut. His strategy, while well thought out, never gave him much chance in surviving long enough to rescue Sarah and get either of them out alive. Why not go with the gut, stranger things had happened.

  Flipping both MP-7s to full auto, he regretted leaving his suit coat with Emma; it held his cigar case and he could sure use one right now. Discarding that useless thought, Rourke gripped the MP-7 in his right hand and worked the door knob with his left; he was ready. It was plausible the first fifteen rounds from that weapon would drop the bad guys. Five or ten more from the MP-7 in his left would keep them down. That would leave another 10 rounds in his right hand to deal with a threat from the front of the school and fifteen to address the jokers on the roof. By that time he would switch to a .45 to finish the rest off, reload and engage the final threat that held Sarah hostage. Not perfect but doable.

  It was now or never and in one motion Rourke jerked the door open, began spraying the next room with his right hand weapon, aiming chest high. The first half magazine caught them totally unprepared. Three of them jumped and danced to the impact of the 115 grain jacketed hollow points slamming into their bodies. Rourke pulled the trigger of the MP-7 on his left, opening up with it also.

  Woody the Wood Pecker, the punk with his AK slung across his back, was the only one that reacted with any degree of appropriateness. While the other four were bouncing around the room, Woody dove to the floor and rolled under the table while pulling his AK into shooting position.

  Rourke stepped into the hallway; leaving the left gun on full auto, he focused on the table under which Woody the Wood Pecker was trying to fire from. Rourke had dealt immediate death to the first four; they were now on permanent coffee break. His left handed MP-7 demolished the top of the kitchen table and stitched Woody to the floor. Woody had never gotten a shot off; pulling his trigger repeatedly accomplished nothing. His bolt was still locked back.

  Rourke swung his right MP-7 to cover the front of the building. Two of the punks came rushing at him from that direction, guns blazing. They rounded the corner into the hall without even looking first to see the threat.

  He fired the gun in his right hand out, dropped it to hang from the sling and snatched the CombatMaster from his left arm pit, no need, they were down. He expected to see the two from the roof come charging down the stairwell; freezing for an instant in disbelief at the carnage next to the coffee pot. That would have been all of the time Rourke needed to finish them with the remaining rounds of the MP-7 in his left hand.

  They did not appear, “Good job, Hans” Rourke thought and drew the .45 riding under his right arm. Rourke did a quick survey of his damage and removed the empty and therefore useless MP-7s. He disengaged the thumb safeties and gripping the two CombatMasters, did an examination of the nine bodies; confirming that none would ever Seig Hail again. Taking a deep breath, he advanced toward the front of the school, toward Sarah and the man that held her hostage.

  Since Rourke’s first gunshots, he had not been able to hear much. Now in the silence he could hear children and women crying and a man’s voice hollering “Was ist das?” over and over. He stepped past the two bodies, careful to avoid the blood leaking out from 9mm holes across their chests and throats and cautiously did a scan around the corner at the end of the hall.

  The children had been herded into a corner and the teacher and teacher’s assistant were trying to calm them down. Sarah, dressed in an apple-green suit, stood in the center of the room. Behind her was the last terrorist, his pock marked face was flushed and covered in sweat. He was holding a revolver to her head. It looked like a .44 magnum and the hammer stood at full cock—a twitch of the man’s trigger finger would be all it took to send a slug tearing through Sarah’s skull.

  Rourke walked to within ten feet and stopped; then he did something illogical. He reholstered his .45s and snapped the retaining straps back in place. Slowly pulling a folding metal chair up, Rourke straddled it and sat down resting his arms on the chair back.

  “Was ist das?” The terrorist asked.

  Rourke said, “Look. I don’t speak German, do you speak English?” The man nodded. “Excellent, here’s where we are. Police and special weapons teams will be here inside of...“ Rourke checked his watch and continued,” ...a little less than three minutes. Do you understand?”

  “Dah, I understand.”

  “Good, when they get here, they are going to pump tear gas into this building, come charging in and people, including you are going to die. In fact, especially you are going to die. I can keep that from happening and we can all walk outta here. Let the hostages go, please.”

  “Nein, nein. That I will not do.”

  “Okay, I thought as much but figured I would try anyway. Tell you what, I’m going to stand up and move this chair and walk out. If you change your mind before I leave the building I can save your life. The rest of your men are dead, wanna see? They are right down that hallway, all dead.” Rourke temporarily locked eyes with Sarah and with two quick flicks of his eyes directed her to her left. Her slight nod was his only hope she really understood.

  Rourke rose from the chair, pointed with his left hand and slightly turned as he drew the Colt Python from its holster in the small of his back, then he kicked the metal folding chair across the room. The terrorist had glanced toward the hallway, hoping to see one of his men and he jerked at the sound of the chair, pulling the revolver from Sarah’s head, pointing it at Rourke.

  That’s the instant Rourke fired, twice. Rourke had thumb cocked the hammer as he drew the Colt and was counting on the buttery smooth Python double action for two quick controlled shots. The first 158 grain jacketed hollow point crashed into the man’s elbow, destroying the ulnar nerve of the neo-Nazi’s gun arm and preventing a spasm that would have caused the weapon to discharge; the second .357 round slammed him high in the right shoulder spinning him away from Sarah as she leaned left and collapsed to her knees. The 44 revolver was slung across the room by the combined momentums of actions.

  Five minutes later, the front door of the school opened; with the remaining terrorist in the lead wearing Rourke’s discarded tie as a tourniquet. This staunched the blood pouring from “Pocked Mark’s” mangled elbow; the gunshot wound in his shoulder needed medical care. Rourke prodded him with one of the Detonics .45s while Rourke’s other arm was protectively around Sarah’s waist. They walked out followed by a “herd” of children, their teacher and an assistant teacher.

  Wolfgang Mann and a squad of Security Police rushed forward. Sarah kissed Rourke on the cheek and ran to Mann. Two of the Security Police grabbed, quickly searched the terrorist and cuffed him, careful to avoid the stink of bodily fluids and excrement that resulted when the terrorist punk had faced death and his bladder and bowels had opened. The others charged the building.

  Rourke saw Emma coming through the barricades wearing his suit coat. She came up and kissed him hard on the lips, then leaned back and asked, “Are ya lookin
g for these, Cowboy?” He took the cigar case, opened it, lit one with the Zippo and after inhaling deeply said, “Yes, Ma’am I surely was.”

  The President of New Germany, now with his arm around Sarah’s waist came up on Rourke. They shook hands formally then embraced and Mann whispered, “How can I thank you John?”

  Rourke stepped back and seriously said, “How about taking better care of our girl, Wolfgang.” Then he smiled and laughed. “Look, these guys were tough when it was ten men against Sarah. Luckily, they were amateurs that had delusions of grandeur. Sarah could have taken them herself if she hadn’t been caught off guard. Your protection detail was caught completely off guard, they never had a chance. These punks were really good at executions but with someone shooting at them; they weren’t that tough. We were damned lucky.”

  Mann said, “Thank you my friend.” Putting his arm around Sarah, he led her off. Turning to Emma, Rourke said, “We have to go shopping, these dress pants have had it.” Looking down at torn, grimy blood soaked pants; she shook her head and then nodded.

  Sergeant Hans Jäger cut through the crowd with his sniper weapon slung over one shoulder. “Herr Generaloberst...” Rourke cut him off. “Damn it Hans, what did I tell you?” Jäger looked quickly down and then looked up with an embarrassed smile, “You’re right, I’m sorry John.” Rourke grinned, “That’s better my friend. I don’t know about you but I’m about ready for a cold beer.” Jäger smiled, “So am I John, I’m buying.”

  Chapter Six

  Emma had gone to the hospital with Sarah, outside of some scratches and contusions and the memories involved with her hostage situation and the execution of her protection detail; she was uninjured. Emma knew those memories would haunt Sarah forever.

  Later, Rourke and Wolfgang sat in Mann’s office alone and silent. Rourke broke the silence with a slap on the coffee table that separated them. Mann jumped in startled response, “Okay, Wolf here is my position. Your security man was correct; his job was to protect you. However, your job was to protect Sarah. Your so-called security team got themselves executed in front of my exwife. She was taken hostage and had to witness that, as well as being abused by a crew of idiots. You let another man save your wife; I don’t understand that and never will. I should have and would have died trying to rescue her had a single member of that conglomeration of fools actually been a trained and dedicated soldier. They weren’t, that is the only reason Sarah and I are alive right now. You and I have fought together; you and I have fought each other. You are better than this, this should never have happened, but it did. I want to know how and why it happened.”

  Wolfgang Mann, the leader of New Germany sat dejected and dispirited. Finally, he sat down his cocktail, stood up and started pacing. When he turned, Rourke saw a man at the end of his ropes. “Yes, John, I was a fighter and a good one but the last shot I fired in anger was twelve years ago. I have pulled my country together and now we are one of the two most secure and productive countries on the face of the earth; yours being the other. John, now I am a leader not a fighter. I am responsible for everything that happens in this country. You’re correct, today has shown me I have turned into a politician not a leader. I have underestimated a faction that can and will destroy my country and very nearly killed my wife which would have destroyed my life. I cannot give you an excuse for this and I will not bother to offer an explanation for something not worthy of an explanation. I can tell you this, I understand. I get it and tomorrow there will be significant and wide sweeping changes not just in what we are doing but how we are doing it. I am angry; angry at these fools that almost killed my wife and could have killed you. I’m angry at my advisors who convinced me that moderation and compromise was the answer, but mostly I am angry at myself for allowing the opportunity of this to ever occur.”

  Rourke stood up and extended his hand, “Wolfgang, I only ask one thing of you. Protect the mother of my children and grandmother of my grandchildren.” Mann withdrew from the handshake and turned to the window of his office. Rourke started to exit the office but was stopped when Mann said, “John, thank you.”

  Rourke turned toward his past enemy, current friend and husband-in-law and nodded once and said, “Wolfgang my life has taught me that our enemies never go away, they are always present and always a threat. We can never let our guard down. One of America’s first Presidents said, ‘The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.’ I heard another one I think you ought to remember. It was attributed to Sir Lancelot and it goes, ‘It is peace not war that destroys men; it is comfort not danger that breeds cowardice; it is plenty not need that breeds greed and avarice.’” Then Rourke quietly closed the door behind himself.

  Two days later, the ceremony to dedicate the new Dr. John Thomas Rourke Medical College went off without a hitch. Wolf and Sarah Rourke-Mann hosted the ceremony and celebration. After Rourke cut the silk ribbon and declared the facility “open for business” he and Emma joined the New Germany Head of State and First Lady for a social gathering. Sarah had not seen Rourke since her rescue. During cocktails she excused herself and strolled over to Emma and John. Emma greeted her with a curtsy and said, “Madam First Lady you look beautiful” then she winked. Sarah smiled and winked back and with a grin said, “Madam Mrs. Doctor General you are exquisite.” Then they hugged. “Emma, may I speak to John for a moment?”

  “I was just going to refresh our drinks, can I get you anything?” Sarah shook her head, “Thanks anyway, I’m good.” Emma nodded and left the two standing with some degree of privacy.

  “How are you feeling Sarah?”

  “Better John, not good but better. Physically I’m fine; nerves are still a little ragged. I want to thank you again for rescuing me.”

  “My privilege,” was all Rourke could think of to say. Sarah also was at a loss for words so she just kissed him and turned back to see Wolfgang watching them; he smiled and held up his cocktail in salute. Rourke returned the gesture, “Sarah, wait.” She turned at look at him, a question in her eyes.

  “Tell Wolf I complement him on his security tonight, much better.”

  “I will John; he’ll appreciate that coming from you. Good night and have a safe trip; when do you leave?”

  “Day after tomorrow; I love you Sarah.”

  “I love you too, be safe. Give Emma my thanks.” With that she turned and as much as would ever be possible stepped out of his life and back into hers, until the next time...

  Chapter Seven

  John Rourke rolled backward off the gunwale, Emma splashing in a moment after, three of the SEALs already in the water, along with the archeological dive team; the rest of the SEAL Team on and around the small armada at the dive site. Rourke and his wife had spent several hours a day for the previous ten days mastering the latest version of the by-now primitive hemo-sponges and “wings” with which Rourke had first become familiar at Mid-Wake so long ago. The latest gear better controlled oxygen, better controlled pressure and, in short, made working at what would have been hardhat depths in the 20th Century as easy as going for a swim—so long as one protected the integrity of the suit. It could best be described as a “space suit” for undersea exploration.

  Rourke rolled and treaded water just below the surface as he gave himself a final check. Rather than his own weapons—with which he felt considerably more at ease—both he and Emma wore latest SEAL Team issue, which translated to the latest in weaponry as designed and produced by Lancer. Lancer had started out as a sort of boutique weapons company, making unbelievably faithful duplicates of some of the more popular and more advanced handguns of the very late 20th Century, fabricating these for customers with an abundance of cash and good taste. Rourke had taken a liking to the people and their project, not only happy to see some of his favorite weapons return to the marketplace, but always so much of a supporter of capitalism that, in other days, as he might drive past a child’s lemonade stand, he’d always hold the good thought that it would succeed.

  Lancer executives
had, after virtually signing their names in blood, talked Rourke into allowing his own personal weapons—one at a time—to leave his care long enough to be faithfully copied. That was why, the discriminating shooter or collector—were both in abundance these days. Firearms ownership and carry conceal permits were officially encouraged by many of the world’s governments—the ones that were to be trusted.

  On Rourke’s equipment belt was the latest in the Lancer pistol line, cosmetically based on the SIG pistols but loaded with electronics. All Rourke knew of the pistol was that it looked and felt like a SIG 226, one of the pistols of choice of the original SEALs before the Night Of The War fired “smart rounds” and made no noise other than mechanical. When needed, a slide lock could be activated, to eliminate even that. On Rourke’s left side was his latest knife, a strong spear point design with a five and half inch blade, the primary cutting edge being augmented by double edged portion that extended three inches along the spine, with an inch and a half of serrations. It was one of two special designs he had commissioned for everyday use. Both were high-carbon tool steel and the Micarta handles came off with an Allen wrench to allow proper cleaning and care. In its current “dive knife” configuration, it was imperative to remove the salt water from the knife and its Kydex holster before it went back into the normal leather sheath.

  Emma nodded that her last gear check was finished and Rourke gestured toward her with his right hand, waving her ahead of him as they followed the dive rope toward the sandy bottom.

  Navy SEALs were admittedly an unusual accompaniment for an archeological expedition; but, after the contents of the first wine and olive oil jars brought to the surface were even cursorily examined, security of the highest order was immediately put into play.