by Jerry Ahern
Zimmerman edged closer to the opening and John moved to that side following behind the Team Leader. The first energy blast flashed down the stairwell, hit the floor exploding, and showered the men with debris. Zimmerman returned fire, simply sticking his weapon around the corner aiming high and squeezing off a burst. He was rewarded when a bullet-riddled body tumbled down; landing in the hole the energy weapon had gouged in the floor.
Of the ten rounds or so Zimmerman had cut loose, Rourke counted five hits in the chest and it looked that two or three more had destroyed the man’s face. Rourke looked at Zimmerman and said, “You’re either real good or awfully lucky.”
Zimmerman flashed a smile, “I’d rather be lucky than good any day.” Rourke and one of Wolf’s men got set and charged the stairwell taking the steps two at a time before landing flat on their stomachs; eight feet short of the landing, beginning to inch slowly to the top. Rourke was now on the left side of the stairwell and Wolf’s man was on the right; both totally exposed but ready. Clearing the way ahead they focused on each other’s side being able to see further in those directions than they could on their own side.
Surprisingly the way seemed clear. Taking up security positions Rourke waved and the main body moved up quickly out of the stairwell and on to the ground floor of the Capital Building. They congregated in front of a partial wall and counter being used as an information center. The smoke was much more prevalent on this floor. The teams established security to all sides. Zimmerman activated his radio and got a report. “The Chinese delegation has been located, they are safe. We have confirmation that the Russian Premier, his wife and three of his party did not make it. We have a squad of Marines approaching our positions from the west and we are to wait here and link up with them.”
Michael asked, “How bad are the casualties?”
“Unknown counts right now, it will probably take days before we know the finals. We lost three planes; civilian casualties are going to be high.”
As he edged around the corner of the wall for a look, an energy blast ripped the rifle from John Rourke’s hand sending it in one direction and Rourke in another; stunned. The security team scrambled but had not seen where the shot had come from; they had a sniper. Rourke lay in the middle of the floor, totally exposed.
The sniper was using Rourke as bait Wolfgang Mann thought as he studied Rourke. “He’s still alive, he’s breathing. From the angle of the shot I believe the gun man is above us and to the left.” Zimmerman repositioned two of his people. Wolf stood and quickly popped his head past the cover and barely missed getting his head removed by the shot. “Yes, above and to the left.”
Three shots rang out from behind them; Zimmerman spun to return fire. It was Rourke; sitting on his rear with his arm at full extension and a smoking .45 in his right hand. “Thanks Wolf. That was exactly the kind of distraction I needed.” The security people spun toward the noise of boots running toward them. Zimmerman lowered his weapon and smiled, “Finally,” he said. “The Marines have landed.”
The media slowly crawled out of their stunned submissive state immediately following the attack and began to set up their cameras. The Marine detachment had gone down into the basement, retrieving Sarah, Emma and Natalia and their ten guards. When they had joined Michael and the others, the entire group moved to the section of the building the Marines had breached upon entry. Before Michael was ready to exit, Zimmerman sent out three combined security teams to sweep the outside for any remaining threats.
Michael insisted the women and others should be escorted out first, he went to a rest room and cleaned some, but not all of the grime off his face and hands. He thought about combing his hair but decided just to run his fingers through it. His jacket breast pocket was torn but amazingly his white shirt was still pristine.
Then he walked, alone out of the capital, still carrying the M-16 A12. Smoke was still evident on the horizon from the downed fighters. He turned and surveyed the damage to the Capital Building, one wing still stood apparently undamaged, the dome and other wing were in ruins. He turned and saw the cameras for the first time; then he saw HIM. Phillip Greene.
Greene had cornered a news crew and was talking non-stop. As Michael approached he could hear Greene’s rant. “Do you see what you have done with this farce of an election? Barely inaugurated and we have the Rourke gang back in action and the capital building in ruins. This is what you fools have brought us. The Progressives promised peace and prosperity, now you have this.”
Greene became aware of Michael walking toward him and ratcheted up the rhetoric, “See, here he comes, now. President Gun Fighter, how many did you manage to take out today, Mr. President? How many innocent lives ended today because of you? Look at you, still carrying a loaded weapon. How many did you kill today Sir?”
Michael looked at the rifle for the first time. He actually had forgotten he had it with him. He saw his father standing there. John stepped forward and Michael held out the weapon for John to take and turned to face Greene. As soon as he felt the rifle leave his grasp, Michael completed his first “official” act as President of the United States.
He pivoted slightly and driving with a well-executed elbow strike knocked Phillip Greene flat on his ass for the second time. This time breaking Greene’s jaw in one place and dislocating it in another.
Michael turned to the camera, “Ladies and Gentlemen, my fellow Americans. Today, our land was attacked in a vicious and unexpected manner by cowards yet to be fully identified. Our friends have been attacked, our families have been attacked; I fear our world may have been attacked. It is too early to fully assess our situation or our options. I can tell you this; this attack will not go unpunished. I can tell you this also, it is time for us to come together.”
“Not just as Americans but as citizens of one world, for the first time. I believe we are now facing a threat that in and of itself is greater than any we have known. In mankind’s history we have stood as men against men, nations against nations, religions against religions. We have stood as both slaves and slave owners and we very nearly destroyed ourselves.”
“Now, we must stand together as free human beings, for the first time—because if we don’t, we may never have that opportunity again. History is written, we cannot change it. We can however, change what we learned from that history.”
“Yesterday, we stood apart. Today, we learned we cannot do that any longer. Tomorrow, let nation stand with nation; citizen stand with citizen, brother stand with brother and let us not be shy any longer.”
Epilogue
The first reports were coming in. Of the eight American fighters that scrambled, two had been lost along with their two-man crews in air-to-air combat. Two more had been severely damaged and unable to return to base, their crews had safely ejected. The resulting crashes were responsible for over sixty deaths on the ground, either from falling debris, shrapnel from explosions or fire. The fires caused had devastated a large section of the downtown area and a suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of town. The major fires were still burning but were expected to be under control within the next two hours. Flaming debris was scattered from one end of the Capital to the other.
The remaining four fighter jets eventually returned to their base; they remained on station flying Combat Air Patrols over Honolulu until relieved by another flight. Three news choppers became entangled with the aerial battle. One was destroyed in midflight by an energy blast, a second received damage when it flew in the explosive debris of the first fighter shot down, when it disintegrated in flight, the third landed almost immediately in an intersection downtown and escaped being shot down. That pilot, realizing the danger he was in dropped his chopper almost straight down in a dive—he was barely able to stop. It was a “hard landing” that crumpled the landing skids and broke his back.
One airliner that had taken off just seconds before the start of the aerial dog fight tried evasive maneuvers without sufficient speed or altitude and crashed; killing all 228
on board and spraying hundreds of gallons of flaming jet fuel across one subdivision. Twenty-seven homes and one school had been incinerated. Within the homes, seventeen parents and twenty-one children below school age perished. In the school 1,018 students and teachers suffocated when the fire sucked the oxygen out of the school. The only survivors were the football team and band members who were at a neighboring school preparing for a championship game.
Of the four attacking enemy aircraft, three were shot down and one was missing. Crash sites were declared National Security Areas and investigators were pouring over those locations. Strangely, it had been determined the pilots for those crafts appeared to be human. Stranger still was the fact that all three possessed the same face, that of Captain Dodd. The emergency management directors of sixteen different agencies could only agree on one thing. It would take days if not weeks to get a full accounting of the dead and injured. All area hospitals, police and fire departments were in 24/7 emergency operations until further notice. School gymnasiums were converted to emergency field hospitals and shelters for the displaced.
Every military organization in every country was placed on alert, leaves were cancelled and food distribution points that already were in existence had been activated. Michael Rourke declared Hawaii in a state of National Disaster. In the affected areas, teams were removing building occupants along evacuation routes to primary assembly points and redirecting building occupants to stairs and exits away from the fire. Contingency plans for hazardous material spills or releases, nuclear power plant incidents, transportation accidents and everything else one could imagine had been activated.
The first forty-eight hours were the worst. Reports had been spotty and inaccurate. Initial responders were met with devastation and death. Those that died quickly from the flames of incineration were lucky. Those trapped under tons of collapsed buildings took days to die in slow agony without water, without food and totally alone.
Emma started having contractions shortly after the battle, but nature stepped in and the baby was safe and the doctors felt she could carry the child full term. Burns to John Rourke’s left hand and arm were healing but the damage to Phillip Greene’s jaw would take longer. With his face discolored and his mouth wired shut, Greene was avoiding the media and would be for quite a while.
200 miles above the continent of Antarctica, within the formation of the KI ships, the tabloid was being monitored. The Captain was almost smiling, he thought, “This could actually work out to our benefit. This could very easily be the best thing that could have happened for us.” It was time to begin…
Author’s Note from Bob Anderson
I took a kick to the gut the morning of Wednesday, July 25th, 2012. I had sent a note to my friend Jerry Ahern’s wife, Sharon—we had been working on a couple of projects. When she responded she told me that Jerry had passed peacefully in his sleep the night before.
To those of us that faithfully followed John Thomas Rourke, Jerry Ahern was special! I had the privilege of meeting Jerry back in 1993. I had called Ahern Enterprises (Jerry and Sharon’s Holster Company) to order a holster for my custom .45 auto (the Widow Maker). After speaking with the “tech guy” for about 20 minutes he said, “If it doesn’t work, send it back and we’ll fix it.”
I said, “I appreciate that, but I’ve heard it before—who am I speaking to?”
“Jerry Ahern,” was his response.
“No s**t,” was mine.
I was heading to the Air Force First Sergeant’s Academy for training and we made arrangements to meet in Jerry’s home town at the time, Commerce, GA. As I was sitting, waiting to meet Jerry I realized I had no idea of what he looked like. Just then a black pickup pulls in and a guy wearing a dark pair of aviator sun glasses and a bomber jacket (the same garb John Thomas Rourke wore) stepped out; I knew it was him.
Over the years, we developed a camaraderie I shall always treasure. He was an absolute gentleman and an absolute gentle man. Every phone conversation ended with his appellation, “God Bless” and he meant it.
I knew Jerry had been experiencing some health issues but his focus was always on the future, he began talking about bringing John Thomas Rourke back to life, revitalizing that series.
My story with THE SURVIVALIST began in late 1981, my father had passed away on Valentine’s Day and we had moved back from Arkansas to Bossier City, Louisiana to be closer to my mom. Not having the benefit of a lot of money and having the curse of being an active reader, I traded paperbacks a lot at the Book Rack.
One day I came across THE SURVIVALIST #1 written by someone named Jerry Ahern. I picked it up but I initially thought it looked like something dealing with militias and neo-Nazis; there had been several episodes with those folks in Arkansas; I put the book back. Over the next several months, I kept encountering that book. Finally in 1982 I took a chance and bought it; by the end of the first chapter I was hooked!
When Jerry first mentioned to me that he was considering bringing the series back to life, I was thrilled and promised to help in any way I could. We discussed several story lines and I focused on research for him, little realizing how important that research would be to me injust a few months. When Sharon sent me word of his passing, she said, “Jerry died yesterday in his sleep—not what an action adventure writer envisions—but, he was a peaceful guy at heart.” Personally, I think he did it right.
Sharon sent me two documents he had begun for the story. I don’t remember ever having such dynamic emotions sweep over me. I was intimated, I was overwhelmed reading his last writings. The task of bringing John Thomas Rourke back to life was daunting. Jerry’s story lines, several going on simultaneously in each book, his attention to detail, his knowledge of tactics and weapons all combined to form the most demanding and challenging writing assignment I ever received.
Honoring Jerry, honoring John Thomas and his family, bringing the story both back to life for past readers and trying to appeal to new readers was my challenge. Many times, I found in this attempt that Bob Anderson didn’t know where the story was going. I would like to think that at those times, Jerry took over the keyboard and told the story for me. Jerry Ahern was a gentleman that didn’t gripe or complain. I think, if I may speak for my buddy, he would say, “My only regret is not being with Sharon, my kids and grandkids.”
I submit this effort to you, Jerry’s readers and will close the way Jerry ended every phone call we ever had... God Bless.
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