by Jerry Ahern
Deitrich Zimmer returned to his desk as Martin, silently, sullenly, walked from the room. Martin was ill-prepared for greatness, however Deitrich Zimmer had tried to raise the boy. Martin was self-indulgent, petulant, dulled by excess. But that would change, too.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Paladin was as magnificent as it was enormous. Sharing the V/STOL fighter’s cockpit with Emma Shaw, John Rourke was truly in awe at such a magnificent example of man’s domination over nature as was this undersea vessel they now approached.
Larger by far than twentieth-century aircraft-carrier surface ships, its upper deck was of sufficient length that a Concorde, the fastest passenger aircraft of that century, could have landed in perfect safety. But, beneath this deck, there were tunnels, themselves the size of World War II carriers it seemed, the tunnel mouths opening and closing with and against the seas surrounding them, opening for takeoffs and landings of fighter aircraft and larger fighter bombers, then closing again, the water within returned to the sea, becoming safe environments for the boarding and disembarkation of aircraft, servicing maintenance, all the necessary functions. During battle, the elevators within the decks could raise and lower from airlocked chambers below, inserting fresh and already-manned aircraft, retrieving damaged aircraft or injured personnel. Refueling during combat was accomplished by remote robotics.
The aircraft themselves, such as the V/STOL flown by Emma Shaw, were capable of operating as minisubmersibles or fully combat-worthy fighter planes, their pilots equally as at home within the sea or in the air.
These submersible carriers and the aircraft which called them homebase comprised the most versatile fighting machines ever devised, and they were designed for the maintenance of peace, the prevention of war.
And, although John Rourke felt in awe of the technology represented here, he felt greater respect for their mission. With such machines, a world could be taken. But that was not their mission. And Deitrich Zimmer and his Nazi followers knew that, which was why Zimmer had opted for the use of nuclear weapons. Otherwise, his forces would not have had a chance.
The water rushed over and around the V/ STOL’s fuselage, the sensation of motion wildly exciting, like that of a roller-coaster, and John Rourke realized that his hands were clamped to the arms of the copilot’s seat. For a moment, he could imagine himself careening through the galaxy in some space-opera film, but rather than star fields, schools of deep-sea life—fish and squid in a wild pageant of color—surrounded him.
“John? Would you like to take the controls for a few seconds, just to feel that you’ve done it? It could only be for a few seconds. It flies just like a regular aircraft when the controls are on manual.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’ll be all right.”
John Rourke’s hands reached out to the yoke, grasped it, his fingers flexing over it.
“Ready, John?”
“I think so.”
She laughed. “On three it’s yours. One … Two … Three!”
There was suddenly power in the yoke and as Rourke’s hands closed more tightly over it, the aircraft’s nose dipped slightly, the school of translucent fish which had already been fleeing the approaching craft vectoring off in response to his slight course change, swimming madly, but effortlessly, it seemed.
“Ha! This is wonderful!” Rourke almost shouted.
“Hold her steady, John, just like an aircraft. Don’t think water and fish. It’s just heavy air, okay?”
“Okay, Emma.” He felt like a child, or as best John Rourke could remember being a child, a sense of freedom and wild wonder filling him, like the first time he’d soloed a conventional jet aircraft so many centuries ago. “Magnificent! I envy you getting to do this! I really do!”
“When there’s time, I can get you the instruction you’d need. With your flying skills, it’d be a snap for you.”
“I don’t know about that—the snap part! Take the controls back before I get us into trouble, Emma.”
“On three, then. One … Two … Three!”
And the power left the yoke beneath John Rourke’s hands and he sagged back into his seat, the smile on his face still something he could feel …
James Darkwood waited in the observation deck, his eyes riveted on the fighter squadron homing in on the Paladin’s landing bays. And, even though he was aboard what was perhaps the most powerful war machine ever on earth, he felt naked without a sidearm. Nearly as uncomfortable as he did in khakis. He had worked in Naval Intelligence as a part of Trans-Global Alliance Intelligence for so long that it seemed like forever, and shaking the habit of constantly being on guard, even had it been possible, would not have been prudent. This was his first sea duty in years, and would not last long. He was here for a conference and nothing more, then he’d get his new orders and return to the trenches. If the Nazis escalated their use of nuclear weapons, the world would be a battlefield sooner than he cared to consider.
His illustrious ancestor, Jason Darkwood, had helped to eliminate a nuclear threat over a century ago, John Rourke beside him, the entire Rourke family, too, and, of course, the almost legendary Sebastian, Jason Darkwood’s sometimes cryptic black first officer and lifelong best friend.
Perhaps it was the fate of the Darkwoods to fight beside the Rourkes. James Darkwood did not know. But he did know that this would, somehow, be the fight for the future of the world. He felt that in his bones, as a stirring, a shiver along the length of his spine.
“Commander?”
He hadn’t worn the rank that long and, for a moment, Darkwood didn’t realize that it was he who was being addressed. After a second, though, he turned around, already seeing the seaman’s face reflected in the viewing port. “Yes?”
“Begging the commander’s pardon, but Captain Mallory requests that you join her when she welcomes General Rourke, sir.”
Darkwood smiled, saying, “Let me tell you, son, if the Captain addresses John Rourke as ‘General,’ she’ll be getting off to a start on a sore point. He may be a general, but he prefers ‘Doctor’ or just ‘John.’ Dr. Rourke isn’t one to stand on ceremony and he seems to abhor titles of rank. So, give yourself an edge if you get to meet him. Trust me, he won’t put you on report if you call him ‘Doctor,’ but he won’t let you in on his good side right away if you call him ‘General.’”
“Aye, sir.”
“I’ll be along directly, sailor.”
“Aye, sir.”
And Darkwood turned back toward the sea. This was a beautiful planet, and there was a strong chance that it would die. “Shit,” he muttered, shaking his head at his own reflection as he donned his cap and started walking.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sarah Rourke’s eyes squinted shut against the brightness of the light, and her stomach felt uneasy with the fresh surge of motion. Where she was made absolutely no sense at all. She’d seen clouds and water and faces peering down on her with great feeling, but she was lost.
And she was confused beyond any similar feelings she had ever had before. Was she Almost-Sarah, or was she Sarah Rourke? Inside her, like something deep and dark and hidden, there was a purpose. And, she knew the purpose. For some reason, John had shot in the very moments after she’d borne their third child, a son. She remembered the fire and the shooting and she remembered a face peering down at her and the face was vivid. It was John’s face, but somehow different, in a way she had never seen his face before. There was a momentary flash from the muzzle of his gun and everything after that was gone until she awakened.
Were these her memories, or memories of the real Sarah Rourke? Were they one in the same. If she were Almost-Sarah, she shared each and every one of the real Sarah’s memories, because she was as much the real Sarah as the real Sarah. If she was Almost-Sarah, her body was genetically identical to that of the original because she was a clone. If she was Almost-Sarah, her mind bore the same memories. The brain, after all, was an organ, like any other, its functions vastly more
sophisticated in their way. And the input to the brain was what made memory, what determined judgement, and the input to her brain was that of Sarah Rourke. Whether she was the real Sarah or only Almost-Sarah, she was Sarah.
And John had shot Sarah in the head, all but killing her. For some reason, she thought the reason for his uncharacteristically horrible deed was his wild passion for Natalia. But, it was hard to imagine Natalia condoning such a thing, nearly as hard to imagine as John doing it.
But John had done it. She learned later, from Dr. Zimmer, who had saved her life through his miraculous surgical techniques, that John had attempted to kill the original Martin, her son, and John’s, whom Zimmer had raised as his own child. It was odd to imagine Zimmer, a Nazi, being capable of such kindness. It barely made any sense at all. She puzzled over that as she was wheeled along a hospital corridor. But, unlike those in any hospital she had ever seen, the corridor walls were of steel, gleaming and bright, more like an operating theater might be than any ordinary corridor.
But John had killed one of Martin’s clones. That was bad enough. Dr. Zimmer said that Martin had uncovered what had been done to her, and by whom. Perhaps John had been seized by some momentary madness, Dr. Zimmer explained. Whatever the reason, killing the clone of Martin was an attempt to disguise the truth, which of course was also terribly uncharacteristic of John. To John, truth was the greatest passion, and from that passion sprang every other passion of his life.
The most telling of Dr. Zimmer’s arguments was when he admitted to her who he was. “I was the man responsible for the attack on the hospital. It was a murder raid, of course, the intent to kill your husband. But after your husband shot you, he in turn was critically injured by one of my men. I found this baby whom I named Martin, your baby. You will hear many evil things of me in the world outside, Sarah, and they will almost all be true. I am the Nazi leader, I plan for war, I intend to achieve world domination or perish in the attempt. Perhaps my motivations for saving your baby and eventually restoring you were the inverse of the terrible deed committed by your husband, John Rourke. There is a saying, which I’m sure you know: There is a little bad in the best of us, and a little good in the worst of us.
“Your life and the life of your son, Martin, are my ‘little good,’ as it were. I feel, at least, that my little good was of greater import than anything I have done that is evil. So, perhaps someday, if you view my record as a man, you will find the same compassion for me in your heart which I found for you in mine.”
These memories were real, but were they hers, or implanted into Almost-Sarah? Did that make a difference?
She remembered John shooting her. That was undeniable. And, she had nearly as concrete proof of his killing of the man he’d thought was their son, Martin. If he did not deny killing Martin’s clone, then it was certain that his intent was to kill Martin and just as certain that he would attempt to do so again. He could not be allowed to do that.
There was only one way to assure that he did not kill their son, his sworn enemy. And that was to kill John. Her life was in ruins, but with John dead perhaps Martin could be made to feel safe in the world away from Dr. Zimmer’s control, so that he would come away with her, learn that the Nazi ideology—which Deitrich Zimmer freely admitted teaching Martin—was wrong. Perhaps Martin, through his knowledge of both sides of the conflict, could bring about peace, allaying the relentless momentum toward war. It would be a war from which the human race might never recover.
And, that might only be possible if she killed her husband.
Her head ached with a terrible fury and she felt tears welling up in her eyes. As she closed her eyes, she saw John’s face as he stood over her, gun in hand aimed at her head.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“I am all right, really,” Wolfgang Mann announced as he eased himself into a chair to John Rourke’s immediate right. John clapped him on the shoulder, nodding approvingly.
Emma Shaw felt very much like a little mouse who had scurried out of her hole in the baseboard and suddenly found herself transported through some freak of time and nature to the most momentous moment in history.
Everyone was here. Aside from Captain Mallory, commanding the Paladin, there was Admiral Thelma Hayes, commander of United States Forces and, only hours ago, elevated to Supreme Commander, Trans-Global Alliance. There was Field Marshal Heinrich M. C. Krause, commander of the forces of New Germany. Marine Corps Lieutenant General Thomas Wilson, chief of Allied commando operations lit a cigarette. Doctor Thorn Rolvaag, the scientist who claimed that the world might end, drummed his fingers softly on the conference table. James Darkwood, whose reputation as the most intrepid agent in Allied Intelligence must have preceded him everywhere, merely surveyed the faces at the table. His own face seemed identical with that of his illustrious ancestor Jason Darkwood, whose picture hung in the main entrance of the Naval Academy at Mid-Wake alongside that of John Paul Jones. James Darkwood looked incredibly handsome without being pretty, his wavy hair, the well-defined bone structure, the intensity of his eyes. It wasn’t uncommon to see a young female Midshipman standing in front of Jason Darkwood’s picture there at the academy, the thoughts running through her mind obvious.
And the entire Rourke Family, except for John’s wife, Sarah, was present as well—Michael, Annie, Paul and Major Natalia Tiemerovna. Why she herself—Emma Shaw—was here was a mystery. She had nowhere near the rank required.
As if her senses were not sufficiently reeling, only moments before entering the Paladin’s conference center she received a message that her father, Tim Shaw, had been injured in battle with terrorists in Hawaii, but had made it to help, was now hospitalized and expected to fully recover. A second message came seconds after the first, from her brother Ed, confirming that their father was “banged up” but expected to be back to duty within a couple of days. There was also a request: “When you get the chance, Emma, try to talk some sense into him, huh? He could’ve had a SWAT Team with him, but he went after this Nazi asshole all alone and almost bought the farm. But he nailed the guy and then got the three triggermen that were there to back the guy up.”
She left the vid-booth, ordering that the messages be erased, then proceeded to the conference center, wiping imaginary moisture from the palms of her hands along the sides of her skirt before she shook any of the offered hands.
She was looking to stand by a bulkhead somewhere, out of the way. There were electronic name locaters at each chair along all sides of the table and hers was to the left of John Rourke. Was she officially recognized as his woman, a part of the Family? If that was the only reason she was here, she was not happy for it, although being John’s woman was her ultimate joy—or would be. But, she was her own person. John knew that, respected that.
Emma Shaw would wait and see.
Admiral Hayes called the conference to order, not standing, merely clearing her throat and beginning to speak. “Several potentially cataclysmic events confront us, and they are all interlinked. Their outcome could affect the future of life on this planet. General Wilson, give us an update.”
“Yes, ma’am.” General Wilson stood. He was a small man, just a hair under Emma’s own height, but he was burly chested, powerfully built. His voice veritably boomed as he spoke. “We confront several rather disturbing possibilities. In order of occurrence, the allies of our Nazi enemies, Eden, have perfected several variants of deadly biological agents. Thanks to Commander Shaw—” Emma was stunned that General Wilson had mentioned her name, even knew her name, “—much of the bio threat has been, at least temporarily, neutralized with the destruction of Eden City Plant 234, this only made possible by the intelligence work of Commander Darkwood and his associate from New Germany, and the work of many others who shall remain unsung, I know. Given time, however, like all bad pennies, the Eden bio effort will resurface and come back to haunt us.” He tapped a chocolate brown finger alongside his bulbous nose. “The bio effort’s destruction will only slow down the timetable for
one of the crises facing us.
“Next,” General Wilson continued, “came the discovery by Dr. Rolvaag, which has been confirmed by scientists all over the free world, that there is a volcanic fissure opening in the ocean beneath us, spreading inexorably it seems toward the Pacific coast of North America. It is Dr. Rolvaag’s considered opinion, on which he will soon elaborate, that this fissure can only be stopped—and then it’s only a gamble, not a certainty—by the employment of a large number of nuclear weapons, their explosive force to close the fissure.
“Thirdly,” General Wilson went on, “is the immediate nuclear threat posed by the detonation by air burst of a tactical thermonuclear device. This escalates the as yet undeclared war, by higher stakes than we would have thought possible less than twenty-four hours ago. And, I believe Dr. Rourke has some news that is equally alarming.”
Emma looked at John. He’d said nothing to her of anything like this. He squeezed her hand under the table, then leaned back. “Will it bother anyone if I smoke?”
“Not at all, sir,” Admiral Hayes responded.
John reached to Natalia’s cigarettes on the table, saying, “May I?”
Natalia nodded. John took a cigarette, fired it in the flame of his antique windlighter. As he exhaled, he spoke. “Paul and I discovered something quite alarming, just prior to the death of Wolfgang Mann.”
Some of the men and women about the table audibly sucked in breath.
John went on, looking at Wolfgang Mann as the Generaloberst stared in amazement at John. John smiled, saying, “Relax, old friend. The man who died was almost Wolfgang Mann. He was a clone, a nearly perfect duplicate—”
“A clone!” Dr. Rolvaag murmured in astonishment.
“Yes. Almost perfect, and I suspect a preproduction model, as it were, somewhere along the prototype chain. Because Dr. Zimmer arranged things so that we would realize the counterfeit Wolfgang Mann was just that—counterfeit. I have substantial reason to believe that Dr. Zimmer has duplicated not only my entire Family, but more importantly to the general interest of the war effort, himself and the man he calls his son, Martin Zimmer, the leader of Eden. I further have reason to believe that Dr. Zimmer has perfected the means by which to effectively record the electromagnetic impulses of the brain—record thought and memory, then download that data into a recipient, a clone. Zimmer has essentially made himself immortal, unkillable.”