War Mountain

by Jerry Ahern

  John Rourke sat at the controls, very similar to those of an ordinary vehicle. The transmission was automatic, but could be manually operated as well. Tracks and wheels each had independent drivers. Field of view was extraordinarily good, through video monitors, which covered the four cardinal directions as relevant to the vehicle’s orientation, and through two additional cameras which covered the air space above. All six cameras were constantly displayed and the vehicle operator could select the field of view that he wished displayed on the main screen directly in front of the controls. Whichever field of view was chosen, the energy cannon’s targeting computer was instantly on line.

  John Rourke was reminded of the old expression concerning shooting fish in a barrel. This would be that. Whatever Deitrich Zimmer’s plan was—and John Rourke was certain that there was one—it gave no sympathy to the Nazi personnel who would die in these predawn hours in what was once Northwestern Canada. Foot soldiers would be no match for these vehicles.

  The engines—twin synth diesels—hummed, and the environmental controls were functioning perfectly. Parkas off, the sleeves of his black sweater and the black knit shirt beneath it pushed up to just below his elbow, John Rourke started the armored half-track from the motorpool area and across the encampment. The other six vehicles fell in, flanking him.

  “This is Rourke,” he said into the radio. There was always the chance that communications would be picked up by the enemy troops, but it was too late for them. If the Nazi headquarters picked up—which he doubted—there was no other choice now. The immediate danger was from the personnel attacking the aircraft.

  “In less than thirty seconds, Commander Washington’s frontal assault will begin. I’m assuming he’s aware of the situation with the aircraft and will act accordingly. Needless to say, watch out for friendly faces. Let’s get all the rest,” John Rourke added.

  He spun the wheel into a tight right and turned out directly behind the three dozen Nazis comprising the assault force, the six other vehicles still flanking him. It was time for these men to die, and he doubted that they were doing anything else but following incomprehensible orders.

  Rourke started his vehicle forward, his main vidscreen on forward, the target computer already acquiring. “Spread out. Paul, to the far left. Lieutenant Johnson, to my far right. Crescent-shaped formation, each vehicle fifty yards apart.”

  Rourke, at the very center of the crescent, cut back on his speed, the two men directly flanking him doing the same, Rourke cutting back still further, while the half-tracks on the far sides of the crescent increased speed proportionately.

  The attack on the aircraft was beginning, the flashes of energy rifles lighting the night sky, but the only heavy energy weapons coming from the aircraft itself. The bulk of enemy fire seemed to be concentrated on the wings of the V-Stol cargo lifter, as if to disable the craft were the ultimate objective. Why?

  Three men, a fire team, were beneath his bull’s-eye array on the target computer and Rourke actuated the weapon, firing a series of energy bursts at the center of the target mass, all but vaporizing the three men. “God help us, this is wrong,” John Rourke said into the radio, but there was no choice, because if he had stopped the half-track, gotten onto the PA and demanded surrender, there would have been no reply but incoming fire.

  These men had orders.

  There was no choice.

  Six men, coming obliquely toward the aircraft cargo bay. John Rourke fired. Six men dead. He kept to his vector, the crescent formation encompassing the entire field now. The enemy personnel were helpless to stop them . . .

  Annie Rourke Rubenstein kept firing, despite the tears that wanted to come, to cloud her vision. This was not battle, but murder.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Even as we speak, gentlemen, a battle rages many miles north and west of here, in an attempt by Deitrich Zimmer to consummate his greatest goal—to obtain the help of John Rourke in the conquest of Earth.”

  “I don’t understand, Colonel,” James Darkwood said flatly. It was very pleasant sitting here, really, sipping fine brandy, smoking as good a cigar as could be obtained at any price. Manfred Kohl sipped brandy, but didn’t smoke. “How could Dr. Zimmer hope to get Dr. Rourke to cooperate with him? That doesn’t make any sense at all, Colonel.”

  Gruppenführer Croenberg leaned back into his easy chair, swirling his brandy in the glass he held at eye level. “There is a science to everything, gentlemen, whether it be war or race or the making of brandy.”

  James Darkwood couldn’t resist speaking to Croenberg’s remark. “Racial theory is a pile of shit, totally groundless. Sure, skin colors, some characteristics are different, but so what? There’s nothing to suggest that one race is superior to another.”

  Croenberg slapped his knee and laughed aloud, leaning forward almost excitedly in his chair, his grey-blue eyes gleaming in the light from the lamp on the leather-covered wine table beside him. “Exactly! But race is a convenient excuse, is it not? You see, anyone of even modest intelligence realizes that all human beings are exactly alike in the most basic sense. Each human being is an individual in the broadest sense. There is no more difference between a black man and a white man, or a Jew or a Chinese than there is between two men of the same race.”

  “You are a Nazi, Herr Gruppenführer,” Manfred Kohl said suddenly. “For you to admit that is heretical!”

  “So?” And Croenberg leaned back and laughed. “Do not misunderstand me, my young friend,” he said, leaning forward again, puffing on his cigar. “What I say to you here and what I say in order to achieve the ends I seek will be totally different. Deitrich Zimmer truly believes that his so-called Aryan race is superior. Do you know what the word Aryan really refers to?”

  “A language group, right?” Darkwood opined.

  “Exactly! Aryan peoples, if indeed they exist, are those whose native language is Indo-European. None of us remembers, of course, but in the days Before the Night of the War, there was far greater ethnic diversity. I believe there are a few actual persons possessed of Indian blood—from the Indian subcontinent—who still exist among the United States population. But, there were millions of them. Some were very light-skinned, some as dark as Africans. This is why the entire idea of Aryan racial conformity is so absurd, of course. These men and women, many of whom looked black, were just as Aryan as the Nordic stereotypes, the blond-haired and blue-eyed supermen Adolf Hitler so worshiped. Doubly curious, I have always thought, since Hitler himself was rather dark and somewhat swarthy. At any event, Deitrich Zimmer genuinely believes in his theories of race.”

  “What does he want with Doctor Rourke?”

  “You must consider, Darkwood, that I am not your ally, merely Deitrich Zimmer’s enemy. So, for a short while, we will be allies. Then, we will be enemies again.”

  “I know that,” Darkwood said.

  “Tell us, Herr Gruppenführer,” Kohl persisted.

  Croenberg’s head, Croenberg leaning forward as he was, was clearly visible in the light. Beneath the skin, veins could indeed be seen. Except for the quite genuine-seeming smile on his face, the almost convivial glint in his eyes, the overall impression was grotesque. “Dr. Zimmer, as his supporters and enemies alike would agree, is a genius. He is, alas, quite insane. But that does not diminish the genius part of him. Dr. Zimmer wishes to be master of the Earth.”

  “And you don’t?” Darkwood interrupted.

  “I wish to be master of only a part of the Earth. I—as did Zimmer, in fact—realized some time ago that without an enemy, there is no means by which to exert power. There must be opposing forces, each perceived by the other as evil, but each perceived by itself as good. I wish to control one such force. Zimmer—and this is why he is so particularly dangerous to us all—wishes to control both good and evil. If he could, he would be master of Earth. If he is not stopped, that goal will be achieved, and John Rourke will help him.”

  “John Rourke might kill him,” Darkwood volunteered.
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  “Only if given the chance. A question. Is Martin Zimmer dead?”

  “I’m not—”

  “At liberty to discuss that, Herr Darkwood? I intentionally left Martin Zimmer to die not long ago in Hawaii. I wanted him dead, because he is even worse than his ‘father’; the desire for power is there, but not tempered by genius, only baser emotions. I thought that I had succeeded. I learned, through the efforts of a highly placed agent of my personal employ, that Martin Zimmer lives.”

  Manfred Kohl started to say something. James Darkwood extended his hand to his friend’s thigh in order to preempt that. “What you’re saying, Colonel. Is it relevant?”

  “Oh, indeed! I see that Allied intelligence knows nothing about this. Fascinating.”

  “Nothing about what, Colonel?” Darkwood persisted.

  Croenberg leaned back in his chair, puffed on his cigar. “Unlike my adversary, I am not insane. Nor do I wish to be God. He is, he does, Zimmer. He has perfected the process by which human beings can be replicated, cloned. He has also perfected the means by which the electromagnetic impulses of the human brain can be recorded and transferred from one brain to another. That means, gentlemen,” Croenberg said, leaning very far forward, his lips drawn back in a smile, revealing even, white teeth, his eyes hard, “that he can copy whomsoever he chooses and use that person to his own will however he wishes. There would be no way to tell the difference. Fingerprints, retinal prints, DNA scans—they would all show that the subject was just who he or she claimed to be. You or I, your president or doctor—anyone could be duplicated, then controlled by Deitrich Zimmer.

  “Picture what it would be like,” Croenberg continued, “if the leaders of both sides were led by one man, served one intelligence, obeyed one will. That, my young friends, would be the ultimate power. The good Herr Dr. Zimmer wields such power, and that is precisely why I speak with you now.

  “If there is God,” Croenberg concluded, “such is His power alone. For a man to possess this is dangerous beyond understanding.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  His daughter’s arms around his neck, his son’s right hand in his, Natalia’s eyes beaming toward him, John Rourke experienced an increasingly rare feeling of total peace. Kissing Annie, hugging Natalia, hugging his son, Annie back in Paul’s arms, John Rourke leaned against the aircraft bulkhead, taking one of his thin, dark tobacco cigars from an inner pocket of his parka. He lit it in the blue yellow flame of his battered Zippo windlighter, the cigar’s tip already guillotined. “This is a setup of some kind, and I’m not sure what.”

  “I uncovered some data you need to see, Dad,” Michael told him. “Total force strength reports for Zimmer’s headquarters, and a report on cloning and the recording of the human mind.”

  John Rourke smiled bitterly. “Wolfgang Mann was with us, as you may recall. But it wasn’t Wolf, just a clone, preprogrammed to obey Dr. Zimmer, bearing explosives inside its body—probably in the large intestine—and ready to self-destruct in order to do Zimmer’s bidding. What you’re saying, Michael, only confirms our own suspicions. And, the fact that you got this data—from a field computer?”

  “Yes,” Michael said, nodding.

  Rourke inhaled on his cigar, felt the smoke deep in his lungs, watched as he exhaled it through his nostrils. “That only means that Zimmer wants us to know what he’s doing, is offering us an irresistible invitation. He knows what we’re thinking, that if Wolf Mann could be cloned, so could your mother. He wants all of us inside his headquarters complex.”

  “We’re going then,” Natalia said.

  “Yes,” he told her. Her eyes were on him, their incredible, surreal blueness cutting through him. Yet, for some reason which John Thomas Rourke did not understand, he thought of Emma Shaw. “We’re going. All of us. And I think it would be stupid to bring any of Commander Washington’s men or any of the men from the commando units Paul and I brought with us. Whatever’s going to happen is going to happen. Zimmer wants us all together, in his lair, alive and well—at least to begin with, hence this self-destructive military operation, all the data he’s kindly provided us. I think it would be awfully rude of us not to accept such an invitation. And, anyway, it seems like that will be the only way we can find out about your mother, Michael, Annie.

  “No one has to go, though,” John Rourke told his family. “This might be the end, the last of everything. You all know me well enough to know that I’ve got a bit of an ego,” Rourke said, smiling. “I always like to think I can outsmart our opponents. I think that this time, however, we’re up against someone who’s at least a little smarter than any of us. So far, he’s gotten us to do exactly what he wants, and probably just on schedule. Before I came in, I stood outside for a long time, just watching the sky, trying to fathom what it is that Deitrich Zimmer has in mind. I can’t think it out. Anyone who thinks he or she has an inkling of what’s in store for us, speak now.”

  There was only one response, from Paul. “You know we’re with you wherever you go, John. It’s always been that way, and it’ll be that way as long as we live. And, I agree. We don’t know what it is Zimmer has in store, but we don’t have any choice but to walk right into his trap.”

  John Rourke rolled back the cuff of his sweater, tapped ashes from his cigar into the ashtray built into the table beside him in the main compartment of the fuselage. “I suggest we make whatever preparations necessary, then strike out for Zimmer’s assumed headquarters. We’ll leave the commandos outside, to watch our backs, so all we’ll have to worry about is inside the complex itself.”

  “What is it like, John?” Natalia asked.

  “The structure is built partially within, partially atop a mountain of jagged grey granite, snow-splotched here and there, great sheets of ice within the crevasses dotting the mountain face. Within, the complex bespeaks solidness, only the best materials, only the best construction. Marble, granite, brass. In many ways, it’s what you’d expect. I only saw the main level, not the ones above or the ones below. I don’t know what the layout is, nor do I know the defense system. I’m sure we’ll get inside easily enough, perhaps find Sarah just as easily, and maybe Wolfgang Mann, too. It’s getting out that worries me. He knows the plan, and we don’t. He’s the one in charge and all we can do is play it out until we know his game. I’ll admit it, guys, I’m outclassed.”

  Natalia came up to him, put her arms around him and very gently kissed his cheek. “You could never be outclassed, John. He may have the plan, he may have us following it because we have no choice, but he could never surpass you. You may not understand that as well as we do, but it’s true. We’ve been with you since this started, and we will be with you until it ends. No matter what Deitrich Zimmer did, he could never match what you have done. He might win, and I am not denying that. I think we all try to look at things realistically. But he could never best you. I have read your Bible. Lucifer and his dark angels could never best the forces of light. Even if you die, John, a man like Zimmer would not win.”

  John Rourke hugged Natalia, his eyes flashing toward Michael, who only smiled. John Rourke said nothing, only touched his lips to her hair.

  As she stepped away, Rourke took his cigar from the ashtray and inhaled, exhaled, looked in turn at these men and women who were the only people—except for Sarah and his father and mother—whom he had ever loved. And then he thought of Emma Shaw. “I have no idea what I ever did to deserve a family like I have. No man could ask for better friends, for a finer son or daughter than I have.” He looked at Natalia. “I know that someday you and Michael will bring me grandchildren, and that’s magnificent beyond belief.” He looked at his daughter. “And you and Paul, too.” He closed his eyes, opened them, looked at the glowing tip of his cigar.

  “Soon,” John Rourke told them, “if we survive these days, my wife will be restored to me, in one way or the other. But I don’t believe that things will ever be the way they could have been, should have been. And I’m sorry for that, sorry beyond me
asure. All we can do now is try to do our best, and hope that our best will be good enough.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  There were blackout drapes over the windows, but Croenberg separated them and stared out into the night. These two young men from Trans-Global Alliance Intelligence were really rather decent chaps. He was glad that he was not lying to them. The city, beyond the blackout drapes, was a shadow box of silhouetted shapes, punctuated by the glowing embers of fires which had burned in the aftermath of the Allied attack.

  He inhaled the smoke from his cigar, tried to feel the warmth of his brandy. But, the warmth was gone. Without looking at Darkwood or Kohl, Croenberg said, “You see, there are degrees of evil, just as there are degrees of good, my young friends. Few things are one or the other. The enlightened man must choose.

  “The course of action,” Croenberg went on, “which Dietrich Zimmer wishes to follow might well result in his goal being achieved. However, should it fail, the world will be plunged into a war from which it might never recover. The Jew, Einstein, when asked what the weapons of World War III would be, responded that he did not know, but that the weapons of the next war after that, would be rocks and clubs. He was off by only a single war. Not bad, really. If this war is fought now, civilization will be in ruins. Who wishes to rule over that? I do not. Zimmer, on the other hand, is willing to risk that eventuality. He must be stopped. I had hoped to stop him myself. I discovered that such a dream was impossible from within alone. You see, Deitrich Zimmer has outguessed us all. Even the vile son whom I had thought was dead was never even in the slightest danger. The Martin Rourke Zimmer whom I left to die, whom Dr. Rourke thinks that he killed, was never even there. Merely a clone.”