by Jerry Ahern
Paul, like John Rourke, wore black rip-stop BDU pants and a black knit shirt. His two mismatched Browning High Powers were carried in a double shoulder-rig of suede-lined black ballistic nylon. The German MP-40 submachine-gun was suspended at his left side, an M-16 at his right, their slings crisscrossed over his upper body.
Rourke held his HK-91 at high port as they walked along the corridor, the twin stainless Detonics CombatMasters in their double Alessi shoulder rig under his armpits, the two ScoreMasters this time in full-flap holsters at his hips, the Crain LS-X knife suspended from the same belt. Inside the waistband of his BDU pants was the little A.G. Russell Sting IA Black Chrome and the hip-gripped Smith & Wesson Centennial. Each of them carried across their bodies a military-issue gas-mask bag.
Periodically, as they passed a body, they would check for signs of life. So far, no one had been found dead as a result of an infection with the strain of encephalitis lethargica. And, John Rourke hoped that would remain the case, enemy personnel or not.
Commander Washington’s men had enough of the vaccine with them to cover the entire population of the garrison. Each of the personnel already vaccinated at ground level was tagged to guard against redundant injection.
By the time the personnel here were able to move about, heads aching, dehydrated from fever—if all went well, the Nazi headquarters complex would be in Trans-Global Alliance hands, the Nazis prisoners and this facility a much-needed base in northwestern North America, all without a shot being fired. If their luck held.
But, John Rourke’s plan wasn’t to wait for that. He would get Sarah and Wolfgang to the lower level, hold that position until the facility was entirely secured. He hoped.
The elevators were located at the central portion of the floor, the rooms and corridors surrounding them.
As they reached the end of one corridor, having found nothing but hospital rooms, only two of them with patients, and three nurses collapsed at their stations, they turned into the next corridor.
At its far end were double doors which looked too sturdily built for an entryway to just another ordinary wing of the hospital or an operating complex.
John Rourke quickened his pace to a jogging run, Natalia and Paul flanking him.
Paul was making a radio check with Michael and Annie below. “Reception’s poor, but we can make each other out. No problems, so far. Word from Commander Washington is that he’ll be delayed another five minutes. Some kind of mechanical problems. Puts him here in about twelve minutes.”
“Not a disaster, I hope,” Rourke observed.
They reached the doors, Natalia rapping the butt of her rifle against them. They didn’t budge, nor was there any sign of electrical activity. She dropped into a crouch before them, inspecting the locks at the center in minute detail. “I’d say we should pick them. It won’t take more than a minute. If we use explosives, no telling what damage we’ll do on the other side.”
“Agreed,” Rourke nodded. “Paul, keep in constant touch with Michael and keep an eye on the main corridor and the elevators. Natalia’ll shout when she’s ready. While Natalia’s taking care of the locks, I’ll start administering injections to the personnel we’ve found.” And Rourke set off at a trot for the nearest of the stricken Nazis . . .
Annie felt uncomfortable sitting, still wearing the BDU pants climactic necessity had forced upon her. She stood up, pacing the elevator control booth. There were video surveillance monitors running constant pictures of the headquarters complex’s ground-level exterior. And there were similar views from above. Nothing but darkness and some stars. “You’re into astronomy, Michael. What’s that constellation? The one in the screen showing the north view.”
Michael said something into the radio to Paul, then stood up and walked over to stand beside her at the bank of monitors. “What constellation, Sis?”
“That.” And Annie pointed toward the upper right hand portion of the screen. But the shape of the constellation had already changed, and the stars within it seemed to have grown. Before Michael could speak, Annie whispered, “Holy smoke—is that—”
“Helicopters. And Trans-Global Alliance doesn’t have helicopters in this theater of operation. Get on the radio and tell Paul we’ve got company coming in.” Annie ran to the other side of the room, picked up the handset. Michael shouted at her. “Make it an ETA of about two minutes. They’ll know there’s something wrong. Shit!”
Annie pressed the push to talk button, saying, “Come in Paul. There’s trouble. Do you read me?”
“What kind of trouble, sweetheart?”
“Helicopter squadron coming from the north.” She looked over her shoulder. “How many, Michael?”
“Six, I think. Yeah—six. They gotta get outa there and down the elevators.”
“Paul. Michael counts six helicopters coming in. They’ll know there’s something wrong. You and Natalia and Daddy—get down here, right away. Over.”
“Still working on finding Sarah and Wolf. Natalia’s picking the locks. You get a transmission out to Commander Washington’s SEAL force and tell ’em what’s going on. Have Michael check and see if he can screw up the other elevator so the one we’ve got blocked is the only one that’ll work. Let me know. Out.”
Annie called to her brother. “You hear Paul?”
“I’m on my way,” Michael was starting through the doorway and down the ladder.
Annie’s eyes scanned the control panels. The controls were probably redundant with those up top. “Shit,” she hissed through her teeth. She picked up the other handset and started contacting Commander Washington, but her eyes went to the north-pointing video monitor. The six helicopters were closing fast on the mountaintop landing pad . . .
Natalia had the locks, stood, calling out over her shoulder, “I’ve got the doors, John, Paul.”
Paul was shouting something as he ran down the corridor toward her. “Trouble. Six choppers coming in up top. Have to be Nazi.”
John was coming out of one of the patient rooms.
Natalia shrugged her shoulders, pushed her M-16 forward on its sling and took a step back. “We can’t wait. Back me up, Paul.” Natalia wheeled half right and snapped her left foot outward with all the force she could muster, kicking at the point where the two doors met. If anyone were standing behind them waiting, he’d be in for a headache.
The doors flung back as Natalia suggested, “I go right?”
“Fine,” Paul responded, Natalia crossing from left to right as she went through the doorway, Paul right to left.
As she entered, she mule-kicked the door into the wall, in case someone might be standing behind it.
There was no one, at least no one awake.
At a simple desk about three meters inside the doorway, a guard lay slumped over his desk. Another man was propped up against the wall, moaning in delirium.
Paul crossed the foyer to the corridor beyond. There was a series of doors on either side, all of them secure. “Cells,” Paul noted.
Natalia was already going through the desk, looking for entry cards as John ran in from the corridor beyond.
Natalia found entry cards in the center drawer of the desk, having to move the unconscious man in order to do so. “You and Paul check the cells. I’ll take care of injecting these men.”
She handed John the entry cards and he nodded and was gone.
Natalia shrugged out of the little day pack she wore, took a hypodermic from inside and set to work rolling up the man’s left sleeve.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Paul was filling him in on the radio transmission from Michael and Annie as they entered the third cell. This one, the door locked, seemed promising.
Beyond the door was what John Rourke sought, but for an instant he didn’t move. Sarah lay half out of her bunk, so still she could have been dead, a bandage across her forehead, her face pale as death.
At the far edge of his peripheral vision, Rourke saw Wolfgang Mann, lying perfectly flat on his back.
&
nbsp; Rourke crossed the room to his wife, telling Paul, “Check Wolfgang.”
The cell was about the size of two large bathrooms. At the center of the back wall was an enclosure which Rourke assumed housed whatever bathroom facilities there were. Other than that and the two cots, the cell—extremely well lit—was bare.
Rourke dropped to his knees beside his wife’s inert form, touching his hands to her neck and wrist. There was a pulse, but it was very faint.
“Wolfgang’s alive,” Paul called out.
“Sarah, too,” Rourke told his friend. “Call Michael and Annie after you give Wolf the injection. Tell them everything’s okay and we’ll be starting down. Check the status on our visitors.”
“Right,” Paul answered.
John Rourke paused for a second as he prepared to give his wife the injection of vaccine. And he touched his lips to her cheek . . .
As best Annie could tell, judging from the fact that her brother was still working on the second elevator itself and judging by the systems diagram panel, Michael’s attempt to disable the second elevator wasn’t working. They could always use explosives, but if they damaged the first elevator, then it would be impossible for her father, her husband and Natalia to come back, impossible for them to get her mother and Wolfgang Mann to safety.
They were stuck. As the radio message came in from Paul, Annie said as much. “We’ve got six choppers on the landing pad up above. A communication just came through from the landing pad, demanding to know what was happening and why the personnel in the control booth and the control tower were unconscious or delirious. Over.”
“You try warning them away because of a medical emergency? Over.”
“I told them we thought it might be plague, but they either didn’t buy it or didn’t care—or maybe they were just too dumb to know they were in danger. The monitor for the landing pad area got shot out. I think they’re coming all the way down. And Commander Washington’s people are still a couple of minutes away at least. Get down here. Over.”
“You and Michael get to a position of cover. I’ll signal as soon as we’re into the elevator, get us going, then get outa there and be ready to cover us. Love you. Be careful. Out.”
She loved him, all of them.
“Michael! Get outa there. We’ve got to hurry!” Her right hand was poised over the elevator control, ready to bring them down the moment she got the signal . . .
John Rourke carried his wife in his arms. She moaned softly, her body trembling slightly in her delirium. The vaccine, when administered in time—there should have been at least a twenty-four hour margin of safety remaining—would prevent any permanent damage, if it behaved as it was supposed to. He hoped, he prayed, that he had not tragically miscalculated.
Wolfgang was slung over Paul’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Natalia sprinted ahead of them, securing the area near the elevators.
Annie’s voice was coming through on Paul’s radio, the earpiece pulled so they all could hear. “As far as I can tell from the control panel, they’ve given up on trying to control your elevator, and—wait a minute—the second elevator is being activated. They can control that. Hope to God they can’t override your elevator.”
“Tell her to be ready and then get out of there, Annie and Michael both,” John Rourke ordered.
Paul spoke into the handset. “We’ll be in the elevator in about another thirty seconds. I’ll give the signal, start us down and get out. Make sure those front gates are guarded. If whoever it is up top is smart, he’ll send a couple of those choppers down to ground level. Stay with me.”
They reached the elevator, Natalia flicking the chair out from between the doors, wedging the door open with her body. John Rourke stepped inside. Paul followed him, setting Wolfgang down on the floor in the corner farthest away from the other elevator shaft. John Rourke lay Sarah there, too, then crouched before them.
As Natalia jumped into the elevator, Paul shouted into the handset, “Bring us down and get to cover! Now, babes!”
The elevator doors slammed shut. There was a violent lurch and the car started downward. But, in the same instant, there was a roar from above them. The second car was moving in the shaft beside them.
There was a thudding sound on the roof of their car, then another and another and the access door in the elevator’s roof was thrown open and back. A man in SS winter camouflage jumped through.
Simultaneously, John Rourke, Natalia and Paul Rubenstein shot him dead and the man fell to the floor.
An object was thrown down through the opening, Rourke shouting, “Masks! Now!” Rourke let his rifle fall across his knees on its sling, tearing open the gas-mask bag at his left side, the elevator car already starting to fill with what he hoped was only tear gas. Rourke popped the seals at the cheeks of the mask as first one, then another, then another SS commando jumped down into the car. There was no time to shoot, Rourke vaulting up and hurling his body into the three men.
Rourke’s left fist snapped outward, hammering into the face of the man nearest him. A knife flashed, sliced downward toward him. The butt of an M-16 blocked it, Paul stepping in, arcing the muzzle of his rifle down across the side of the man’s face.
In the blur as Rourke was spun around and slammed into the wall by the other two SS men, Rourke spotted at least two more men, maybe three, coming down from the top of the car. Their commander had planned ahead well, ordering men onto the roof of the car, ordering them to be ready to jump if they encountered the second elevator car, then get inside and seize control.
Rourke’s left fist slammed forward into the gut of the man nearest him, Rourke’s right knee smashing upward into the man’s crotch. As the man doubled forward, Rourke’s right moved in a tight uppercut to the tip of the SS man’s jaw and Rourke’s body twisted left as he laced his left fist into the man’s right temple.
A fist hammered toward Rourke and Rourke dodged his head, catching only a part of the blow’s force, against his right ear.
There was a familiar—and very welcome—sound, a click-click-click, and Natalia was into the fray, her knife moving as though it had a will of its own, opening the carotid of one man, stabbing into the chest of another.
Two more SS commandos jumped down into the car. Rourke took a step forward, the man who’d struck him along the ear clinging to Rourke’s right arm now. Rourke wheeled right, bracing himself against one opponent’s body as he sidekicked into the right knee, then the abdomen of one of the new arrivals.
And Rourke felt his balance going, pulled down as two men swarmed over him.
Rourke’s right knee smashed upward, finding flesh instead of bone, a rush of foul-smelling breath on Rourke’s face, a scream of pain from the man he’d knee-smashed. Rourke’s right hand caught hold of the other man, Rourke’s thumb hooking in the left corner of the man’s mouth, Rourke’s fingers closing over the man’s left ear. Rourke snapped his right arm outward, crashing the man’s head into the elevator car’s wall.
Paul’s right foot flashed past Rourke, contacting the man—still on top of John Rourke—in the side of the head. The man rolled away. Rourke edged back. Paul’s foot snapped out again, this time connecting at the SS man’s right temple, the man’s head cracking back into the wall.
Rourke was to his knees. The man whose head he had smashed into the wall had a knife. Rourke swung the butt of his rifle up, pivoting the sling on his shoulder, catching the man so hard at the base of the jaw that the gas mask the man wore was ripped away.
Rourke’s left hand found the butt of one of the Detonics ScoreMasters and Rourke stabbed the pistol toward the man as he thumbed back the hammer, then fired point blank into the SS man’s face.
Rourke was to his feet, back to the wall, a pistol in each hand now. And he fired, killing the man Paul had just thrown against the wall. Natalia’s knife slashed across the throat of one man and, as she wheeled to finish a second man, Rourke fired both pistols, killing him.
Paul stood with his back to the doors
, his submachine gun’s bolt locking back. Natalia’s rifle was on the floor, but one of the revolvers was in her left hand. A man started to dive down into the cloud of white fumes filling the elevator car, Rourke, Rubenstein and Natalia began opening fire simultaneously, his body falling limp, halfway through the opening.
In seconds, the elevator car would reach the ground, and only seconds after that the other car, in which more of the SS commandos would be waiting.
“Natalia? Can you take—”
“I can’t carry Sarah and move as rapidly as you can. Paul, give me your M-16.”
“All right,” Rourke nodded. Cocked and locked—a carry he didn’t particularly like—Rourke stuffed the two ScoreMasters into his belt, then swept Sarah up into his arms. She was coughing, eyes streaming tears.
Paul handed his rifle to Natalia and grabbed Wolfgang Mann’s arms, hauling Mann, still unconscious, up into a standing position. Paul bent, catching Mann over his left shoulder, then raised to his full height. The German MP-40 submachine gun was back in Paul’s right fist.
Rourke stood beside the doors, Paul behind him.
Natalia, one M-16 trained on the overhead, the other trained on the door, said, “You two run for it and I will be right behind you.”
“Don’t get killed on us,” Paul cautioned.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” she answered, smiling.
The elevator stopped.
The doors snapped open.
John Rourke went into a dead run the instant Natalia was out the doors, Paul Rubenstein right beside him.