Survivalist - 21.5 - The Legend

by Ahern, Jerry

  When they reached their destination, the stronghold of the Land Pirates, the horses would be left unsaddled and tethered so that, with a litde effort, they could work their way free after a time. That way, if the horses were necessary for escape, they would be there. If the horses were left behind and John’s plan for getting hold of one of the Land Pirate mobile fortresses worked, the horses would eventually get free and 1 have a chance at survival. More than likely, the animals would j try to return to their home stable. j

  Natalia’s mind settled on the question of Martin Zimmer. j John had begun calling him “Martin” and nothing else. I

  And there was the question. j

  The old woman about whom the German agent, known as | Hilda, had told them. She had scrawled the word “Devil” into f the snow and then carefully set a coin with the image of John Rourke in the center of the “D”.

  The cult of personality that Martin Zimmer had built around John’s legend. It did not make sense that an evil man would

  so oak a man who was good. Martin was clearly a Nazi, even bore the surname of Deitrich Zimmer who had been responsible far the woes which beset them now. Why would a Nazi, spawn a cult of personality around a man who, philo-sophKauy, could most closely be described as an Objectivist, a man who had spent his entire life fighting the very sort of tyranny Martin himself stood for?

  What seemed irrational, she had learned very long ago, to someone, somewhere, was rational.

  Why did Martin elevate John Rourke to the rank of some historical demi-god when they were so diametrically opposed philosophically?

  Was it just a cruel joke?

  In a very litde while-she checked the ladies Rolex on her left wrist-they would know.

  Sixteen

  It was a citadel, the stronghold of the Land Pirates.

  He had watched it now for nearly twenty-four hours, memorizing every feature of it.

  If evidence had at all been lacking to involve the government of Eden with the Land Pirates, here it was. The structure that was the fortress itself was fabricated of modern synth-concrete, not something whipped up in the Wildlands by men who were little more technologically advanced than Middle Ages barbarians.

  During the late twentieth century, there was considerable furor concerning state lotteries, some talk of a national lottery as well. John Rourke did not see gambling as a moral issue. If people wanted to gamble, they should be free to do so. He did not gamble, simply because he thought it was a stupid waste of hard-earned money. If others wished to do so, good for them.

  But now, there was no choice but to gamble, and considering that the lives of his wife, Sarah, and his son, Michael, and perhaps all their lives hung in the balance-it was the biggest gamble of his life.

  Michael, although promising Natalia faithfully that he would grow it back, had promised that he would shave his mustache …

  Michael Rourke walked down along the path, his parka open despite the cold, so that he would be visibly armed. He wore no assault rifle.

  If his father’s plan did not work, he wanted access to his

  guns even though he would die. At least he would kill a lew of the Land Pirates before he went down.

  The two Berettas were in their shoulder rig, slingling a .92F below each armpit. The four-inch Metalife Custom Model 629 was in the crossdraw holster between his navel and his left hip. He wore the knife made for him by old Jon, the Swordmaker, as well.

  He came down from the path and started walking toward the guard post on the north wall of the citadel.

  Eventually, someone would notice him.

  The electronic security which comprised the early warning system of the stronghold’s integrated perimeter defense was disarmed in two locations, thanks to Natalia and Paul. Bridging it, rather than interrupting it; it was extremely unlikely anyone monitoring the system knew anything had been done to it.

  Within the next second or two, the guards on the wall would notice him, he told himself.

  And then it would start.

  And he hoped his father was right.

  There was a shout “Hey! What the-“

  Three guards on the wall had assault rifles to their shoulders and, from within the stronghold, an alarm began to sound.

  Before anyone could shoot, Michael Rourke shouted up to the wall T am Martin Zimmer! The man who negotiates with your leaders is an imposter. Shoot at me and all of Eden will crush you!

  The “crush you” line was something he extemporized on the spot and he thought it was rather effective.

  The alarm which had begun sounding fifteen seconds ago still sounded as John Rourke, using the modern German equivalent of ninja climbing claws, scaled the synth-concrete wall of the citadel.

  He reached the top, peering over. As he had predicted, human security was all looking toward the north wall where Mi

  chad would be amounting himself just about now.

  The cameras, as high altitude photographs taken by German satellites indicated, were aimed at the outside perimeter, to compensate for poor vigilance on the part of human guards, not on the height of the wall itself. Every such video system had dead spots, and after a day’s worth of observation, constandy comparing data arrived at on the ground with the aerial photographs, he had plotted a route to the wall that one man could follow, taking advantage of the dead spots; hence remaining undetected by the cameras.

  That part was not difficult.

  But getting up the wall, which all observation indicated was not, itself, fitted with sensors, was the trick. In white snow gear, the German assault rifle he carried painted white, working his way through the snow before dawn, then lying here at the base of the wall and waiting, had been comparatively simple. That was why he had waited for Michael.

  John Rourke went over the wall and down, ridding himself of the climbing claws. To remove a sentry now would be a tactical error. Quickly, he moved along the wall and into the shelter of a cupola which his observation indicated covered a stairwell.

  From one of the musette bags he wore strapped crossbody from shoulder to hip, Rourke took an electronic probe sensing device. It was merely a more sophisticated version of bugging detectors in common use during the latter part of the twentieth century, designed to pick up electronic activity. This one had a much greater scanning radius range between low and high end signals and could detect activity up to a distance of fifty yards. It was developed at Mid-Wake.

  Rourke held the German assault rifle in his right fist, the probe in his left as he first tested, then started down the staircase.

  Five steps down, he detected an electronic sensor pulsing intermittently near the base of the stairs.

  He kept moving, more slowly though. And, as he neared the sensor, he was able to determine the position. There were ac

  tually two transmitters and two receivers, located on the sides of the stairwell.

  Slung around his neck below his chin were a set of goggles. These too were developed at Mid-Wake, designed to allow divers to penetrate dectronically secure areas. Rourke pushed down the hood of his snowsmock and his parka, then pulled up the goggles, activating their power unit.

  Like night vision goggles, the image they presented appeared digitized (which it was) and wasn’t ideal for detailed viewing. But these goggles were designed to receive electronic signals and translate them to visual signals.

  With the goggles in place, he could monitor the patterns of the signal beams. They looked like pem;il-thin beams of light, and they crisscrossed. If he could had not have seen them, it would have been impossible to evade them. Interrupting one of the signals would doubtlessly sound an alarm of some sort at the security center.

  But, with the goggles, and with extreme caution and considerable difficulty considering his height, John Rourke dropped to hands and knees on the stairs and began to crawl between the beams …

  Michael Rourke was surrounded by men who gave the concept of looking evil a whole new meaning. “You dead, mother fucker!”

 
; Michael Rourke looked at the man-well over six feet, bearded and burly, armed with a pre-War shotgun and two pistols-and forced himself to smile. The next man who says something like that to me loses his tongue or his life. Whichever amuses me more. Take me to where this impostor pretends to be Martin Zimmer.” And then Michael Rourke let the smile fade. “Now!”

  Seventeen

  She was frightened for Michael and for John, but there was ho time to worry. Because, if she and Annie and Paul failed, no matter how successful Michael and John were, they would all be doomed.

  Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna flipped over the synth-concrete snow fence and ran along it toward the massive doors. Evidently, the Land Pirates had a raid planned. In some ways, this was bad, but in others good.

  There were more personnel in the incredibly massive garage complex at the rear base of the stronghold than she had thought there would be. But, on the plus side, out of the six incredibly huge vehicles garaged in the system of structures, two of them had engines running.

  The stronghold of the Land Pirates was almost a mile square, walled entirely around. The northern approach, which John had taken, was set on higher ground. The southern approach I stretched out over a valley, the foundation formed by the garage ! structure into which she now looked. The mobile fortresses of J the Land Pirates were not the size of World War Two aircraft ] carriers. That would have been impossible, she knew, the mo-1 ment their size was brought up. I

  But they were larger than anything she could have imagined.

  Their main decks were easily the size of an American football field, in length and width. There were helicopter landing pads, it appeared, although she could not see beyond the main deck’s perimeter. But there were at least two Eden gunships visible to her on each of the mobile fortresses. For what pur-|

  pose? Surely, none of the Land Pirates knew how to fly. Below the main deck where smaller vehicles-the size of conventional tanks-were parked, there was a system of subdecks, gun mounts visible at various locations.

  These would be plasma energy cannons.

  There were missile arrays as well. The Land Pirates might conceivably need energy cannons to do their work of plundering, but not missiles, because these were obviously of the surface to air variety and no one in the Wildlands had airpower.

  But the Allies did.

  Huge cranes, attached to the main decks of the fortresses, were raising more gun batteries into position.

  She saw men in military uniform moving about within the complex, some uniforms clearly those of the Eden armed forces. The other uniforms, black, bore Swastika armbands.

  The Land Pirates themselves seemed a disgusting lot, as foul appearing as the slavers had been, but better armed in many cases.

  There was movement behind her and it startled her, even though the source of movement was what she had expected, Paul and Annie joining her. Paul, except for his play-acting with the slavers and an occasional burst of anger, was very temperate of speech. But under his breath, he murmured, “Holy shit!”

  Natalia could not have agreed with him more …

  Michael Rourke was surrounded by a dozen sentries as he crossed the stronghold’s courtyard. But, so far at least, they weren’t one hundred percent certain he was not Martin Zimmer, he surmised, because not a one of them had dared to attempt or even suggest that he be disarmed. Under the circumstances, he was no danger to them.

  What worried him most was that his father’s plan was working as well as it was, because that meant that the premise for ■e plan had to be correct

  fctarda Zimmer had to be his-their-physical duplicate. But

  how? He threw his shoulders back and kept walking.

  Paul Rubenstein settled his cap on his head, looked from side to side to be certain he was unobserved, then stood up and immediately started walking toward the nearest of the mobile land fortresses.

  His Browning High Powers were under the Eden uniform tunic that he wore.

  John had planned ahead, as he always did, and as it usually worked out, he was correct. Bringing the Eden armed forces uniforms in the first place, then wearing them under their arctic gear and snow smocks when they’d made their pre-dawn infiltration, paid off.

  The land fortress toward which he walked, like the five, was of incredible size. The treads themselves were nearly half his height thickness. The wheels on which the treads were set were as tall as a small house from before The Night of The War, it seemed. The main deck towered more than a hundred feet above him.

  There would be several entrances to a vehicle of such size, but the one he walked toward, gangplanked like a batde ship, was busy, men going in and out constandy. There were no guards.

  He passed an Eden officer wearing lower rank designation than he wore and the officer saluted him, mumbling, “Hail J Martin!” j

  Paul Rubenstein returned the salute, the green uriiformed j man disappearing round a stack of crates marked “High Explo-1 sive.” There were other uniforms here, those that were black j and sported Swastika armbands on the left sleeve, but he en- | countered no one wearing such a uniform. (

  A half dozen Land Pirates, grubby looking men, heavily 1 armed, exited the land fortress along its gangplank. Paul kept walking toward the entrance. The Land Pirates, dressed in pieces of Eden batde uniforms and a motley collection of mismatched garments, walked past him, one of them nodding. Paul

  ■sided hack.

  He reached the foot of the gangplank, pausing for a split second to take a breath.

  Annie and Natalia would be coming along as soon as he created his diversion, the cover of a diversion necessary to get them aboard, despite the Eden uniforms they wore. Because, on close inspection, they would obviously be noticable as women, and there were no women in the Eden armed forces, nor certainly among the forces of the Land Pirates. Women held positions as teachers, secretaries, factory workers, but nothing beyond that in Eden, a dramatic step backwards.

  Paul Rubenstein started up the gangplank …

  The interior of the Land Pirates stronghold was much as he’d imagined it would be. There were long corridors, dormitory style sleeping rooms leading off from these corridors, and storage rooms and weapons vaults. Women, dressed in rags, some visibly shivering in the cold and dampness, slunk about the place carrying loads of wash or food, the one commonality among them, the look of terror in their eyes.

  At the end of one of these corridors, there was a large assembly hall, dining tables ranked along it, with chairs enough to seat more than a thousand men.

  With his twelve man escort surrounding him, Michael walked along its length, large doors set at the center of the far wall…

  Paul had deferred to Natalia for advice on a diversion. Crouched beside Natalia now, shivering with the cold because she wore no arctic gear, just a man’s Eden military uniform, her eyes were on the main deck of the nearest of the mobile fortresses.

  If her husband reached the main deck without being challenged for papers or identification he did not have-when, she told herself, when-he would drop a plastique charge into one

  of the tanks located there, turning it into a giant shrapnel grenade.

  In the ensuing confusion, she and Natalia would get aboard, she hoped.

  Eden tanks, like tanks ever since tanks first saw fuel battle use in World War One, were only armored on the outside.

  John Rourke stopped. The detection unit he carried revealed no further electronic barriers, at least not within range, but his hearing and normal night vision, the goggles slung below bis chin again, revealed something else. For the past several minutes, he had been moving through a huge basement storage area, a synth-fuel dump, enormous tanks full of it on all sides of him.

  But the sound he heard was not mechanical. It was the sound of men, talking, the guttural quality of their speech as he slowly, silently, approached the origin of the sounds, suggesting they were Land Pirates.

  Under the circumstances, he was happy they were here …

  Paul
Rubenstein stepped out onto the main deck of the enormous vehicle. At least as big as a football field, he thought. There were helicopter gunships, six of them, secured to the deck, of the type that were the latest addition to the growing Eden arsenal. Each of the gunships seemed equipped with a full missile array in pods located to port and starboard. He doubted airy conventional explosives would have a sufficiently serious effect against one of these vehicles. In pre-War dollars, to build even one of these would cost well over a billion dollars, he guessed.

  But Eden was big on taxation.

  He started walking toward the nearest of the rows of tanks. The deck plates below bis feet seemed somehow different and, as he walked, he looked at them more carefully. He realized he was walking across a massive ramp. The ramp, set into die

  deck, could apparently be extended outward and downward, like a prefabricated military bridge section, for the use of the tanks as they left the main deck and returned.

  He made a mental note about the ramps, trying to think of a way to sabotage one at some future date, if there ever were a future date.

  The immediate job at hand was to blow up a tank.

  Eden military personnel, Land Pirates and the occasional black clad, Swastika armband-wearing Nazis were everywhere, all busily engaged in what seemed like last minute preparations for an operation.

  This was not going to be a raid against some hapless hamlet, but a full-scale military deployment. Was Martin Zimmer on the brink of beginning his war against the Allies?

  Paul Rubenstein reached the tank.

  Beneath his uniform tunic, he had several charges of the Latest German plastique, in various sizes for various contingent uses.

  He selected the largest of the charges, then started to climb aboard the tank. “You!”

  Without turning around, Paul Rubenstein knew it could only be a Nazi who would shout like that to a man wearing a captain’s uniform. Paul looked back. The man wore some sort of SS officer’s rank, probably a major or the equivalent. Although he might well be forced to take it up for future reference, studying World War Two SS rank wasn’t the sort of thing, as a Jew, he had ever enjoyed. “Yes?”