by Ahern, Jerry
He remembered the old days, not just before the Night of The War, but before he had decided that his life’s work would be survival training and weapons training, the days after he had given up on a career in medicine and joined the Central Intelligence Agency.
It was there that he had first met Natalia—in a manner of speaking.
It was there that he had learned that intelligence gathering required intuitive knowledge tempered with logic and an understanding of the immediate situation—rather than bare facts alone which could be misleading out of context.
But with the coordinates of the Underground City and the coordinates of the staging area, Hartman would have all the data needed.
What to do with it was another question. Conven
tional saturation bombing was a possibility, a protracted ground war with the Soviet force on their own ground almost predestined for failure.
Once they reached Jea’s approximate location of the Underground City, once Rourke had gathered all information that he could through observation, then the immediate job would be done. But greater tasks lay before them. Individual survival and eventual victory.
He would not let Karamatsov destroy the world again.
He would soon have a grandson, carried in Madison’s womb. Sarah, he knew, was pregnant—the test she had planned to take was a formality. He knew it, she knew it. And the other woman he loved—Natalia. There had to be a life for her—his own making had destroyed her life in part. He would not let the rest of it be destroyed. Paul and Annie would have happiness. Madison and Michael. He and Sarah—and then he looked at Natalia and he realized how very little he did know, could do.
In some ways, the most important issue of his life and he was powerless to cause anything but sorrow.
Her incredibly blue eyes, the skin so white and soft and beautiful—and a heart that was given to him. And he could not take it, no matter how much he wanted to take it, to touch her.
John Thomas Rourke walked on, Natalia beside him, the young man Jea breaking the trail, their path keeping to the shelter of overhanging rocks as best as possible. But where it would lead after that, he didn’t know …
Michael had pretended rudeness, indifference, exhaustion—the man had stopped talking to him, Mi
chael nodding successfully and not speaking. It was possible, if the man beside him were clever, that the man had guessed something was amiss.
Shooting their way out once the plane was landed would be a futile gesture, but better than surrendering to inevitable death or worse.
And now the aircraft was landing, Michael—knowing Hammerschmidt beside him was doing the same—watching the other technicians from the truck to see what to do next.
The two who had been on the opposite side of the truck stood up wearily and stretched, then started slowly climbing aboard the vehicle’s left side.
Michael stood, tapping Hammerschmidt on the shoulder as though awakening him, then started up to the catwalk.
The man who had been seated beside him spoke— he called out the name, “Yuri?” Michael licked his lips—he turned. Michael closed his eyes.
In the man’s right hand was a wrench—from a tool belt that the man and some of the others like him wore.
The man started for him, up the catwalk, swinging the wrench. Michael twisted around, kicking the man in the chin, Hammerschmidt diving upward for the catwalk, the technicians around him swamping him down.
Men in silver colored decontamination suits swarmed everywhere—over Hammerschmidt and toward the ladder leading to the catwalk, the plane jostling them as it taxied along, Michael ripping open the front of his decontamination suit and ripping one of the Beretta military pistols out of the leather.
But he stabbed his right hand with the pistol in it not toward the men in the decontamination suits, but
toward the massive cannister at the center of the truck.
The technicians dropped back, edged as far from Michael and as close to the bulkhead as they could.
Hammerschmidt was up, in English saying, “Good thinking Michael—now what?”
Hammerschmidt drew his German pistol.
“Get those guys forward as near to the cockpit as you can—anybody steps outa line, shoot the tank here—we’ve got nothin’ to lose.”
“Agreed.”
Hammerschmidt gestured with his pistol toward the tank, then gestured the silver decontamination suited men toward the front of the truck, toward the front of the aircraft.
Michael drew his second pistol, aiming it at the men opposite him on the left side of the tank.
They climbed down, joined the others. Michael edged forward along the catwalk, anxious eyes behind the face masks of the driver and his helper. Michael let himself grin and gestured with one of his pistols toward the cannister.
With the other pistol he waved them out of the truck cab. They obeyed, Michael peering through the rear window. Soviet trucks still used key started ignitions—it was nice to know. And the keys were in the ignition.
He had been driving a truck since his pre-teens.
He thought of Madison—she had been getting pretty good at it. He closed his eyes tight against the tears, no time for them now.
He opened his eyes.
Hammerschmidt’s voice. “I suppose we back the truck out of here as soon as they open the cargo doors and then, as you Americans say, play it by a nose, hmm?”
“It’s by ear—but by a nose might turn out appropriate—we’ll see.” And Michael started climbing down from the catwalk, to board the truck cab. “You see, we try to save our asses while we play it by ear in the hope that we’ll come in first at least by a nose— anatomically very complicated.”
The German commando captain laughed. “I like you, Michael Rourke.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Otto Hammerschmidt. I’ll drive this sucker, you shoot people, okay?”
“Okay—yes.”
“I’ll shoot a few people too, though—taught myself how to drive and shoot when I was a kid. When we opened these suits—well, if this cannister is leaking at all after five centuries in the desert and the stuff inside is half as deadly as I think it is—”
“We have precipitated our own eventual deaths.”
“Well put. So—no sense farting around with these damned decontamination suits. Right?”
“Agreed, Michael,” and Hammerschmidt stripped away his head gear and laughed as he inhaled. “To death, hmm?”
“How about to beating it?” Michael opined, stripping away his own head gear—and suddenly laughing too. “Let’s get the wheel chocks out of the way.”
Chapter Seventeen
The aircraft was at full stop—Michael could feel it, his mind racing to familiarize himself with the truck’s dashboard—oil pressure gauges, oil temperature gauges, monitors for the shock absorption systems. He could hear the cargo doors opening.
“They won’t be too eager to shoot at us with this cannister—if we can keep it between us and them.”
“Agreed,” Hammerschmidt nodded, his pistol in both fists, his body crouched between the front seat and the firewall, the windows of the vehicle on both sides rolled down. “But I wish I had more than this to shoot at them with.”
Michael only nodded, ripping one of the Berettas from the leather, sliding it under his right thigh, butt out, ready to his right hand.
The vehicle had a manual transmission—he gathered as a concession to the heavy nature of the load it had been designed for and the terrain it was intended to successfully navigate.
Michael found reverse.
In the rearview mirror he could see what Hammerschmidt’s words confirmed. “The cargo doors are opening, Michael.”
Michael began revving the engine, trying to get the feel of its pulse, his left hand poised on the emergency
brake release, his eyes straining into the mirror for the moment the cargo doors would be fully opened and the ramp dropped. Almost.
“Nearly open, Michael!�
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“We’re gone!” Michael popped the emergency brake release as he stomped the gas pedal and let up on the clutch, the truck lurching, starting rearward but painfully slow it seemed, shouts rising from the men in the forward position of the fuselage. Michael looked forward for an instant—one of the decontamination suited technicians was jumping for the driver’s side door. Michael freed his left hand of the wheel and punched the man in the face through the open window. The technician fell back, the interior of the mask smudging with blood over the nose.
Michael put the pedal to the floorboard, the truck moving faster now, his left fist locked on the top of the wheel, his right fist on the gearshift, the light here gray, darkening, his face and hands already feeling the cold of the air temperature.
Men—armed, but wearing decontamination suits— were running up the ramp. The crack of Hammerschmidt’s pistol, roughly like a 9mm Parabellum. A second shot—two of the decontamination suited armed men went down. More were running, clambering aboard the truck trailer.
“Shoot over the top of the cannister, then aim your pistol at the cannister—and keep as low as you can!”
“Right!”
Another pistol shot, but no answering fire from the guards swarming over the truck trailer now, the vehicle halfway down the ramp, a cold wind whipping a fine spray of snow across the air. In the rear window of the cab, Michael could see the armed guards falling back now, climbing down from the trailer and the
cannister it carried—of what, he wondered—and running as though terrified.
The trailer was starting to jackknife. Michael cut in the brake, working the transmission into first, taking the cab forward, some of the silver suited technicians bunching back now. The rear end started straightening, and Michael hauled into reverse again, locking the wheel as he stomped the gas pedal. He shot a glance at Hammerschmidt—the German commando was still aiming his pistol at the massive cannister behind them.
The ramp leading into the rear of the cargo lifted. Michael could just barely see that the rear end of the massive vehicle was onto the ramp, feel the drag now as the weight of the machine started pulling back— but he kept his foot hard to the gas pedal, a bounce and a lurch now, cries of panic from around him, curses—no detailed knowledge of Russian would have been required. The truck was on the edge of being out of control, but he fought the wheel, keeping onto the ramp, the icy wind now penetrating the cab of the truck with the windows full open.
A man in full decontamination suit and battle gear cast his rifle aside and lurched toward the hood of the truck cab as Michael reversed past him, grabbing the Beretta under his right thigh, stabbing it through the window as his thumb worked off the safety. He fired, then again, both slugs impacting the man’s center of mass, the body rocking back, slamming against the fuselage, then toppling over the side of the ramp.
He used the safety to drop the hammer, but still held the weapon in his right fist—his hand was large enough to work the knob on the floor mounted stick.
“Michael—they’re forming up in a circle around us.
“Keep your pistol aimed at the cylinder—and hang
on!” Michael wrenched the wheel, but prematurely, the truck cab’s front wheels still partially on the ramp. There was a sickening lurch, Michael fighting the wheel, still grasping his pistol, the truck cab nearly overturning and shouts and orders echoing from all around him. The cab seemed to rock on the left wheels, then righted itself, Michael stomping the gas pedal again, not caring now if the rear end jackknifed—the more unpredictable his driving, the more disorganized his Russian opposition would be. He raked the wheel hard right, then hard left, the rear end fishtailing side to side across the snow, the left side of the trailer nearly impacting the ramp leading back into the cargo lifter.
The Beretta held between his thumb and first finger, the last three fingers of his right hand found the shift knob, Michael hammered the brake with the heel of his right foot, his toe smashing down the accelerator as his left foot stomped the clutch. The cab seemed airborne for an instant, the trailer swaying side to side, rocking on its suspension. He slammed the transmission into first as his foot eased the gas pressure, then stomped the gas almost to the floor.
In the rearview, across the length of the cannister, he could see men running, rifles at high port, looking like moon men from a science fiction novel more than living Russian soldiers in silver decontamination suits. There were troops without decontamination gear, but they were hanging back.
Michael’s left foot found the clutch and he depressed the gas full to the floor, double clutching as he upshifted, hammering the pedal to the floor now in second, the truck sluggish still, but moving faster at least. Behind it, visible in the rearview great breakers of snow plowing upward on either side and behind them, the decontamination suited men were still run
ning after them.
Michael stabbed the Beretta out the window, careful to keep his line of fire at a tangent to the metal cylinder they hauled, firing randomly, hoping to hold them back. Some fell back—but most of the Soviet personnel kept running after the truck.
There was a shot from his right—his heart went to his mouth—but Hammerschmidt hadn’t shot into the cylinder, but instead killed a man climbing up to the right side trailer catwalk.
Third gear—Michael hammered down the accelerator, the truck starting to gather momentum now.
A jeeplike vehicle dead in front of them skidded to a stop, the decontamination suited driver and a second man jumping from it, running for their lives.
No time to swerve away from the vehicle—Michael shouted, “Watch out!” and double clutched down into second, the transmission grinding, the engine sounding as if it would over-rev, the nose of the truck cab impacting the vehicle, bouncing it upward, the vehicle nearly crashing down along the hood, a scraping sound of metal against metal as Michael upshifted, past it now, a fireball belching skyward, black and orange, the heat searing for an instant against the bare flesh of his left hand and the left side of his face—if it affected the cannister—
Fourth gear now, APCs starting to move, more of the jeeplike vehicles and two motorcycles starting in pursuit.
For the first time, Michael took ah instant to assess their surroundings. Subarctic. Snowy. Mountainous. Trees in the distance—but nothing that looked like an entrance to an underground city of any sort, let alone the Underground City of the Soviet leadership.
The motorcycles were coming fast now as Michael cut the wheel left, aiming toward the mouth of a valley
ahead of him. The motorcycles were nearly even with the trailer now—“Shit,” Michael snarled. “Pray they were able to monitor that tracking signal on the radio set,” and Michael looked again behind them.
The motorcycles—one man on each machine—had to be dead even with the trailer, hugging the sides. He could barely make out the man on the right, the one on the left reaching up for the catwalk—he would jump for the cannister.
“Otto!”
Hammerschmidt leaned out the cab window, then tucked back. “I cannot shoot—the one on my side is too close to the cannister—if I missed.”
Michael reached to his left calf, grabbing the handle of the Life Support System II knife he hadn’t yet transferred back to his belt. He drew the blade from the sheath. “Here—don’t lose it. I couldn’t replace it.”
“I’ll try not to.”
Hammerschmidt took the knife and wrenched open the passenger side door, the cold wind now doubly strong, Michael’s body trembling with the chill. And Hammerschmidt was gone, swinging out onto the running board. Michael glanced back, could see Hammerschmidt clambering along between the cab and the trailer, then leaping down to the level of the trailer and, catching hold of the cylinder, skidding against it. But he had the knife still, hacking with it at the fingers of the man trying to grab for the catwalk. Even over the roar of the slipstream, Michael could hear the scream as there was a sudden spray of blood and in the right sideview, the motor
cycle seemed to disappear, the man with it, then the truck lurching slightly. It had crushed both man and machine.
The man on the left was onto the catwalk, the
motorcycle spinning out into the snow.
The man was edging forward. There was a blur in the rearview—Hammerschmidt. The German captain of commandoes had tackled the man across the cannister, driving the man down to the catwalk, the knife | flashing in the dying sun for an instant, then driving downward.
It seemed like less than a second later and the body of the man in the decontamination suit was launched from the catwalk, into the air, then tumbled into the snow.
Hammerschmidt waved that he was all right, Michael finding fifth gear, on a comparative straightaway now, translating mentally kilometers into miles, realizing that the speedometer was telling him the truck was flat out on a level straightaway at a little less than sixty.
The APCs seemed to be matching his speed from a distance, but the jeeplike vehicles were closing.
He had no idea where they would go, how they would evade the Russians—if they could evade the Russians. Where did you hide a truck this size?
He was freezing cold, one level somewhere inside him afraid, but too preoccupied with staying alive to let the fear concern him.
Michael Rourke kept driving.
Chapter Eighteen
Jea pointed straight ahead beyond a natural wall of rock, and said something that although Rourke could not fathom the word, the meaning behind it seemed evident—“There it is.”
“Tell Jea to keep down and keep him between us,” John Rourke almost whispered, the SSG slung diagonally across his back, the one spent round replaced in the five-round rotary magazine, the scope and rifle checked for damage, neither having sustained any. His pistols long since reloaded and reholstered, in his gloved hands now was the M-16.
He moved ahead, hugging his back to the rocks as he crossed around the wall, not knowing at all what lay beyond.
He stopped as he came to the other side.