Survivalist - 14 - The Terror

by Ahern, Jerry

  “I know that.”

  “What are you going to do now—after this is all over:

  “I—ahh—there’s a whole world out there, Dad—I don’t know. I mean if I’ve got the patience for medical school—any of that. Maybe—ahh—just strike out on my own, see what there is to find.”

  “Better off on horseback than with a vehicle—

  couldn’t carry enough synth-fuel with you.”

  “I was thinking that. The Germans offered you some horses, right?”

  “Yeah—Colonel Mann did. Good animals. Ahh— your mother—ahh—”

  “She’ll have the new baby—I didn’t tell ya—but ahh—you and Mom were right. She had the test and she’s pregnant. Should be sometime around the end of August. Anyway—I won’t be gone forever, ya know?”

  “Yeah—I know,” John Rourke almost whispered. He stopped climbing into the rocks, stopped to look at Michael. “Ahh—I don’t think any man could have a better son. I just wanted you to know that. I’m sorry for the world you inherited, Michael. I don’t think anybody in our time really wanted it to come out like this.”

  “There’s probably more life than we’ve found already—maybe I’ll find some of it.”

  “Paul and I talked about that a little—going over the next mountain. But I don’t suppose either of us can now. I don’t envy how it came to this for you—but I kind of envy what you’ll see. Once the baby’s old enough to travel, well—”

  “You mean the ages Annie and I were after the Night of The War?” And Michael smiled.

  “Something like that,” Rourke laughed a little. “Well—Sarah and I—your Mom and I—we might ahh—”

  “And Paul and Annie too?” “Sure—that’d be good.”

  Snow capped the mountains which ringed them, snow cascading in long rivers of white, cascading downward through the forests of pine and the sparser but significant numbers of hardwoods, frozen rivers waiting to go somewhere.

  “What about Natalia?”

  “I don’t know—some things never change, do they.”

  “She’s a good woman—I don’t envy you—or her.”

  John Rourke closed his eyes, then opened them again, settling on a rock that was protected on three sides from sight by other rocks surrounding it, his vantage point affording him a view of the depression in the direction from which Hartman and his people should be coming.

  “I never meant to be—”

  “Unfaithful to Mom? You weren’t.”

  “You love another woman as much as you love your wife—well—even if you don’t touch her, there’s a—”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. All I succeeded in doing was fucking up her life.”

  “Natalia’d never say that,” Michael said quietly. “You gave her a new life. Maybe she’s like me that way. You’ve got one major character failing, Dad—I can say it because I’ve got the same failing. You expect yourself to be perfect. We’ve got big egos.”

  John Rourke laughed. “We do, huh?”

  “Yeah—we do,” Michael grinned. Michael shifted the SSG to rest across his thighs. “Got a nice feel to it.

  “There’s another one back at the Retreat,” and Rourke nodded toward the rifle.

  “I’ll take you up on it. But you can’t blame yourself for being a human being. When you met Natalia, any rational man would have assumed Mom and Annie and I were dead. But you never did. You came after us, saved our lives—at a lot of personal expense. You know what I mean.”

  Rourke started to try to answer but he didn’t have an answer. Michael kept talking instead. “I mean, what you did in finding us was at once self-sacrifice

  and selfishness. You searched for us because you wanted to find us—just like we searched for you. But at the same time you gave up Natalia. Is that why you got Mom pregnant? Honestly?”

  “What? To keep myself from having to make a choice?”

  “Maybe—something like that.”

  “Is that what you think?” John Rourke asked his son.

  “No—I don’t think that.”

  “Good—because it isn’t why. At least I don’t think it is. I didn’t have any choice to make. Your mother is my wife. I can’t put it into words. But I love your mother. I love Natalia. But the two loves are different. Four finest women I’ve ever known—your mother, Natalia, Annie, and your wife, Madison. I’ll mourn Madison. Annie will grow away from me. Just as she should with Paul. Natalia’s just like me. A survivor. She’ll make a life for herself because that’s the way to survive. Your mother and I’ll be together as long as both of us live. We’ll probably argue as long as we live, too. Never see eye-to-eye. I ahh—hell,” and Rourke found one of his thin, dark tobacco cigars and bit down hard on it.

  “I hope I never have to try and think like God,” and Michael Rourke placed his arm across his father’s shoulders.

  John Rourke looked at his son. “I love you—very much.”

  “The three of us—all that time—I don’t think we ever doubted that,” Michael said softly.

  John Rourke closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

  He opened his eyes—the rattle of equipment. It was either Hartman or a Soviet ambush.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  It was not the Russians.

  They abandoned the Soviet vehicle after Hartman and his personnel thoroughly and quickly searched it. There had seemed to be an instant camaraderie struck up between Bjorn Rolvaag and Jea, Jea initially terrified by Rolvaag’s dog, but warming to the animal so quickly it had almost seemed Jea and the dog had known each other throughout their lives.

  Michael sat beside the driver of the snow cat, Rourke seated in the rear seat with Hartman, the snow cats taking them by a series of right angle jogs to the coordinates set for the predetermined rendezvous with Natalia and Captain Hammerschmidt.

  While the Soviet vehicle had been searched, Hartman had broken radio silence to contact the base in Norway—Rourke had learned that his daughter and her husband, Paul Rubenstein, were waiting at the base. Hammerschmidt’s men, led now by a Sergeant Dekker and in the company of a small force under Lieutenant Milton Schmidt were already enroute to the Urals, having monitored Hammerschmidt’s tracking device sufficiently well to place the general geographic area.

  The small force in Norway and Hammerschmidt’s unit would consolidate with Hartman’s small force of

  men—but the combined unit strength would be a token force at best against the Soviet numbers.

  The commander of the Norway outpost was to contact Major Volkmer, commander of the Iceland base being erected outside Mt. Hekla, and Colonel Mann in Argentina. Rourke doubted any substantial force could be gotten into the Urals in time to do any good.

  As they drove, Rourke recounted what he had seen and Michael conjectured on the nature of the substance contained in the cannister. “A bacteria wouldn’t have survived five centuries in the desert—at least I don’t think so.”

  “The nature of the bacteria, its reproductive rate, the amount of nutrient it might need—a considerable number of variables could come into play. Some mutant strain of bacteria might have properties that otherwise might be considered bizarre. But I agree— probably a gas.”

  The windows of the snow cat were steaming over, Hartman wiping one clear with the palm of his glove. “But what sort of gas—Herr Doctor—”

  “During World War II, the German government had poison gas as did the allies—it was never used because each power felt that whoever utilized it first could expect retaliation in kind. That same philosophy, of course, carried over into post-war nuclear arsenal building. But germ warfare and gas warfare weren’t abandoned. The Russians, we knew, were working on a wide range of chemical and biological agents. And so of course we were. Evidently, the cannister Karamatsov has unearthed in the desert was placed there some time after the Night of The War by some of his agents. Considering the size, I’d venture to say this isn’t something Karamatsov had created for his own personal use
, but rather something which had

  been in readiness for another use which Karamatsov then expropriated. The Egyptian government would never have allowed the cannister to be buried in the first place if there had been a viable Egyptian government at the time—so it had to be after the Night of The War.”

  “Karamatsov was in charge of the KGB in the United States, though—”

  “But before the Night of The War, Michael,” Rourke continued, lighting the cigar he had been chewing on since a few moments before Hartman’s arrival, “as Natalia could attest, Karamatsov had his hands everywhere. I bumped into him in South America. But he was a well-known Soviet agent at that time, having worked all over the world, and considerably with terrorists. He would have had the knowledge and contacts to get his hands on the cannister. Just as a scenario, and there’s no reason to suppose it’s correct, but it could have been a gas so terribly dangerous that the Soviets were planning to discard it, hence the durability of the cannister. Likely, it was already aboard a ship somewhere if that were the case, and ready to be dumped at sea. Karamatsov probably knew about it and when the Night of The War came and he suddenly had his wish—power—he took the cannister to use as a sort of ace-in-the-hole. But he couldn’t have gotten something that size into North America without the Soviet Army learning about it and Natalia’s uncle, General Varakov, learning of it through channels. Varakov wouldn’t have stood for a poison gas stolen from his own government being the private ultimate weapon for Karamatsov. And Karamatsov was well aware of the theories regarding a conflagration of the atmosphere—which eventually came to pass—or some other disaster scenario. Which sparked his initial interest in the Womb, the crvoeenic

  chambers and the serum, which is what saved our lives.

  “If it is a gas, and something extraordinarily deadly,” Rourke said, looking at Michael, then at Hartman, “he put it away for a rainy day. And he put it away in Egypt because he didn’t want it anywhere near him but he wanted it someplace easily located. Consider the possibilities. If a full blown nuclear winter had come about, it could have precipitated an ice age prematurely. As glaciers advance, as the icecaps increase in size, terrain features are altered. He wouldn’t have wanted his cannister buried under tons of granite somewhere and to complicate that, polar shifts might have made terrestrial orienting less than accurate, which occurred of course to a minor degree. He couldn’t have buried it north, even if he hadn’t been worried about glaciation. If he’d buried it in Russia, it wouldn’t have been a secret. Same for Canada and the United States. China was out of the question—Russia was fighting a land war with China and all across Europe with what remained of NATO.

  “Africa or South America were the logical choices. But again, finding it might be difficult and getting it in and eventually getting it out could have proven a pretty rugged situation.

  “But he was familiar with North Africa,” Rourke went on, “from his work with terrorists. He had the most accurate geographic data available on Egypt from the days when the Egyptians had courted the Soviets and so on. And, Egypt afforded something that no other location possessed. The Great Pyramid. Thousands of tons, it wasn’t about to be blown away. It would have taken eons, not centuries, for sand to cover it or wear it down. It wouldn’t burn if the skies caught fire. It’s about the most permanent thing on earth, really. And, he could get the tank of gas pretty

  close to where he wanted to put it without taking the cannister from the vessel in which it was already berthed. The Suez Canal. Regular sky cranes were probably used to transport it and conventional earth moving equipment, or maybe some skillful demolitions, dug the hole. And, he had the ancillary advantage that if the cannister sprung a leak, who would know about it except the people he had working on the project, and he could have them eliminated if it came to that. Probably did have them eliminated anyway. There was a great tradition for that in the desert. The ones who buried the Pharoah were killed by the priests and the priests had their tongues cut out so they couldn’t talk. Karamatsov probably carried that philosophy a step further—had his Elite Corps personnel kill the ones who killed the workers.

  “But,” Rourke sighed, studying the tip of his cigar, then looking at Michael, then from Michael to Captain Hartman, “that doesn’t bring us any closer to what we really need to know, even if I’m anywhere close to being correct. Because we don’t know the nature of the gas, assuming it is a gas, and so we don’t know how to guard against it if it can be guarded against. But I’d opt for gas—if he uses it against the Underground City as it appears he intends, a gas will dissipate, become harmless after a time. A bacteria that could have survived five centuries might not be so easily neutralized.”

  “What do we do, then?”

  “We go inside Karamatsov’s camp and find out.” “Aww shit,” Michael said, almost under his breath. John Rourke laughed. “Your mother hates it when you swear—she always blames me.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Portable radar units were positioned in the rocks surrounding the dry river bed in which they encamped, the vehicles camouflaged against casual aerial observation beneath a portion of the canyon wall which jutted angularly toward the gray late afternoon sky. The helicopters from the advance base in Norway were due in soon to the area, and Hammerschmidt’s men just arrived, and with them Fraulein Doctor Maria Leuden. John Rourke noticed how she looked at his son.

  Natalia had produced statistics—estimated troop strengths, numbers of vehicles and also photographs made by something like the Polaroid process, instantly developed, the camera part of the gear they had taken along for their mission of intelligence gathering which had so suddenly turned into a mission of warfare.

  “For some reason, those greenhouses are important to Vladimir—I just have the feeling, John,” she concluded.

  Rourke took up his knife from beside him and handed it to Natalia. “Draw it out for me—it’ll show us better than the pictures if we see it from your perspective.”

  Natalia began to scratch with Rourke’s Gerber in

  the dirt there that formed the floor of the overhang, the stark whiteness of fingers of drifted snow almost seeming to make the soil appear as dark as a blackboard. “The tunnel leading into the Underground City is here and to the right of it, when viewed from where we were, is the airfield. Vladmir’s positions are about here. And the second element is positioned here, directly opposite the entrance. But the third element extends at a bizarre angle, its furthest reach putting it in jeopardy from the defenses, but it approaches these rectangles—the greenhouses.”

  John Rourke closed his eyes.

  He listened as Hammerschmidt spoke. “Could there be, perhaps, some entrance underground from the greenhouses to the Underground City? Perhaps a service tunnel for electricity and water.”

  “It might be the only logical conclusion, Herr Doctor,” Hartman added.

  Lieutenant Milton Schmidt’s voice: “Perhaps there is something, Herr Doctor Rourke, that exists in the greenhouses which is vital to the Marshal Karamatsov and he has extended his offensive line deliberately in order to facilitate a small group of commandoes reaching the greenhouses with minimum losses.”

  John Rourke opened his eyes.

  Michael spoke. “Perhaps everyone is right. Perhaps there is some sort of access tunnel, perhaps not. But if it isn’t a tunnel, perhaps there is a ventilator shaft or something. What if Karamatsov plans to somehow utilize the contents of that huge cylinder—assuming the contents to be a gas—by means of something in those greenhouses?”

  John Rourke exhaled a thin gray stream of tobacco smoke and looked at his son, smiling. “You’re a very clever fellow.”

  “Much as is his father,” Natalia laughed.

  John Rourke looked at her and grinned.

  “To quote Michael, ‘Perhaps everyone is right.’ Even Michael. If Karamatsov has gas, he needs to use it. Can’t flush it down the tunnel and hope it drifts inside. And what if some of his own people get killed in the pr
ocess or incapacitated at least? The gas is useless unless he can employ it. Let’s suppose that Karamatsov runs true to form—one plan backing up another.” Rourke looked at Hammerschmidt. “When you and Michael insinuated yourselves into the^group of technicians, then were forced to steal the truck after you were found out, he wasn’t able to stop the truck until you guys were almost right at the Underground City’s front door. He couldn’t have planned on your doing that. And, like as not, you tipped his hand long before he was ready. And, you probably blew his scenario for using the gas—his primary scenario. Hypothetical question—let’s say you have this gas and want to use it against the enemy but it’s so dangerous you don’t want to be anywhere near it; how do you do it?”

  “Herr Doctor?”

  “Lieutenant Schmidt—please sir.”

  “I would, I believe, infiltrate my agents, place cannisters of the gas in strategic locations and utilize radio detonation, or timers, to disperse the gas.”

  Rourke smiled at the young officer. “So would I. So would Karamatsov. Michael and your captain inadvertently prohibited him from doing so. He now falls back to plan B. That’s the way the good marshal thinks.”

  “If there is a ventilation system or something similar,” Natalia began.

  “Then he would need to send a group of commandoes forward from the farthest forward point of his third line, and the third line would be close enough to

  provide a heavy volume of covering fire, and—”

  “And,” Rourke interrupted Hammerschmidt, “he would achieve his intended original result. Get the gas released into the Underground City.”

  “We could send in a team of our own people,” Natalia said, as if to herself, Rourke watching her. “If we could infiltrate without them knowing it, be waiting to intercept their personnel—then.” She looked up. “Or am I missing the strategic objective?”

  Hammerschmidt cleared his throat. “Fraulein Major—militarily, it might seem advisable for us to avoid interference with Marshal Karamatsov’s plan. We fight the Soviet Union. If he destroys the occupants of its capital, its nerve center, he might inadvertently be assisting in the achievement of our final goal.”