by Jerry Ahern
Natalia, prone on the floor, legs spread wide, the butt of an M-16 snugged to her shoulder called, “Ready to fire.”
Lieutenant Daszrozinski—Vladov had selected him as the best man to use the Dragunov—was by the other side of the corridor, prone as well. “I am ready also.”
Rourke positioned himself behind Natalia, standing, leaning his body into the wall for added support. “Ready—Vladov—call the shots.”
“Yes, Doctor,” and Vladov addressed the pitchers. “Gentle-men, take your first one pound balls—we will fire in volleys. On my signal.” Vladov addressed the men providing covering fire.
“At the count of three, provide the suppressive fire. One—two—three!”
Gunfire, the roar of it deafening, Rourke feeling it as hot brass pelted against the exposed flesh of his neck, his face, his forearms. Then Vladov’s voice, “Pitchers—ready—prepare to throw—throw!”
Rourke saw the first grey blur, arcing high toward one of the upper level mezzanines, Rourke settling the Colt scope’s reti-cle, snapping the trigger—it was shotgunning, not rifling, he realized.
There was an explosion, then another and another.
Two more balls of the plastique, Rourke hitting a second, another explosion, then one of the balls landing near the base of the lower mezzanine. There was a burst of full auto fire from in front of him, the ball of plastique exploding, chunks of the mezzanine structures were collapsing now, fires burn-ing, glass shattered on the floor everywhere.
Vladov shouted, “Cease fire.”
The mezzanines were for upper level corridors—each corri-dor, Rourke realized, teeming with more of the KGB person-nel. “Aim for the mezzanines themselves—we make ‘em so they can’t be crossed, we can slow ‘em down,” Rourke shouted.
Vladov’s voice. “There you have it, gentlemen, we must do better. Pitchers ready. Marksmen, we are ready.”
“Ready,” Rourke called.
“Ready,” Daszrozinski snapped.
“Ready,” Natalia answered.
“Suppressive fire—on three. One—two—three!”
Again the roar of automatic weapons fire, the hot brass fly-ing, Rourke settling himself, a deeper breath, letting part of it out, holding the rest. A blur of grey, toward the upper level mezzanine, “Mine,” Rourke shouted, settling the scope’s reti-cle, firing, the explosion making a fireball in mid-air, part of the upper level mezzanine outwall blown away.
Another blur and another, Daszrozinski’s Dragunov firing, then Natalia’s M-16. Two more, Rourke firing, Daszrozinski shouting, “I have the one on the left!” Rourke and Daszro-zinski fired simultaneously, both balls of plastique exploding in mid-air, the upper level mezzanines shuddering, a section of floor in the top mezzanine collapsing, crashing downward to the floor, screams, shouts of panic from the Soviets occupying the positions below. “We did it,”
Daszrozinski shouted. “We did it!”
“Make for the garage doors now,” Rourke shouted. “Vla-dov, Natalia, run for it,”
He glanced to the pitchers. “Guys, throw ‘em hard right and fast—Daszrozinski and I’ll get
‘em—Lieutenant—let’s go for it! “Rourke shouted.
“Yes, Doctor Rourke!”
Rourke settled the CAR-15, waiting, the first grey blur—he fired—another and another, Rourke and Daszrozinski’s weap-ons firing continuously, semi-automatic only, most of the balls exploding in mid-air. More gunfire from beside him—the men who had been providing suppressive fire were potshotting the plastique balls Rourke and Daszrozinski had missed, chunks of flooring rising up, collapsing downward, screams, the gun-fire from the KGB
positions sporadic now. Rourke shifted his right eye from the scope, squinting it closed, opening it, searching for Natalia and Vladov. They were beside the garage door nearest, planting charges, one on each side. Rourke shouted to the men beside him, “Keep pourin’ in the lead — we gotta cover Natalia and the captain—hustle!”
Rourke let the CAR-15 drop to his side, swinging forward one of the M-16s —on full auto, he made it spit death.
Chapter Forty-six
Reed and Sergeant Dressier had planted plastique charges—five pounds apiece—to each side of the corridor wall, the rear guard called in, joining the others as they ran for the garage door, no fire coming from the mezzanines now, only gunfire from the mouth of the corridor where a large KGB force—Daszrozinski had recognized Rozhdest-venskiy leading them—was starting an attack. Rourke hus-tled the others ahead of him, staying behind at the end of the corridor, getting as far back from it as he could, gunfire hammering toward him now as the KGB assault force ran the length of the corridor, at least fifty of them to the best he could count.
Twenty-five yards from the end of the corridor, Rourke swung his M-16 forward, spraying it laterally from left to right, cutting a swatch across the corridor, hitting first the charge to his left, then the charge to his right, then letting the gun fall to his side, running, a fireball belching from the corridor toward him—but it would belch toward the mouth of the corridor as well, and likely make the corridor impass-able. He ran on, two more explosions now from ahead, smaller ones, both sides of the garage door buckling.
The smoke cleared as Rourke reached the door. Already, Reed, Vladov, and men from both the U.S. and Soviet con-tingents were working to raise the door.
Rourke threw his left shoulder to it, heaving, the door starting up, Natalia beside him, pushing against the garage door—it was up. And inside were a half dozen golf carts, connected to charging units. And, a Ford pickup truck, olive drab in color. And a solitary motorcycle. There were other cycles, but these really motorized scooters. But only one cycle. Rourke liked Harleys, but some of the Japanese bikes were very good. And the one real motorcycle inside the garage was a fire engine red Kawasaki Ninja.
“All right,” Rourke whispered. “All right!”
He looked behind them. The corridor was still in flames.
He looked back to the bike. It was a racing machine— fast, responsive, perhaps one of the KGB
officers had ‘liber-ated it’ from some showroom or some garage. Perhaps it belonged to Rozhdestvenskiy himself.
If the latter were the case, so much the better.
He looked to Reed and Vladov. “Gentlemen, like they say, start your engines. Let’s get all these electric carts roll-ing. We can use them to block off corridors with the help of a little plastique. The truck—that can haul the bulk of us. I’ll take the bike.”
“Just like horsemounted cavalry,” Natalia murmured.
Rourke looked at her. “You’ve got it.”
He approached the fire engine red Ninja, the Kawasaki GPz900R, water cooled with transverse four-cylinder en-gine would redline in top gear at 145 mph or better. It was capable of doing a quarter mile from a standing start in under twelve seconds reaching speeds in excess of 120 mph.
For outdistancing the electric carts, he judged it would be adequate.
“Should we sabotage the other garages. Perhaps there are more trucks there?” Rourke looked to Vladov.
“I’m sorry—”
“I asked—”
“Ohh—no. No time. Just put charges on the doors and blow the opening mechanisms—that’ll slow them down. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Rourke, what the hell you plannin’ on doin’ with that bike?”
Rourke looked at Reed. “Riding it, soon as I hotwire it so she’ll run.” There was the roar of an engine and Rourke looked around. Natalia, a smudge of oil on her right cheek, bent up from under the hood of the Ford pickup. Rourke started to work on the GPz900R Ninja.
But on a hunch, after a second, he felt along under the faring — his right hand stopped. One of the little magnetized boxes. He opened it. “The key,” Rourke said to himself.
He shifted off his pack, tossing it into the rear bed of the pickup. “Natalia, you drive the truck. I’ll stay right with you.”
Rourke handed her the CAR-15 and one of t
he M-16s and she placed them into the truck.
For safety sake, he removed the Colt’s magazine, jacking out the round chambered in the .45
and replacing the round in the magazine, then reinserting the magazine up the well. He snapped the trigger, letting the hammer fall over the empty chamber, returning the pistol to his waistband.
He mounted the Ninja, bringing the bright red bike’s en-gine to life, the machine vibrating between his legs, throb-bing, ready to spring ahead. Reed’s men were operating the electric golf carts, Vladov’s men riding shotgun with them, Reed and Vladov in the truck bed with the rest of the men.
“Ready?”
“I placed the charges,” Vladov nodded. “Daszrozinski and I.”
Rourke nodded. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” and very slowly he let the Ninja out.
Chapter Forty-seven
Revnik turned to look at Rozhdestvenskiy. “They have sabotaged all of the garage doors, Comrade Colonel, six of our men were killed in attempting to open them—trip wires and—”
Rozhdestvenskiy snarled, “Shut up, Major. The contents of the third garage—”
“Nothing was harmed, Comrade Colonel, but the door is destroyed and blocks the—”
“Have the door removed. The assault vans, my car, the motorcycles—I want them out of there—now. Not five minutes from now—now!”
Rozhdestvenskiy turned and walked toward the first ga-rage. The Ford pickup truck which had been inside would be of little consequence. He doubted with all of the pollu-tion control equipment it was capable of any great speed. The electric cars—golf carts—would have been taken to form corridor barricades as Rourke, Major Tiemerovna and the others fought their way toward the cryogenics labo-ratory at the heart of the Womb. If they took the most direct route, they would have four miles to travel. An indirect route would consume as many as twenty miles, the passages winding as they did from one level to another.
But the motorcycle was very fast. There had been no room for it in the third garage where his car was kept and so he had left it in the first garage. He mentally scourged him-self for the laxness.
All about him was rubble, the terraced mezzanines which formed connecting bridges from one side of the mountain to the other in this section of the Womb complex were destroyed. More than one hundred and fifty of his men were dead or critically injured.
Their goals would be twofold—to destroy the cryogenics equipment, perhaps to steal some of it for themselves. And to destroy the particle beam weapons atop the mountain.
“Revnik!”
Rozhdestvenskiy turned around, calling to his aide.
“Yes, Comrade Colonel?”
“Revnik. You will finish your duties here as quickly as possible, then take one hundred men to the access corridor leading to the particle beam installations atop the moun-tain. I estimate that the force will split into two groups—of necessity if nothing else. Your force will anticipate this, lie in wait and when a portion of the invasion group makes their way to the particle beam weapons, you will counter them, destroy them. I will personally command the motor-cycle detachment and the assault vans, to cut them off at the cryogenics laboratory. They cannot be more than five min-utes ahead of us and I can take my force by the most direct route. Do not hesitate to call up reinforcements should they be required. I want all but the American doctor and Major Tiemerovna dead. If there is any way, these two individuals should you encounter them are to be brought to me.”
Revnik saluted. “Yes, Comrade Major.”
“Yes,” Rozhdestvenskiy nodded.
He began to walk toward the third garage, the doorway nearly moved aside now, reaching it, picking his way over the rubble beside the door, over the remains of bodies blown to bits and pieces.
But his car was perfect. He stared at it a moment.
He had had the country scoured for one that was both intact and had all of the equipment he needed. The Pontiac Firebird Trans-Am black, the interior black as well. Rather than the standard engine, the 308 cubic inch V-8 had the high output option, giving it 190 horsepower. Five speed transmission. He had found the best mechanic in the Womb and had the engine modified for even greater speed. Be-cause of that, fuel economy was nil, but the Firebird would hit 150 miles per hour and stay there if it had to. There were two sets of keys for it, one locked in the wall safe in his of-fice. The other in his hand now as he approached it. The suspension had been built up. The car was not armored, but the original equipment glass had been replaced by bullet re-sistant glass, dark tinted, nearly matching the black body of the car.
He opened the door, climbing into the cockpit, strapping himself in with the lap and shoulder restraint. He placed the key in the ignition, working the combination lock so he could start the machine. He turned the key—the engine roared to life ahead of him, around him. A case rested on the seat next to him—he opened it. Inside was the Uzi sub-machinegun, with it in neat compartments cut into the styrofoam were four thirty-two round magazines.
He depressed the top round in each of the magazines, get-ting the feel for the spring pressure.
It seemed adequate. He flicked on the radio hitting the PA switch. “This is Rozhdestvenskiy. I wish the twelve members of the motorcycle force to ride before me in a wedge, two man center, fifty yards ahead. I wish the four assault vans to follow behind me—two abreast. We shall follow the most direct route to the cryogenics laboratory. In the event that we should encounter the doctor or Major Tiemerovna, they are to be taken alive if at all possible so that I may deal with them personally. Rourke doubtlessly is riding my motorcycle—he has a passion for these machines. If my motorcycle must be destroyed in order to apprehend or kill him, it is of no concern. I shall advise you of my or-ders via the public address system. Move out in sixty sec-onds—from now.”
He set down the microphone, closing the driver’s side door, locking it, revving the huge V-8, the stick in neutral.
One by one, twelve of his Elite KGB Force mounted their specially selected, specially tuned Honda Gold Wings. In the rearview mirror, he could see the vans filling with their personnel, the roof panels opening, the RPK light machine-guns being elevated into position.
The bikes were starting.
He stomped the heavy duty clutch and slipped into first gear, deactivating the parking brake, feeding gasoline to the machine.
He glanced to his watch.
Forty-five seconds. All his men were mounted. “We shall take the left outside the garage and then the first right into the main traffic corridor. Maintain constant speed of fifty miles per hour until further notice.” The sweep second hand of the Gold Rolex President reached the twelve.
“Move out!”
The bikes, two by two left the garage, the rumble of the machines almost deafening, the sound of his own mighty engine almost lost. He made the left, the wedge of one dozen KGB bikers ahead of him forming, his speedometer needle to fifty, staying there.
He always considered himself to have a flair for the dra-matic, noting it as the four assault vans turned out of the garage and closed behind him into the formation. He reached across to the glove compartment and took from it a cassette tape, punching it into the deck, flipping the switch for the PA interlock so the tape would play out through the PA system yet he could cut it off when he spoke to issue commands.
The song the tape began to play was the Soviet national anthem.
Chapter Forty-eight
They had finished mining the last of the electric golf carts. According to the information Natalia’s uncle had provided, they were at the terminus of the underground and aboveground passageways. They had encountered resist-ance along the way but had been able to shoot their way past.
Nine of Reed’s men survived along with Reed. Ten of Vla-dov’s men.
Rourke, Natalia beside him, stood overlooking Natalia and Vladov’s handiwork with the last of the golf carts.
Reed spoke. “If this is the terminus between the cryogen-ics lab and the particle beam i
nstallation, then this is where we part company, Rourke. We’re runnin’ out of time. All this creep Rozhdestvenskiy has to do is get lucky and inter-cept us in one of the passageways with a vastly superior force and we’re goners. I’m taking my men up top to knock out the particle beam weapons.”
“My assigned task, I believe,” Vladov said, “is the de-struction of the cryogenics laboratory.”
“If either group is successful,” Natalia began, “The KGB master plan will be severely damaged.”
“If both groups are successful, we’ll knock ‘em out of the box,” Rourke nodded. “All right, we split up. Natalia and I are heading for the cryogenics lab—if somehow I can get some of those cryogenic chambers and enough of the se-rum, well—maybe there’s a chance for my family to survive this. I’ll give you the location of the Retreat, Reed—you can—”
“I’m never getting out of here alive. I walked in here knowing that. I think Captain Vladov feels the same way. The more of these KGB assholes we kill, well, the bigger the smile on my face when the bullet finds me.”
“My sentiments as well, Colonel,” Vladov smiled.
“You can’t say that,” Rourke told Reed. “You might make it out—”
“I’d head back for Texas if I did. KGB units and Army units under their control should be pounding hell out of our boys right now.”
“And I,” Vladov smiled. “Someone must stay behind to destroy all that is in here, so that if some of mankind does survive, no one will be able to use this place and the material here to establish himself as a dictator. No, once the primary mission is finished, we shall continue to sabotage all that can be destroyed here in the Womb.”
Rourke extended his hand to Reed. “I won’t lie and say I’ve enjoyed knowing you, but I respect you. Good luck, and God bless you, too.” Reed took his hand, nodding, say-ing nothing.
Vladov extended his hand to Reed. “Colonel, I think at least we are fully allies.”
Reed’s eyes flickered, and then he released Rourke’s hand and took Vladov’s. “Captain, my sincerest respect to you, to Lieutenant Daszrozinski, your men. Godspeed, Cap-tain.”