Survivalist - 12 - The Rebellion

by Ahern, Jerry

  But Madison was always raised to be a polite girl and not to be rude. So, as she held the derringer just below the man’s left eye, she smiled and said, “Thank you both so very much.” Neither said, “You’re welcome” or anything even remotely like that.

  She was cold—and she felt horribly embarrassed, sitting there trussed into the seat of the Russian helicopter, unable to move, unable to pull her clothes into position. She had no idea how long Forrest Blackburn had been gone—but she found herself wishing for his return. She was powerless to free herself—and if he were not to return, she would die here, strapped into this seat with her clothes up to her crotch and her panties pulled down. She would simply die of starvation or exposure—or perhaps the new world held other terrors she couldn’t imagine. For him to violate her, he would have to free her—at least she assumed that he would.

  And then she would have a chance. Maybe.

  She kept repeating to herself that even though soon her last name would be Rubenstein, inside she would always be a Rourke. And a Rourke never gave up. She squinted her eyes shut—if she could concentrate on something besides fear and the cold, she would be all right, she knew.

  She pictured Paul’s face. It was a good face. She realized she was smiling. Someday the thinning hair would probably be gone and there would only be a fringe of hair and she could kid him about being bald and rub the top of his head and tell him she was shining it for him.

  She wondered how it would be to make love.

  Paul—he had told her one night, when he had spoken to her and there had been no light at all by which to see his face, that he had never.

  She wanted—she wanted to give herself to him, not after

  someone had taken her.

  Annie Rourke opened her eyes suddenly—she had seen Forrest Blackburn in her mind and now he stood beside the bubble, opening the passenger side door. “Miss me, Annie?”

  “Go to hell,” she snapped as he undid the gag.

  “No, I found my supplies. We’ll fly there now. Should take us about two minutes or so. Then we load up.” He rested his right hand on her naked right thigh and she tried to recoil from him but couldn’t. “And then we’re off to old mother Russia. And by the time we get there, Annie—well. You’d better decide. Either you warm up to me or you’re dead—and I’ll make sure it’s very unpleasantly dead.”

  She wanted to tell him—go ahead, kill me now. She

  didn’t. She said nothing. She had something else inside her

  that was a part of being a Rourke—patience. She focused

  her attention on Natalia. Natalia would know what to do.

  Annie had learned that her mind, in ways she had always

  heard were impossible, could what could not be

  seen. She remembered the dream of Michael in danger. And he had been.

  Annie Rourke closed her eyes—she tried to see Natalia. Natalia would know. And after a while, she felt the pressure of Blackburn’s hand gone from her thigh and heard the whirring of the rotor blades. In her mind, she thought she saw Natalia, wearing a once-pretty black dress. But there was white powder on the dress and the dress was somehow torn from the hem to the waist. Natalia—Annie focused her mind on one thought. Natalia …

  Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna, regretting for the moment her abilities, walked ahead of the seven others. Frau Sturm carried one of the healthy if somewhat small twin

  girls, Hugo the other one. Sarah Rourke towed along the other two Sturm children, Bertol and Willy—her wounded arm in a makeshift sling. John Rourke and Wolfgang Mann carried the stretcher—it was plastic and inflatable, making a transparent air mattress with an integral pillow which was supported by lightweight stretcher rods made of some type of high tensile-strength aluminum she guessed. On the stretcher was Helene Sturm. She had delivered two babies.

  And Natalia, because of her abilities, had let the other two women carry babies or shepherd the children while she carried a gun.

  Barefoot still, she moved along the tunnel, her stride no longer impeded by the dress she wore—the skirt, slit with her knife from hem to waist to give freedom of movement during the fight with the guards in the first basement, was stained with plaster dust now.

  In her hands she held one of the German assault pistols—it was a decent weapon, but the magazine capacity was too small for selective fire, she thought, even with the enforced three-shot burst control.

  And she had never liked weapons with built-in burst control. Somehow the feel wasn’t right.

  And she knew a great deal about the feel of weapons, moreso than the feel of babies. She looked back once—the infants, wrapped in towels taken from the torture chamber where Helene Sturm had delivered them, were so tiny and fragile.

  Natalia had watched as John Rourke had brought the babies from Helene Sturm’s body, watched the pain in Helene Sturm’s eyes, and the joy there too.

  She envied other women—their fragility and their strength. She kept walking.

  Over her head, pipes ran, the pipes steaming, the air around her cold as she walked ahead. “Up ahead, there,

  Fraulein Major—take the turn to the right,” Wolfgang Mann called from behind her.

  By the dim light of the bare, bulblike fixtures overhead interlaced between the pipes, Natalia began following the tunnel where it forked to the right.

  Troops had been coming as Wolfgang Mann—Natalia had carried the stretcher with John Rourke until they had entered the tunnel—had led them to the far end of the second basement. A panel of concrete blocks moved on weights when Mann had inserted a bayonet into one of the seams between the blocks. And they had passed through into the tunnel. Then with John Rourke helping, the stretcher set down, Frau Mann and Hugo holding the twin girls, Mann had pushed the panel of blocks back into position. She had lent her own strength to it as well.

  Mann had explained, smiling in the light of the hand torches which were necessary in that portion of the tunnel because there was no overhead light, that all construction was supervised by the army engineers and he had been able to have the secret passageway built into the foundation.

  They had climbed for some time—the younger boys tiring, their capture and subsequent rescue taking its toll— the tunnel rising sharply. There had been another panel of concrete blocks that had to be moved aside and they had entered the service tunnel where water, electrical power and communications lines were run. Closing the panel as they had the first one, they had moved ahead, Mann warning that troops could have anticipated them and be waiting along the tunnel.

  Barefoot except for the stockings which were little better than shredded now, she was grateful that animal life—at least here—was gone. Because the tunnel would otherwise have been infested with rats. Dark beyond the dull glow of the lights spaced every fifty yards or so, damp, warm enough.

  She kept walking, and the tunnel bend stopped at another block wall.

  “This is the last of the panels,” Wolfgang Mann called from behind her.

  She could hear John telling Frau Sturm in what sounded to her to be perfect German to rest easily, that all would be well. She heard the click of John Rourke’s boots as he approached. Mann was beside him. In Mann’s hand was the bayonet that had been secured to his left shin with strips of elastic. He operated one of the hand torches, scanning along the seams between the blocks. “Ahh— here,” he murmured, as if speaking to himself, inserting the tip of the bayonet—it was similar to those used with the M-16, she noted mechanically—and prying. The concrete blocks began to move, as though somehow an irregularly shaped section were being cut from a chessboard.

  Natalia threw her weight to it, as did John Rourke, and the panel moved move rapidly.

  “Let’s go,” John Rourke whispered, running back toward Frau Sturm and the stretcher. Mann ran behind him, Natalia stepping through the opening in the wall surface— a cave, at the end or mouth perhaps a hundred yards distant, gray light. She moved the muzzle of the machine pistol left and right against
the darkness. There was no movement.

  “Come ahead,” she whispered into the opening behind her.

  John, carrying the base of the stretcher, Frau Sturm— Rourke had given her a B-Complex shot and a mild sedative as a relaxant—and then Wolfgang Mann, his handsome face in sharp contrast to the stained and ill-fitting old man’s clothes he wore.

  The stretcher was set down again as Frau Mann and Hugo passed through carrying the mercifully silent newborns. Then Sarah with Willy and Bertol. Then with John

  Rourke and Wolfgang Mann, Natalia worked her weight against the panel of blocks, pushing it back into place.

  For some reason, she began thinking of Annie.

  What a wonderful young woman Annie had become.

  They began moving through the cave, Natalia again taking the point. Mann called out, “Just outside, we travel up a path and then into the trees. There is a cave concealed there where there is safety.”

  Natalia nodded only, her eyes adjusting to the gray light—it must be sunset, she thought absently.

  Annie.

  For some reason, Natalia thought back to her youth. She had been on her first assignment with Vladmir, in Latin America. They had been working through Communist sympathizers who were heavily involved in the cocaine trade. She had asked Vladmir about the morality of this— serving the people of the world by dealing with such men. He had shrugged it off as necessity. But she had made a mistake—and she had fallen into the hands of the cocaine dealers and one of them had made no secret of his intention of raping her. Then he would kill her and explain that her body had been discovered, that she had been murdered by the secret police of the established government.

  Natalia remembered the feel of his breath on her face. He had told her that if she were good to him, he would see to it that she died well. If not—if she resisted—she would die very hard.

  She had done the only thing logic and training had dictated. She had made him feel good, aroused him and just prior to penetration, she had murdered him with his own knife. Then, her clothes torn from her body, nearly naked, she had taken up his assault rifle and fought it out with his three henchmen, killing them all and escaping in a stolen truck.

  For the life of her now, Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna could not imagine why, after so many years, she had thought of this while walking through a cave.

  And for some reason again, she thought of Annie.

  She could hear John Rourke, his voice little over a whisper, “After we reach this other cave, then Wolf, Natalia—the three of us—we’ll go to to free Deiter Bern. It’s now or never.”

  There was wisdom in his words. The Nazis would never expect them to attack so soon after the raid on the new government building.

  But her thoughts—they drifted again to Annie Rourke and, suddenly, Natalia was unreasonably cold.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The detention area was one side of a gothic-looking structure of twin towers located at the exact center of The Complex, the first official building erected there five centuries ago.

  John Rourke sat, reloading the magazines for his pistols, at the mouth of the cave hidden at the fringe of the jungle, Wolfgang Mann sitting opposite him. Both men had changed to SS dark gray BDUs Mann had ordered brought there to the cave along with other supplies. Rourke was convinced of one thing—Mann was terribly thorough. While Natalia changed at the rear portion of the cave, after reminding the boys to keep their voices down, lest they be heard, Rourke and Mann discussed their predicament. Mann sketched out once again the structure of the detention area, with a stick in the dirt between their feet.

  “So the only entrance to the building is through the courtyard at the center, one gate at the front and one gate at the back.”

  “That is correct, Herr Doctor. And entering from the front as we must because the rear gates are not used, it is then somehow necessary to enter the building at the left side of the courtyard. When you first view the twin towers, do not be mistaken by their antique appearance. The exteriors are quite medieval, but the interiors are thoroughly modern. The walls on both the outside and the

  interior are cylindrical. In the tower at the very top is the detention area for political prisoners such as Deiter Bern. He is the only one there now unless new arrests have been made since I departed with the expeditionary force. It is fourteen floors above the level of the ground. But I like your idea for escaping once Deiter Bern is freed.”

  “It’s the only way.” Rourke nodded. “This vehicle— freshly stolen?”

  “Yes, it will not be recognized as stolen from the internal security forces.”

  “But the guards will recognize your face, know that Natalia and I aren’t in the SS.”

  “By then the gate will be opened.” Mann smiled. “And we have weapons. Remember, Herr Doctor, it is not important that I survive. What is important is that you reach the fourteenth level of the tower and free Dieter Bern, you and Major Tiemerovna, and then get him from the tower to the communications center which is across the street. On the ground floor, there are guards. There is the high staircase which leads to the upper level. There, the communications facility is actually located—television and radio. The engineering controls are there as well. Major Tiemerovna, you are certain, can operate these controls if necessary?”

  “She’s very good at electronics. Don’t worry. It’s getting there that’s hard, and fast enough that they don’t cut the power on us. Where should the leader be?”

  “After one has entered the courtyard, the building on the right is his headquarters. It is also where he lives. It is very secure, the twin towers.”

  Rourke started to speak—but he turned, Natalia approaching. Her hair was caught up under the peaked BDU cap, her uniform identical to theirs except that it buttoned to the left, as women’s clothing normally did. At her waist was a bolstered German machine pistol. Slung from her right shoulder, the uniform purse—he knew why it appeared so heavy.

  John Rourke stood. “Ready?” “Yes.” And Natalia laughed.

  The vehicle was electrically powered, little larger than the golf carts of five centuries earlier and Wolfgang Mann was at the wheel, Rourke sitting beside him, Natalia in the seat behind, the warmth of the air in the open top vehicle a good sensation.

  The vehicle slowed, The Complex main entrance guard quadrupled since Rourke had passed it on the way to the new government building to free Helene Sturm.

  Two guards approached the vehicle on Wolfgang Mann’s side. Rourke’s hands were between his legs—he sat on one of the twin Detonics .45s and his hands were within inches of it.

  The closer of the two guards, his voice loud, filled with authority, proclaimed, “Papers!”

  Wolfgang Mann handed over a folded set of documents, and as the man who had spoken a second earlier took them, Rourke could hear the man’s hushed whisper, “All is in readiness, Herr Standartenfuehrer—the signal has been received.”

  “Very good, Hartman,” Mann whispered.

  And then the voice of the guard was raised once again. “These papers are in order—allow this vehicle to pass,” and the papers were returned. Mann eased the controls and the electric vehicle glided ahead.

  Mann, not turning his head, said over the wind around them, “We are fortunate my men were able to insert themselves as planned. Hartman—he is my most trusted captain—he transferred to my unit from SS security two years ago. When I gave the radio signal for the attack to begin, he carried out the first phase personally as instructed. We are fortunate he was successful in taking over the guard barracks located by the main entrance. Other

  wise …” Mann let it hang.

  John Rourke moved the little Detonics from beneath him. A fine gun to shoot but uncomfortable to sit on. He didn’t like being dependent on good fortune—because it had never been anything on which to depend …

  Mann’s troops had not moved beyond taking the main entrance. It was the plan that they hold the front entrance under the guise of the SS secu
rity team and go no further lest word reach the leader and Deiter Bern’s immediate execution be ordered.

  It was a good plan as plans went for insanely dangerous activities, Rourke mused as again the vehicle slowed. Once again, the Detonics mini gun was beneath his rear end. He glanced down between his feet. The gray canvaslike bag contained his musette bag, the second Detonics Combat Master, the two Scoremasters, the Python, the Gerber (the A.G. Russell Sting IA Black Chrome was beneath his uniform) and, more important than the weapons, his medical gear. Clamps for the artery. The scalpel for the incision. The small forceps for removal of the capsule which contained the electrode and the explosive charge which would release the curarelike synthetic into Bern’s bloodstream.

  And he knew the contents of Natalia’s bag—her revolvers, spare magazines for the machine pistol, and more important than her weapons, the lock pick set which she would use to remove the shackle from Bern’s neck after the operation was completed.

  On the seat between Rourke and Wolfgang Mann was another gray canvaslike bag identical to Rourke’s, and Rourke knew the contents there as well, like the medical equipment and the uniforms, brought to the cave by military personnel loyal to Wolfgang Mann. The special gear needed to cross the booby-trapped room, special gear

  Rourke had requested of Mann after agreeing to go with him to Argentina and attempt the rescue of Deiter Bern.

  The vehicle stopped, the gates to the twin towers and the courtyard closed. They should not have been. “We have trouble,” Mann murmured.

  It was a trouble Rourke was well familiar with.

  “We cannot crash through the gates with such a vehicle. And I will be recognized as soon as the guards approach.”

  “Follow my lead,” John Rourke almost whispered.

  His hands moved closer to his crotch, so he could reach for the small Detonics pistol he sat on. He cleared his throat three times in rapid succession. It was a signal to Natalia.

  She cleared her throat twice in response. The guards approached.