Survivalist - 18 - The Struggle (19 page)

Powerful lights shone from the doorway now. He stabbed the pistol toward one of them, started to fire.

“Akiro? Are you in here? What happened to the lights?”

It was the voice of Mrs. Rourke. “Here!” The pain in his left side seemed to grow worse and he rubbed his left hand across his face, then fell forward …

Two whiskey bottles were shattered, but John would be relieved to know they were the counterfeit ones made for him by the Germans rather than containing real Seagram’s Seven. There was a bullet hole in the back of the couch. There was a bullet hole in the copy of the last issue of Jane’s Infantry Weapons, but only near the outside edge. Some of the natural stone was bullet-pocked, but somehow she was sure John would be able to fix that. And, as for the couch, Annie was a marvelous seamstress and, if she couldn’t repair it, John would just get the Germans to make a new one for him, of course identical to the old one. Heaven forbid anything should be different than he’d originally planned. And the German Corporal was already sweeping up the glass while one of the other two men (the other stood guard outside) was cleaning up the spilled whiskey. Her kitchen—it was John’s kitchen, always had been—smelled like a distillery with the broken whiskey bottles. And the Retreat was freezing cold, but she hadn’t asked for the doors to be closed until they were certain there were no more than the

! eight Nazis. She had turned the lights back on from the master panel. The doors would have to be closed soon, or else the light spilling from the open doorway into the night could attract Soviet helicopters if any of their pilots had the nerve to fly in such a storm.

Akiro Kurinami lay on the floor, a blanket over him and the afghan Annie had crocheted under his head along with one of the couch pillows. His eyelids fluttered. He opened his eyes.

“You’ll be fine. But don’t move. You’ve got a broken rib unless I miss my guess,” she told him. She smoothed his hair back, smiled down at him.

“Did—did I get Rausch, Mrs. Rourke?”

“We got all eight of them. Now, rest, please.”

“Nine—nine!”

Kurinami’s eyes closed and his head fell back. She checked his pulse. He was passed out. His chest began to rise and fall evenly. She realized he hadn’t passed out, just fallen asleep.

“Sarah—does he speak German?”

“I don’t think so, Wolf,” she added, looking up. “You mean what he said?”

“Then why is it he said our word for ‘no’?”

She looked at Kurinami. “Nine men,” she whispered.

The black Marine Spetznas uniform was a decent enough fit, although a little tight in the chest. John Rourke closed the belt at his waist, a Sty-20 in the holster. The belt was too loose, and he cinched it tighter than the buckle imprint in the synthetic leather indicated it was usually worn. Beneath the uniform tunic were his two Detonics Scoremaster .45s. From the floor of the German gunship—he stood on the ground in the snow beside the open fuselage—he took the six-inch-barreled Model 629, holding it in his right fist for a moment. It was a fine gun, but he missed the Python. In fairness, the caliber was superior for his purposes. He slipped the .44 Magnum between the belt and the tunic at the small of his back, holsterless, positioned for a cavalry-style reverse draw. The twin Detonics mini-guns in the double Alessi rig. He slipped the shoulder holster on, then quickly grabbed up the Soviet outerwear, a parkalike jacket with a poorly designed hood offering no facial protection and too long and tight for proper freedom of movement. The Soviet forces under the sea would learn the necessities of surface warfare, given half the chance, he reflected. He hoped they wouldn’t get that chance.

Fifty men, all or most of them burned alive, and from the nature of the fire their deaths were not fast deaths. Perhaps had he gone immediately toward the source of the smoke— Rourke left the coat open, so he could get to his guns. The LS-X knife would have to stay behind, but the little Sting IA black chrome was inside the waistband of his borrowed uniform trousers.

“We’re all ready,” Paul Rubenstein said, coming up behind him. John Rourke nodded as he turned toward the younger man, his fingers running through the inside of the borrowed uniform cap again. Hopefully the Russian hadn’t recently had head lice. Rourke pulled it on. “You look good. Can’t close the coat and get to your guns, right? I got the same problem. I figure I can keep the Schmiesser slung so it stays in the small of my back. Not too fast to get to, but I can get away with it long enough.”

John Rourke looked at the sky. The snow fell, if anything, more heavily. He looked at the black face of his Rolex. If he kept his left arm down, no one would spot that until it was too late. He nodded toward Paul Rubenstein and the two of them walked toward where Jason Darkwood, Sam Aldridge, and a Lance Corporal named Lannigan already waited. Somehow, Aldridge had talked Darkwood into letting him walk at the rear, with his hood up so none of the Marine Spetznas unit would see his decidedly American black skin.

No One had been able to wear the Soviet Sergeant’s uniform without looking obviously an imposter, so it was decided to have five men go in instead of six. The Sergeant was simply too large a man. Rourke had decided to let Darkwood do all the talking, since Darkwood’s Russian sounded more like the Russian spoken by the Marine Spetznas, Rourke’s own Russian having a too decidedly twentieth century flair to it. The situation reminded him of a comparison between the French language as spoken in Canada and in France,

the Canadian version decidedly different.

As they joined Darkwood, Aldridge, and Lannigan, Darkwood said, “I enjoyed that helicopter ride, but it scared me half to death. I’ll take submarines any day, Doctor.” And he looked at the others. “Gentlemen, shall we? I think we all look very convincing in these admittedly rather tacky uniforms. Show time. Our public awaits.” And Darkwood started out of the clearing and into the snow-crusted jungle …

The column of prisoners, ankles eighteen inches or less apart (judging from the shortness of their strides), hands behind their back, ankles and wrists bound in some sort of plastic restraints, Rourke imagined, slogged downward from the highlands toward the coast, through snow that in places looked thigh-deep. Not a man among them wore a coat or hat. Either they were stripped of their clothing as a further means of keeping them under control, or because whoever was in charge of the Marine Spetznas unit herding them toward the Island Classer enjoyed it.

The Soviet personnel, on the other hand, though almost equally weary-looking, were dressed in the same outer gear Rourke and the other imposters wore, and looked perfectly warm.

John Rourke looked at Jason Darkwood. “Captain Darkwood?”

“Yes. It’s about that time, isn’t it?” Darkwood looked at each of them, then started out of the trees, Rourke, Paul Rubenstein beside him, right behind Darkwood, then lance Corporal Lannigan, then Captain Aldridge. “Hoods up, gentlemen—don’t want Sam Aldridge looking any more conspicuous.”

“I’ll remember this if we ever find a colony of black Russians,” Aldridge groused. Rourke considered the concept: Pushkin, the famous Russian poet, was, of

course, black. Perhaps Aldridge was clairvoyant.

And Rourke’s eyes settled on the head of the column. Snow swirled like desert dust devils, blew in sheets like wind-driven rain. There were approximately fifty of the Marine Spetznas. Captain Aldridge’s Marine corps personnel, what few there were, were in positions of concealment just inside the treeline on both sides of the Marine Spetznas unit’s line of march.

Some would have called five men marching into the midst of fifty heavily armed enemy personnel suicidal. Rourke called it necessary.

Rourke slowed his pace, making his steps look more difficult, more laborious, to aid in convincing the Soviet personnel that he and the others had just walked several miles to intercept them. As John Rourke glanced at him, Paul Rubenstein did the same, Lannigan bumping into Rourke, then slowing. Their rifles were slung across their backs, out of easy reach, this to quell any suspicions the Soviet personnel might have. Rourke’s left hand kept his coat closed, his right hand swinging free, the drawstring at the waist of the parka pulled tight, the loose end wound into his left fist. When he needed a gun, it would be easier that way. No grenades could be used, because of the proximity of the prisoners. Once the prisoners realized what was happening, even confined as they were, they might be able to help. But it was more likely some of them would be killed trying.

Darkwood signaled a halt, John Rourke clenching the drawstring more tightly in his left fist. He could hear Darkwood clearly as Darkwood spoke. “Comrade Captain. Our Sergeant fell and broke his neck. To have reached him, Comrade Captain, would have meant possible death for ourselves. He was so big.”

The Marine Spetznas Captain said nothing for a moment, eyed them, then said. “Your name, Corporal.”

“My name. Yes.” Darkwood turned and looked

toward Rourke and the others. “Can you imagine that. He wants my name.”

John Rourke cleared his throat. “Ahh—excuse me, Corporal. May I give it to him?” | “Yes. Go ahead and give it to him,” Darkwood I nodded, stepping slightly aside.

The Marine Spetznas Captain started to reach for his Sty-20 dart gun. John Rourke’s left hand snapped outward, pulling the drawstring tight and the coat back away with it as his right hand snaked toward the small of his back, grabbed the Pachmayr-gripped butt of the six-inch .44 Magnum. Rourke knifed it forward, when it came to eye level, his right first finger already moving the trigger, Rourke saying, “Well, here it is.” The 629 bucked once in John Rourke’s right fist, the Marine Spetznas Captain’s head seeming to expand, then suddenly contract as blood and brain matter blew out the left rear side of it into the face of the junior officer beside him. A cheer rose up among the prisoners. Gunfire was everywhere, Aldridge and the other Marine opening up, Paul Rubenstein taking a step forward, punching one of the Marine Spetznas enlisted men in the face, ripping the AKM-96 from his hands, spraying it as John Rourke fired the 629 again, taking down a Soviet trooper as he started to fire into the prisoners.

Already, John Rourke’s left hand was moving, grabbing for the butt of the Detonics Combat Master under his right armpit, ripping it from the leather, the hammer cocking under his thumb. A Marine Spetznas Lieutenant was raising his AKM-96 assault rifle as Rourke settled the 629’s muzzle again and fired, the Lieutenant’s left eye gone, head snapping round, body following it in a spiral down into the snow.

The little Detonics in his left fist, Rourke fired, then again, one of the Soviet troopers going down. Darkwood was moving across Rourke’s field of view, his Mid-Wake issue caseless 9mm pistol firing point

blank into living targets. Darkwood grabbed up a fallen AKM-96.

Rourke wheeled left, heard Paul Rubenstein behind him, the lighter cracks of Paul’s Browning High Powers—he’d brought both of them. He and Paul had fought like this before. They would stand back to back, covering each other, killing. He could feel Paul’s back against his back as he fired the 629 again, a 180-grain .44 Magnum punching through the throat of a Marine Spetznas Corporal. Rourke fired the little Detonics .45, at almost point-blank range, putting two rounds into the chest of one of the Soviets.

Gunfire was everywhere now. A Marine Spetznas officer tried to run toward a fallen trooper, grabbing up his rifle. John Rourke shot him in the chest with the .44 Magnum.

Rourke emptied the little Detonics .45 into an enlisted man who was trying to use his radio. The man fell.

A Soviet senior non-com charged toward them, his AKM-96 spitting lead or whatever it was they used with their caseless ammunition. John Rourke fired, the 629 empty as the 180-grain jacketed hollow point caught the man in the midsection, jackknifing him, his rifle discharging into the ground as he fell.

The 629 went into Rourke’s belt behind his back, his right hand reaching for the AKM-96 slung across his back, his left hand ramming the little Detonics, slide open, into his pistol belt, then twisting up under his left armpit, ripping the second Detonics mini-gun from the leather. Rourke stabbed the AKM-96 forward and fired, a three-round burst, then another and another, men going down, the gunfire so intense around him that his eardrums pulsed with it. “Paul! Let’s move!”

They had done this before as well. He would advance and Paul would advance, killing everything they could within the growing gap between their backs.

A Marine Spetznas enlisted man rushed Rourke on

the left. Rourke put him down with a single bullet to the throat, severing the spinal column. A Marine Spetznas officer pulled the pin on a grenade. Rourke shot him and the grenade fell to the ground, Rourke wheeling right, a double Tae-Kwan-Doe kick to the man’s right side as he fell, pushing the body down over the grenade. Rourke shouted, “Grenade!” and threw himself left, impacting one of the Soviet troopers with his body, shooting the man twice, then a third time in the chest as they fell. The ground vibrated for an instant and there was a muted roar, chunks of body parts flying, flesh and blood and bits of bone raining down in the snow, the snow in a circle inscribed around what remained of the body washed pink as Rourke pushed himself to his knees. He emptied the Detonics mini-gun into a senior non-com.

The AKM-96—Rourke fired it out into three advancing Marine Spetznas.

The thing was turning around. Soviet personnel were fleeing into the trees.

John Rourke saw one man with a radio set strapped to his back. If he contacted the Island Class submarine, it was all over.

“He’s mine!” Rourke shouted, throwing down the empty AKM-96, stuffing the empty Detonics mini-gun into his left side pocket.

He tore open the front of his tunic, his fists closing over the butts of the Scoremasters.

Rourke tore them free, jacking back the hammers. He started running, jumping the body of a Marine Spetznas, shagging off one of the prisoners who reached out to clap him on the shoulder. “God bless you!” the man shouted.