Survivalist - 18 - The Struggle (6 page)

And he remembered the conversation he’d had with Michael when they’d horsebacked it to the ridge, come up behind the Mongols who had been waiting in ambush for Paul and Maria and Prokopiev and Han Lu Chen.

Michael had wanted frank answers concerning Natalia.

John Rourke had given his son no frank answers at all.

Rourke forced his eyes to stay closed. And in his mind he saw her eyes, the surreal blueness of them.

Would her eyes ever see the world as it really was again? Or was she destined to be a prisoner within her mind forever? Rourke opened his eyes.

Conscious dreaming was something that ceased to exist after The Sleep. But there was always a chance that conscious dreaming might return.

And John Rourke knew the face that would be in his nightmare if he risked sleep. The gunship was surrounded by cloud cover now and John Rourke looked out of the helicopter, watching the wispy grayness. He thought of the line from Hamlet. He wondered if perhaps Shakespeare had once caused a woman great sorrow, too.

Everywhere, gunships rose into the air, like gigantic black insects leaving some feast of carrion. Vassily Prokopiev reined in the Mongol horse he rode, the beast barely able to stand properly. “Why did I think that?” Prokopiev murmured under his breath, steam issuing from his lips as he exhaled.

Death.

It was the occupation he had trained for since boyhood. The heroic accounts of the Hero Marshal, Vladimir Karamatsov. The heroic struggle of the Hero Marshal against the evil forces of capitalism and the CIA assassin John Rourke. What was the CIA again? Was it not, in its way, like the KGB? Was the KGB intrinsically evil? Then was the CIA? John Rourke was not evil. Michael Rourke was a man to be counted on, trusted—a friend who had saved his life.

Few of the black machines were still on the ground in the valley stretching open before him, two of the lightweight armored personnel carriers forming a wedge at the mouth of the valley, guarding access. A huge bonfire roared to the north end of the valley, fuel explosions erupting from it, puffing upward. And he realized that damaged vehicles or equipment which

could not be taken away were being burned. He began to dig in his heels, the animal shuddering under him.

Prokopiev dismounted, studied the horse’s head for a moment. Weariness was in its eyes.

He set to uncinching the saddle, nearly bitten when he removed the bridle. The animal did not run off, merely stood. A feed bag was on the saddle which lay in the snow near Prokopiev’s feet and he took the bag, slashed it open with a Chinese bayonet, then set it on the ground where the animal could bend to it easily. With the saddle blanket, he rubbed the animal down of its sweat. He was not a horseman, but realized that leaving the animal lathered in the freezing temperatures would not be good.

Having done all he could, he clapped the animal on the neck and strode down along the defile toward the valley entrance. Little remained of his uniform, little visible anyway beneath the Mongol outer garments he wore to keep warm. But these were his men, his Elite Corps. They would know him.

He cast aside the inferior bayonet. There were finely made Soviet knives available to officers of his rank and it would be easy enough to get hold of one, have the knife dispatched to him from the stores of such things held in reserve for the Elite Corps.

Prokopiev began to mentally review what he would tell the Comrade Colonel, who commanded the Armies of the Soviet now since the murder— Prokopiev stopped, the access hatches of one of the armored personnel carriers opening. He assumed he was recognized. John Rourke was not a murderer. Of course, the traitorous Major Tiemerovna, once wife of the Hero Marshal— She was the one who had murdered the Hero Marshal.

Prokopiev commenced again to walk.

It seemed as though there were two versions of the

truth, the one he had been told, the one he realized with his own senses. It was hard to imagine, for example, that Doctor Rourke, the father of Michael Rourke, would have criminally conspired with any woman to murder her husband.

Vassily Prokopiev realized that there was some error. After all, Comrade Colonel Antonovitch had not actually witnessed the slaying of the Hero Marshal. There was devious work afoot. Perhaps a conspiracy among those who had witnessed the Hero Marshal’s death. It was impossible to imagine Doctor Rourke and this female Major, who was waiting in ambush for the Hero Marshal, giving him no chance to defend himself, murdering him when he surrendered for the sake of his men, then murdering his men as well.

The Comrade Colonel must be alerted to these discrepancies. Perhaps the entire new offensive was based on misinformation. The man Han Lu Chen by any standard was brave. The man Paul Rubenstein, a Jew, was heroic beyond measure. And, since he had first begun to learn, he had been told that Jews were at times capable of singular intellectual achievement but were a cowardly race, now exterminated. How then, unless the man Rubenstein was a racial anomoly, was this possible?

And would a man such as Doctor Rourke or Michael Rourke allow a daughter or sister to marry someone who was all but subhuman? Certainly not. Had other Jews been like Paul Rubenstein? And if they were, then why had he been taught what he had been taught?

No one would call out that he should halt, so Prokopiev halted of his own accord before the men guarding the valley entrance opened fire, as they would be under orders to do. “Comrades—it is Major Prokopiev! Do not shoot!”

He walked toward them with his hands outstretched, palms open.

This was a withdrawal, obviously. Because the Second Chinese City essentially no longer existed? Or had the plans for the offensive changed. “How goes the offensive, Comrades?”

If they told him what they thought was true, would it be true?

It was impossible to communicate with them effectively because they had no command of the language. He was able, by sheer force of concentration only, to make something from their words, searching for every possible similarity between their language and his, however remote or unlikely.

Bjorn Rolvaag sat up in bed and collected his thoughts while they merely watched him. Michael Rourke, Annie’s brother, and the German woman, Doctor Maria Leuden, who was an archaeologist, mentioned Lydveldid Island, the Soviets (he mentally spat on them, individually and collectively), and performed ludicrous pantomimes of men fighting in battle.

It seemed likely that Lydveldid Island had been invaded.

He had asked about Annie Rubenstein and they had assumedly understood him well enough that they tried to answer. He got the impression—again by word association and through their pantomime—that Annie might be lost and in some danger. Somehow, he and Annie Rubenstein understood each other well enough that, despite words, the understanding was genuine,

clear. And the Russian woman, Natalia Tiemerovna, the only one of them who could actually converse with him because she spoke so many languages so well that they made do and “talked”—the Russian woman with her pretty, sad blue eyes. Was she with Annie and lost, or lost and in danger on her own?

Bjorn Rolvaag could not be sure.

He watched their eyes watching his eyes.

He formed the few English words as carefully as he could for them so they would understand. “Rolvaag does go Lydveldid Island, Michael. Rolvaag does good.” And he beat his fist against his own chest to demonstrate his hardiness. Adequate hardiness, his head still aching at times; but, he was confident that he was healing. Michael started to say something and, tired, Rolvaag merely repeated for them, “Rolvaag does go Lydveldid Island.”

That should be clear enough for anyone to understand, he reasoned.

The Party Chairman entered the elevator and stood beside him, Antonovitch’s eyes drawn to the Chairman’s scientific advisor, Svetlana Alexsova. She was beyond pretty, more aptly described as beautiful, he thought, the blond hair so sternly arranged in a bun at the nape of her neck, the long, graceful neck, the mouth (devoid of lipstick) full and inviting. Her eyes, blue, were clear, purposeful, and when he heard her voice— “Comrade Chairman, the credit for the discovery belongs to Comrade Doctor Kulienkov. He is a young man, a member of my scientific team which has been developing the particle beam systems for military applications.”

“Your leadership doubtlessly inspired Kulienkov, Comrade Doctor,” Antonovitch blurted out, and she turned quickly and looked at him, the corners of her mouth dimpling with a quick, genuine-looking smile.

“Thank you Comrade Marshal.”

He did not correct her, because he did not wish to. Technically, although he wore Colonel’s rank, he was Chief Marshal of the Soviet Union. He supposed it was false modesty not to wear his proper rank, after all.

The elevator stopped. “How many floors, Comrade

Doctor, have we descended?”

As the doors opened, she answered him. “We are seven levels below the main level of the city, Comrade Marshal. This entire level is devoted to military research. For our testing purposes,” she continued, the Chairman exiting the elevator, Antonovitch insisting that Doctor Alexsova exit ahead of him, “there is access to the summit of the mountain above by means of small conveyors and two large industrial lifts.” She smiled again as she thrust her hands into the pockets of her white lab coat. The action accentuated the neatness of her figure. “It is quite the ride, Comrade Marshal, on the conveyors. More than a mile in total darkness except for the lights built into the belt itself, all within a seamless-appearing tube of transparent high density polymers, the tube inserted from the top of the bore hole, then heat welded by robotized track welders, their work controlled by remote video cameras. Quite the engineering marvel. As a scientist, I have always respected the skills of the engineer. Without such skills, science would be nothing more than a curiosity, a novelty. There could be no practical application.”

They were walking along a gleaming corridor, a tunnel, Antonovitch imagined, at its farthest end a set of massive double doors. But parked along the corridor wall were three electric carts and Doctor Alexsova gestured toward one of them, the Comrade Chairman nodding, breaking the silence he’d begun when Antonovitch had first accompanied him from Party headquarters. “You told me, Comrade Marshal Antonovitch, that you need troops. Here, you will find that you will not need troops.”

As they seated themselves in the cart, Doctor Alexsova at the controls, her dress shooting up to her thighs for an instant, Antonovitch quickly averted his eyes out of politeness, asked the Comrade Chairman,

“What is it that you intend to show me, Comrade Chairman?”

“The future of Soviet power.”

Antonovitch turned and faced forward. He sat beside Doctor Alexsova and he savored the experience…

Beyond the double doors, at which security personnel were posted, lay a shorter corridor, set into the wall of the corridor a bank of elevators, at the corridor’s end another set of double doors, electronic security here. Beyond these doors lay the laboratory complex, all one giant laboratory the size of some huge stadium, a kilometer square at least, the individual laboratories without any walls separating them for the most part. Doctor Alexsova spoke, addressing Antonovitch’s unasked questions. “All personnel live on the level above us, complete educational, recreational, medical and cultural facilities at their disposal, Comrade Marshal. Their elevator keys only work in the second lift battery which you have seen between the sets of security doors. Without special authorization, they are not allowed beyond the second set of doors. It has been found that an atmosphere of scientific openness, where one team knows the work of the other, is best for rapid progress. Yet, the security difficulties such a system imposes are monumental. Hence, the system utilized here. You may have noticed a few of the laboratories are walled. This is not for secrecy, but for reasons related directly to the nature of the work.”

The electric cart stopped near the center of the complex, the hum of equipment, whiffs of chemical odors, a hum of conversation all around him as he stepped down, offered to help Doctor Alexsova. She was already out of the cart.

The Comrade Chairman spoke, saying, “This is what I would never show to our so-called Hero Marshal, Comrade. He would have seen the work going on here and been obsessed with possessing it. Who knows whether spies brought him some information of this and it is for this reason he launched his so savage attack against the underground city with gas?”

“Then why do you show me this, Comrade Chairman?” Antonovitch’s eyes riveted to the Chairman’s impassive face, the drooping lids, drooping jowls, the impression almost of a face molded in wax and once partially melted.

“I have no choice, Antonovitch. You wish peace through victory. You wish to avoid the use of nuclear weapons. And so do I. Here is the way.”

Doctor Alexsova waited a respectful distance away, the Comrade Chairman’sf ace brightening as he turned toward her. “Show him everything. I shall be waiting in your office, Comrade Doctor.”

“Yes, Comrade Chairman,” she nodded.

As the Comrade Chairman climbed back into the electric cart, then drove off, Antonovitch watched after him, after a moment feeling Doctor Alexsova at his side. “Much work has been done here, Comrade Marshal. It is now at your disposal to lead the forces of the Soviet people to victory, to our finest hour.”

Antonovitch turned and looked at her. “Yes, Comrade Doctor.” He was reminded of the Judeo-Christian myth concerning the Garden of Eden. He wondered vaguely whether the Comrade Chairman or the beautiful Comrade Doctor had the role of the snake. Because he was about to be given all the forbidden fruit he could ever Want, he realized …

Yuri Kulienkov was indeed quite young. No more

than twenty-five. As he powered up his apparatus, he spoke. “I have a considerable difficulty, Comrade Marshal, talking about things in a way that is not scientific. I apologize, Comrade Marshal.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Comrade Doctor Kulienkov. Genius requires no apology. I will confess that I know very little of science,” Antonovitch told him. He caught the reaction in Doctor Alexsova’s eyes. Favorable.