Survivalist - 12 - The Rebellion (8 page)

It was Paul Rubenstein’s voice.

She heard John Rourke shout to him. “You should be in bed, Paul.”

“Coverin’ this end with my Schmeisser instead, John.” She heard the familiar and now very reassuring sound of the German MP-40’s bolt being drawn back, open.

“Give my friend some room.” It was Sarah’s voice from the far side to Natalia’s right. “Go over to John. Natalia— can you walk?”

“Yes, yes, I can walk.” Natalia nodded. Her throat ached and her right arm felt as though somehow it weren’t an arm at all but a tooth gone bad very suddenly and very

painfully.

She started—slowly—toward John Rourke, seeing faces now as the glare of headlights washed at a tangent across the crowd surrounding her. She could see John Rourke’s face now, half in shadow, half in light. She could see the gun in his left hand dully gleaming, the gun in his right hand still in shadow. “I’ve got the truck, Dad.” It was Annie’s voice.

It had been the blue pick-up, the one she had nearly been tied to to be drag hanged. It would be the camouflage-painted truck Annie drove now.

“Get my bike and Natalia’s,” Rourke rasped. “Annie— do it quick. Sarah—”

“Right.”

Natalia saw a figure stepping beside Rourke—she saw Rourke’s body tense in silhouette and then the tension faded. It was the wiry frame of Kurinami backlit in the glare of the headlights, a pistol in his right hand. “I am here, Doctor Rourke. Elaine Halverson is with me.”

“You and Dr. Halverson—get on the truck, back it up and keep the lights on the mob.”

“Dr. Rourke—what the hell are you doing?” Dodd’s voice called out. “I can take charge here now!”

“I’m going to Argentina, Captain—remember? Hmm? And I’m taking Natalia with me. And Sarah and Akiro and Elaine Halverson. And I won’t even insult your intelligence by mentioning what‘11 happen if anybody tries stopping us.”

“This woman is a murderess.”

“Yeah, Captain—and I’m your great-aunt Fanny and the Easter bunny’s gonna be here in ten minutes or so— hitched a ride with the tooth fairy on the back of a unicorn. Yeah, Paul and Michael will represent my interests here. And if you or anybody else takes any reprisals against them, then you’d better hope the people under Karamatsov get you—or I will. And just to keep you busy while I’m

gone, why not look for the real murderer and find Karamatsov ‘s agent before Karamatsov comes back and you find out you’ve got an enemy outside and an enemy inside.”

“You’ll be a wanted man, Doctor.”

John Rourke simply laughed—Natalia was nearly beside him now, her legs still felt weak. And then—as she sagged toward him, his right arm reaching out to her, enfolding her, supporting her—John Rourke said to her, “I got Madison to round up your clothes. Sarah found your guns and put ‘em in the truck Annie was driving.”

“John—I—you—you’ll be an outcast now.”

“I was never anything else,” John Rourke whispered as she rested her head against his shoulder.

She could hear Paul’s voice from the far side of the crowd—and she wanted to go to him, to kiss him. He was her dearest friend, someone she had shared secrets with. Paul said, “John, you guys do what you’ve gotta do in Argentina. I’ll find the murderer—and I’ll kill him.”

Natalia looked up at John Rourke’s face, feeling his breath against her skin as Rourke whispered, “I know.”

Antonovitch was sorely tempted to reach to his hip and draw the Stechkin Mk 7 from its holster—but he did not. If he drew his pistol, it might make the men around him think that he was nervous or afraid.

He kept walking, instead, slowly, looking from right to left and then behind him, his men forming a ragged wedge on both sides of him as they moved through the jungle.

Scouts had confirmed what electronic surveillance had earlier indicated—that the surrounding area of habitation which ringed the mountain was unfortified except for guard towers at the four compass points. The mountain which was apparently the stronghold of the Nazi force seemed so well fortified that it would take firepower beyond that available from the helicopter force alone to penetrate it or destroy it.

But Maj. Nicolai Antonovitch had to see for himself.

He kept walking, slowly to avoid noise, the jungle heat surprisingly bearable and springlike seeming. He could remember jungles once teeming with wildlife, with birds and insects.

But this one did not.

Wild fruit grew in abundance. The foliage was ridiculously bright in its greenness.

But there was no life—except for the sound he heard just ahead. He signaled his men to a halt with hand and

arm movements.

Now he drew his pistol—it had been the sound of a human voice speaking something that was not Russian and was likely German, though he had no way in which to tell. The Hero Colonel, Vladmir Karamatsov, spoke the German language. So did a few of those who had taken the sleep with him.

The Stechkin Mk 7 clenched tight in his gloved right fist, he moved ahead, signaling his lieutenant to accompany him.

The voice was clearer now as he parted the foliage ahead of him—a child’s voice. And then a woman’s laughter. He dropped to his knees and moved forward beneath the cover of the foliage, the debris of the ground—rotted leaves— clinging to his field trousers.

He crept forward, glancing once behind him to ascertain that his lieutenant was still there.

He parted another of the low-to-the-ground broad-leafed plants—and he could see. A woman wearing a filmy-looking summer weight dress, blond hair restrained at the nape of her neck with a large bow. A child in khaki shorts and a short-sleeved shirt running and playing, throwing a red ball to the woman who on closer inspection seemed little more than a girl. The woman caught the ball, and threw it back to the child, almost bowling it across the manicured green of the grass. As the little boy caught the ball, the boy and the woman laughed, the woman rearranging her dress, then clapping her hands and calling something in a musical sounding voice to the little boy. The little boy threw the ball toward her again and she caught it.

Antonovitch looked to his right: the guard tower, glass enclosed—air conditioned, he imagined.

He would not risk a stray reflection from his field glasses, so he studied the tower with his naked eyes. Perhaps two men. One stood by the nearest window. The second appeared to be sitting—Antonovitch could barely

make out the top of the head when there was movement.

They were more watchers than guards, he realized.

The other tower, to his left, was merely a speck against the horizon.

But less far to his left, well back from the woman and the little boy with the red ball, rose the mountain. An exposed pinnacle of granite. Massive doors were at its base, the doors—brass, perhaps. He could not be sure. And two massive stone pillars rising, flanking the doors on either side, the pillars becoming huge torches, flames that were apparently natural gas burning from the top of each.

He heard the laughter of the child again—and Antonovitch turned his attention back to the boy and the woman with him. As he did he saw a bronze bust the height of a pillar set in the middle of the garden. He recognized the face. It was unmistakably the face of Adolf Hitler.

He forced himself to look away and to the mountain itself. It rose so high that its summit was all but obscured in wisps of white cloud. Perhaps a hundred feet above the doors were long parapets, and on these parapets he could see armed men moving in some sort of regular pattern. There would be fortifications at the top of the mountain— aerial reconnaissance. He thanked his own foresight that he had kept his reconnaissance far back and relied on electronic observation rather than visual. Anti-aircraft emplacements ringed the summit, the nature of the guns he did not know. It was suspected by heat source identification that the entire mountain and the green space which seemed carved from out of the jungle were ringed with surface-to-air missiles.

His helicopters would stand no chance against the Nazi fortifications, regardless of the disposition of the Nazi troops who were now thousands of miles away from protecting their stronghold.

Fighter bombers were the only thing—fighter bombers

and a ground assault to penetrate the main entrance. If it were timed perfectly, it could work, he thought.

He watched the pretty young woman and the child for a moment longer—they reminded him of things he could not afford to consider until the conquest of earth under the leadership of the Hero Colonel was completed.

But he wanted to reach out to her very much—and touch her gently.

There was a French term for it that she had forgotten. She massaged gently at the sides of her distended abdomen, watching Frau Mann as much as she listened to her. “Helene? You are all right? I cannot help but notice—”

“I am fine, Frau Mann. I have had many babies and this one is just telling me that he will be coming soon—but not too soon.” Helene Sturm smiled, moving her hands from her abdomen to the table that separated them. It was a favorite place for the women of the officer corps, located on the top floor of the field officer’s quarters and overlooking almost the entire complex. The streets below bustled with pedestrian traffic, the few private vehicles and the mass transport machines. The Educational Center could be seen in the far distance beyond the government buildings.

She thought of Manfred and his loyalty to the youth. “You are not listening to me, Helene.” Frau Mann smiled.

“I am sorry, Frau Mann—I was thinking of my oldest son.”

“Do you think that he spies on you?”

Helene Sturm realized that the teacup she had been lifting from its saucer was making a rattling noise in her right hand.

She looked about the huge room. Other women like

herself populated the tables dotted about it—she recognized most of them. As her eyes scanned the room, Maria, the fiance of her brother Sigfried, noticed her and waved. Helene smiled and waved back. Sigfried was with her man, her husband Helmut. They were in North America, fighting—under the leadership of Frau Mann’s husband. And she was afraid for them both, and for Col. Wolfgang Mann as well. Because if he failed, the conspiracy against the leader would doubtlessly be found out in its entirety and there would be many arrests. She touched again at her abdomen, shifting her position on the smallish, wooden-framed armless chair—the seat of the chair was not padded enough. “Helene?”

Frau Mann’s voice brought her back to the present. “No, I do not know—I think that Manfred watches and listens very carefully. He is very political, I think. But he does not spy on me for anyone—not yet.”

“If he were to learn,” Frau Mann began, then stopped. The waitress came with their sandwiches, asked if they wanted more tea, then left. Frau Mann began again. “If Manfred were to learn—we would all be executed.”

“He would not inform on his own mother—I cannot believe that,” Helene Sturm insisted. She had no appetite for the sandwich, thinly sliced sausage with lightly scrambled egg. The smell of it was making her nauseated. But she needed to eat regularly for the baby. She picked up one of the quartered pieces and nibbled at it.

Frau Mann was talking again, stubbing out her cigarette as she spoke. “My husband did not attempt a radio contact last night—I was informed. This means that either something has gone wrong or that he feels the time is too close and he cannot risk a radio message being discovered.”

“I think it is that—that he doesn’t want to risk discovery. I just know he is all right.”

“I spoke with a member of Field Marshal Richter’s staff this morning—official communications are still coming in. They have encountered a strong Soviet force in the southeastern segment of what was the United States. Their first skirmish was successful for our forces.”

“That will only make the leader more powerful—he can use the Soviets as a threat to increase his demands for a total war footing.”

“But there was a message for me from Wolfgang—that he had found a rose. I think this is a code that he has found a means for aiding Deiter Bern.”

Helene Sturm looked anxiously around the room—to mention Deiter Bern was to risk arrest for treason. “I pray that you are right, Frau Mann.”

“And if,” Frau Mann said slowly, “my husband and his legion should be unable to reach The Complex in time— then we shall do it ourselves. We are agreed in that still?”

“Yes—still,” Helene Sturm answered. And she touched at the life in her abdomen. “Still.”

“If—if he—if he is executed, all is lost,” Frau Mann whispered. Helene Sturm watched Frau Mann. She looked at her sandwich, the same as Helene had ordered, then neatly folded her napkin beside the blue willow pattern plate. “I will be right back.” Frau Mann pushed her chair out and stood, smoothing her skirt along her thighs with her hands, the fingers splayed. She slung her bag over her right shoulder and started toward the rear of the restaurant—the powder room, Helene Sturm knew.

She watched Wolfgang Mann’s wife. The clothing, the hair, the walk—the casual smiles and more casual nods to the women she passed. Her husband was the ranking field officer under the general staff and would, after the first phase of the campaign, be promoted to general officer’s rank. But if he attempted to save the life of Deiter Bern and smash the power of the leader and were to fail—he

would be publicly executed.

Helene Sturm took her own napkin from her lap and set it down beside her own plate. She could eat nothing now.

Aerial observation had confirmed considerable activity at the site in the west Texas desert where Helmut Sturm had tracked the Soviet force, as per the orders of his commander, Standartenfuehrer Wolfgang Mann.

“Herr Hauptsturmfuehrerl”

Sturm turned to the voice of the young soldier. “Yes, Corporal—what is it?”

“A message from Untersturmfuehrer Bloch, Herr Hauptsturmfuehrerl”

Sturm took the folded message form, returned the man’s salute, “Heil,” and unfolded the message. “Helmut—my men are in position. We await the signal. Sigfried.” He folded the message and dropped it in the left outside pocket of his battle dress uniform tunic. “Very good, Corporal— return to your unit.”