Survivalist - 15 - Overlord (12 page)

He heard someone from the back of the command tent breathe loudly.

Vladmir Karamatsov asked, “Are there any questions?”

The tent was deathly silent except for the night wind outside it. Finally, the younger officer who had cleared his throat raised himself to a standing position. It was what Karamatsov had hoped for. “Comrade Marshal Karamatsov?”

“Yes, Comrade?” Karamatsov felt himself smile.

“Comrade Marshal. What effect would the use of a thermonuclear device have on the current state of the atmosphere?” The young officer sat down again, his face pale.

“The use of ten moderate yield devices, I am told, could well bring about a destruction of earth’s environment which would make all which has gone before, the Night of The War and the fires —all of it seem like a ripple in a stream. It would destroy all life forever, I am told.” He made no pretense to scientific knowledge, but his scientific advisors had told him this and it seemed to make sense. The terrestrial environment, once hardy, had become fragile. They had spoken of things he had not heard of for five centuries — the total loss of the atmosphere, the inability for the surface to ever again sustain life.

The question lay unspoken on the very air that he breathed. And so, Vladmir Karamatsov answered it. “We will be the only ones capable of such destruction, hold the very power of life and death over all who live on the planet. Our enemies will have no choice but to acquiesce to my demands. If they do not, their world will end forever.” And he knew his first demand. The surrender of John Rourke

and his family. And Natalia, the woman he, Vladmir Karamatsov, had once called his wife.

What happened after that to the rest of humanity was of little consequence.

The attacks had come less frequently and less savagely throughout the day, but they had come. One of the two Mongol mercenaries had died in battle, the other, riddled with bullets when he had attempted to steal a wandering horse, its rider slain, rode off. The horse, dead too, had collapsed over his body.

Only Michael Rourke and the Chinese intelligence agent, Han, lived. At least ten of their attackers survived somewhere in the night.

“They aren’t like Indians, are they?”

“Indian?”

“American Indians —the old legends said they wouldn’t attack at night because they feared evil spirits.”

“These men fear nothing,” Han observed. And as he slapped at his upper arms for increased circulation, he added, “not even death by freezing, it appears.”

Michael had tried contacting Maria Leuden and Otto Hammerschmidt again, but there had only been a response from Bjorn Rolvaag and Michael had gotten across to Rolvaag to wait where he was and remain on guard, Rolvaag getting across that he had seen nothing of Maria Leuden or of the German commando Captain Hammerschmidt, but that he would wait, at least until dawn.

By the time dawn would come, Michael Rourke was beginning to have serious doubts he would be in a position to worry over anything. The body of the dead horse was beginning to smell and for that reason he thanked the below freezing temperatures.

Han spoke. “I will confess that my brain is lacking in ideas for some means of extricating ourselves from this predicament.”

The night was clear and cold, the clarity of the stars at night the one tangible benefit to the reduced density of the overall terrestrial atmosphere, Michael thought, staring up at them. He remembered the times during the five years his father had spent teaching them to stay alive while he again took the Sleep that sometimes he and his father and Annie had sat outside the Retreat at night, cold like it was now, his father smoking one of the eternal cigars, discussing the night sky.

John Rourke had liked to conjecture that somewhere up there —or out there, Michael corrected himself — there was more life than just that of the returning Eden Project. That millions of light years from this small planet there might be men such as themselves who knew the answers to questions we could not even begin to comprehend, men like themselves who had found ways to live without mutual destruction.

John Rourke had likened the Retreat to an island, saying that perhaps there were other islands on the earth, and likely there were other islands out there. Perhaps someday we would know more of them — the islands here, the islands out there.

Michael Rourke remembered that one evening as they had sat outside the Retreat, star watching as his father had called it, Annie huddled between them for their warmth, that he —Michael —had finally understood his father’s obsession with survival. It wasn’t just an indomitable will to live. It was an indomitable will to know. And all the fighting and the killing which had kept them alive was simply the means

to an end, a time when all of that would be gone and there would be quiet moments to contemplate the stars, learn all that there was to learn from the vast cache of books and videotapes and computer files John Rourke had passionately preserved at the Retreat.

He had, many years later in his own reading, encountered a description which well fit his father—The Socratic Man.

And perhaps it was the ultimate irony, that a man of great wisdom was so embroiled in the violence needed to preserve life, that there remained no time at all to live life. Those five years before his father had resumed the Sleep were the only time in which he had ever known his father at all. He had liked John Rourke the man, the father, far better than he liked John Rourke the implacable hero of humanity.

“I said, I am suffering from a lack of ideas, American — ideas for surviving this ordeal.”

Michael Rourke looked at Han. “Me too,” and returned to field stripping the Chinese assault rifle. He had climbed over to the body of the dead Mongol mercenary who had gone down in batde and reclaimed the man’s rifle, pistol and other gear that might be useful. The man’s sword, on close examination, seemed satisfactory at best. The rifle was ill-kept but seemed serviceable. The ammunition was corroded. He had noticed an inordinate number of misfires and jams and he realized his enemies and his allies were shooting poorly preserved cartridges stored since before the Great Conflagration, and military ammunition at that.

Michael had been gently but persistently rubbing corrosion from the primers of the rifle ammunition. He began to speak. “My father taught me a great deal about staying alive.”

“He taught you well, I have seen since our meeting.”

“Thank you,” Michael nodded. At one level of consciousness he was listening for the sounds of another attack, the Chinese beside him peering over the body of the dead horse behind which they had taken cover a short while after dawn.

“He told me that if all seems lost and it appears that you’ll get killed anyway, that is the time for bold action. There’s nothing to lose and possibly everything to gain. I would imagine that, translating that advice into terms relative to our current situation, we should attack. If all ten or so of them rush us, we’ll be up shit’s creek anyway.”

“What is shit?”

“Feces.”

“A creek of human waste — this would be a small river of human excrement?”

“Only figuratively speaking.”

“Ahh —I find the dynamics of your language fascinating— Feces creek. I must remember this.”

“Yes — hopefully you’ll have the chance. Tell me how these Mongols fight —I mean, hand to hand fighting styles.”

Han seemed to consider this, shifted his eyes toward Michael for an instant, then resumed watching in the likely direction of attack. “You have familiarity with the various fighting styles of—”

“The martial arts. To a considerable degree, yes. I had two fine instructors.” First his father, and then a few lessons from Natalia.

“These men are experts at killing with the bare hands, and with exotic edged weapons. What is it exactly which you propose, American?”

Michael considered his words before uttering them. Then, “We crawl off directly opposite our friends out there — “

“Our enemies, yes?”

“And once we’re far enough away, we start to circle around them and find the men farthest out from the main body. We kill them however we can. Silently is best. We keep whittling down — “

“The sculpting technique where special knives are utilized to form figurines and the like from wood. I have read of this.”

“Right —well, we sculpture them down until we reach their main concentration, then just open up with all the

firepower we have. We sneak up on them and murder them, basically. Hopefully. You got any problems with that?” “When?”

Michael Rourke felt the corners of his mouth raising into a smile. “I like you —now!” He slipped the assault rifle’s rusted magazine into position and handed Han the spare Glock 17 pistol. Loosening the knife old Jon the swordmaker had given him from its sheath, he started into the night, Han beside him …

Otto Hammerschmidt raised his head, the pain no better and the stiffness worse, but his body adjusted to the cold. He realized he was going to die.

It was imperative that he find a means of getting free long enough to kill Fraulein Doctor Maria Leuden. Better that than leaving her to be the sexual toy of these barbarians. He had been working to free his wrists throughout the day. He was nearly there …

Maria Leuden could see the great yellow tongues of the bonfire around which the men who had captured her now sat. They had dragged her nearer to the fire and for that she was grateful. She had ceased wondering when it would happen. The five drank something which smelled like rotted garbage from huge animal skin bags they passed around the fire. If they were saving her as some sort of prize for someone, their resolve might vanish with their other inhibitions—one of the men was dancing around the fire and waving his sword like some sort of madman. She was terrified. And no help would come. She had begun wishing that she had this religious faith that Michael and the Rourke family seemed to possess —she could have prayed that he lived. She decided to try it anyway …

If they had been detected, there had been no sign of this by the ten or so men who awaited in the night to kill them. They had belly crawled through the snow for a distance of what Michael estimated as an even two hundred yards before changing direction, the greatness of the distance an added margin of safety in the event they should be spotted. None of their attackers had impressed Michael with astoundingly accurate marksmanship.

The slightly sloping expanse was barren of any real cover or concealment except for the occasional stands of pine and low brush, some of their attackers hidden in similar stands, others hidden behind their fallen mounts.

It was in one of these stands, some three hundred yards from their original position that Michael rose wearily to his feet, the Chinese agent, Han, joining him.

“This is tiring work, American,” Han observed. , “Are there more of these guys in close proximity to us?”

“I do not understand — but wait — yes — there are other units from the Second City which move in this area.”

“I had some companions. I tried reaching them by radio.”

“Unfortunately, your radio and the communications system of the First City are not even similar.”

They had tried altering the frequency of Michael’s radio in the late morning, after Michael’s first unsuccessful attempt to contact Maria Leuden and Otto Hammerschmidt.

Han spoke again. “You fear they were waylaid or met with some misfortune.”

“Waylaid more likely.”

“A woman among them. That could indeed be very bad. Perhaps she was killed instantly. Some of us in the First City are Christian. I assume that you are as well. Pray to Jesus that she died quickly. Otherwise — ” and the Chinese let the sentence hang.

Michael was not about to pray for Maria Leuden’s death.

“When we get this business over with,” Michael said, his

voice low, almost a whisper, “I’d like to see this First City of yours. But if it means going to the Second City itself, I’ve gotta find my friends.”

“I will help you. But you walk a path which can only lead to tears, American.”

“I’ll walk it with you or without you.”

The Chinese clapped his left hand to Michael’s shoulder. “With me, then.”

There was little danger of running out of the cover of darkness, the night just begun little more than an hour before. But Michael had no desire to prolong the task ahead of them. He decided they could risk a run when the few clouds which were moving in from the west would pass in front of the moon. He gauged the time as perhaps a minute before then. He turned to face Han. “We’ll make a run for it to that stand of pines roughly parallel to their position. As soon as the clouds cover the moon.”

“And what if the enemy lurks in the trees there?”

“Then we won’t have to worry about looking for them, will we?”

Michael checked the luminous face of his Rolex, then glanced skyward, checking the watch again. He made it at roughly ninety seconds or so until the clouds which would soon be covering the moon would have moved off, roughly ninety seconds for the run. He didn’t try estimating the yardage. They would either make it or get caught in the open. There were no other options. There were few other clouds.

“Ready?”

“Yes, American.”

Michael had made it his play and it was not the time to let the Chinese make the first move. As the leading edge of the clouds obscured the three-quarter full moon, Michael ran from the cover of the trees and started into the open, the Chinese assault rifle banging against his right side, in his left hand the copy of the five centuries old Crain knife old Jon the

swordmaker had given him. His father had one just like it, only larger. But Michael was content with his copy, as his father seemed to be with his longer-bladed original. His father had told him the story of the knife. A long-standing friend of the maker, Jack Crain, John Rourke and Crain had often spoken of designing the ultimate survival knife. It was the era for survival knives, every movie hero —Michael had seen some of the films—with this new one or that new one. And John Rourke, always the survival expert, had decided that indeed such a knife was a wise thing to possess, but that it should be the ultimate of its breed. He had always respected the basic design of Crain’s Life Support series, but valued a longer blade for its psychological impact as well as its physical impact against an opponent. And John Rourke had always favored a style of knife fighting more similar to the art of Kendo, but Kendo was done with a sword. Hence he had required a longer haft which would allow the use of two hands when needed, but a haft not so long as to require two hands to use the blade effectively. They had called it the System X.