Survivalist - 15 - Overlord (27 page)

hammer and fired, killing the nearest of the Soviets, the body lurching forward despite the impact of the 185-grain jacketed hollow point. Another of the Soviet troopers — Rourke recognized the black uniform as KGB Elite Corps — was attempting to fire a pistol. Rourke fired first, twice at the man’s chest and neck.

Michael was beside Rourke now as they neared the forward end of the car, Paul’s six men led by the man named Wing who spoke English just behind them, Han and his men making the perilous jump to the next car back. As Rourke started to turn to face forward, he saw one of Han’s men, caught up in a gust of wind, being hurtled to his death between the train cars. The noise of the wind which roared around him was too loud for Rourke to hear the scream.

They reached the forward end of the car now, a Soviet trooper pushing up to the level of the roof, Michael shooting him away with one of his Berettas. Rourke rolled over onto the access ladder, the roar of the wind suddenly all but abated. Rourke dropped to the platform level between the lead car and the engine, Michael down next, then Paul, Rourke jumping to the engine platform, then Michael following. The man named Wing was down, the others of Paul’s group following. Paul gave John Rourke a thumbs up signal; blowing half a magazine for the Schmeisser into the front door of the car, two of Wing’s men kicking it in, Paul and the man named Wing the first through, Paul’s Schmeisser blazing from his right hand, the M-16 from the left, Wing with one of the Chinese caseless submachineguns in each hand.

Rourke turned to the entrance into the engine compartment, a massive door before him. He had inspected the door on the identical train they had ridden, knew where it hinged, had measured the height.

From one of the two musette bags that crisscrossed over his chest, beneath his parka, Rourke took a small block of the German equivalent of plastique, laying it into place on

the outside of the door over where the upper hinge would be, Michael dropped into a crouch beside him, molding an identical brick of plastique over the location of the lower hinge; Rourke finished, then laid a third segment of plastique over the lock plate.

Gunfire ripped into the door and some of it penetrated, Rourke dodging to the side, Michael flanking the door opposite from him. For the most part the gunfire had simply dimpled the metal door.

Rourke leaned closer to the door again, inserting the detonator over the lock into the plastique. More gunfire through the door now, Rourke signalling Michael, his son nodding. Rourke tossed the detonator across the open space between them. Michael caught it, inserting the detonator into the plastique which was for the upper hinge. Michael set his own, the third detonator, into the lower hinge charge. Michael nodded, Rourke jumping back onto the adjoining platform, gunfire clattering from inside the first car through the open doorway, Michael jumping across. Michael drew back, Rourke upping the safety on the Scoremaster, thrusting it into his belt.

Rourke started out of his parka, the radio attached to his belt, throwing the parka into the slipstream. It was one of the German issue ones and replaceable enough. Michael did the same.

Waves from the turbulent surface of the Yellow Sea crashed w|fhin feet of them now as the train entered the narrowest portion of the forty mile strip.

John Rourke looked at Michael, then drew the Python.

They were small charges of plastique. But enough to do what was needed.

He stabbed the Python toward the upper hinge and double actioned a shot, turning his face, averting his eyes as the first charge blew, hearing the roar of Michael’s .44 Magnum revolver dully as then Michael fired and the second charge blew. Rourke fired and blew the third charge,

the one over the lock.

He looked at his son as he holstered the Python, one Scoremaster in Rourke’s right fist, the fully loaded one in his left. His son looked at him, one Beretta in each of Michael’s fists.

Rourke felt himself smile. His son smiled. John Rourke nodded, and together, they jumped the platform, Rourke’s left foot and his son’s right impacting the door at its center almost simultaneously, the door falling away on its hinges, inward, the engine compartment filled with KGB Elite Corps personnel.

As John Rourke and Michael Rourke stepped through the wide doorway, the KGB personnel started firing, and John and Michael Rourke started firing. The .45s bucked in Rourke’s fists, the one in his right hand empty, stuffed into his trouser band. His right fist snatched one of the twin stainless Detonics .45s from the double Alessi rig, his right thumb jacking back the hammer, the little .45 bucking in his fist. The Scoremaster in his left hand was empty now, Rourke ramming it into his belt, the action still locked open, grabbing for the second litde Detonics, ripping it from the leather, firing, men going down. Bullets ricocheted off the metal walls of the engine compartment, the cracking of Michael’s Berettas, then suddenly the booming of his .44 Magnum revolver, Rourke’s ears jarring with it. Rourke thrust the little Detonics from his right fist, empty, into his hip pocket, snatching the Python from the leather, emptying the cylinder into the last of the KGB Elite Corps personnel. Michael’s .44 Magnum revolver boomed once more, almost in perfect unison with Rourke’s .357.

There was always the roar of the wind, always the clacking sound of the train as it sped over the rails—but it was silent except for that.

By rough count, fifteen of the KGB Elite Corps personnel lay dead, scattered about the engine compartment.

A Chinese man, slight of build like Mr. Wing who now

accompanied Paul Rubenstein, but seemingly twice Wing’s age, sixty or better, Rourke thought, emerged from behind the instrument bulkhead.

“Hi! Rourke grinned at the man. Michael started to laugh. As they started forward, both reloading their weapons as they walked, John Rourke said to his son, “How do you think you say ‘Could you please stop the train?’ in Chinese?”

Michael shrugged his shoulders, and reached for one of the switches and then pointed toward it and the Chinese engineer started nodding his head enthusiastically …

Paul Rubenstein and the slightly built Chinese agent with him, Wing Tse Chau, were running, only two of Wing’s men left who weren’t dead or wounded. They had cut through the first car and left some casualties but made no attempt to overpower the Soviet troops inside, Han and his men having caught the men in the first car in the crossfire with Paul and Wing and their smaller force. Over the second car, a battle raging beneath them between Russian troops and Han’s Intelligence commandoes, then making the jump, Wing nearly going over the side as he lost his balance for an instant, Paul Rubenstein catching him and as the other two reached the boxcar and started over the top of it behind him, Paul realized that in the boxcar were the nuclear warheads. If whoever commanded the train were insane enough—He forced the thought from his mind and focused his violence against the wind which tried hammering him down. For each step he would take toward the rear of the car, he would fall forward, brace himself, then go ahead.

He reached the edge of the boxcar, the passenger car behind it, the second from last in the train, streaming smoke, small explosions coming from it now …

He had moved to the boxcar so as to personally guard the

warheads as soon as he had realized what was happening, ordering that his men fight to the death. Ivan Krakovski would write of their bravery, or immortalize them by making the warheads detonate.

Seven of his Elite KGB corps were with him. He thought of them as his own. They should have been his own.

If he detonated the warheads, they would not fall into enemy hands. And he knew the reason why the Hero Marshal wanted them. So the Hero Marshal could use them to get the American John Rourke and Major Natalia Tiemerovna. The woman who held off his best men in the second car from the rear of the train had to be Tiemerovna. And who else would have conceived such a daring foolish plan for stopping this train than the American Rourke whom the Hero Marshal so despised. And Krakovski knew that the Hero Marshal would full well destroy the planet if it took that to have his vengeance.

Krakovski decided.

He would give the Hero Marshal his vengeance. And, if somewhere some Soviet youth survived, then somewhere his courage would be sung.

He began to open one of the containers in which the warheads were individually packed …

Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna was out of ammunition for both the LMG and her two M-16s. She slung them back, empty, drawing the twin L-Frame Smiths from the holsters at her hips. There couldn’t be too many more of the defenders at the front of the car. If only, despite the shot out windows, the smoke were not so thick.

Only amateurs thumb cocked double action revolvers except for the most precise shots. Precision would hardly be required here and she was no amateur. She made ready to stand and run forward, to win or die …

The engineer was saying something Rourke could not understand. And then he made what must have been a universal gesture. He pointed to the gunshot-riddled instrument panel, shook his head and drew his right index finger across his throat.

“The instruments are dead,” Michael Rourke said.

John Rourke almost whispered. “He can’t stop the train.”

The engineer tugged at John Rourke’s right hand and Rourke turned his eyes to follow the engineer’s eyes. Over the control console was an illuminated map, showing the route; the engineer placed his finger over the map section Rourke mentally matched to the map Han had given him. There was a sharp curve approximately four-fifths of the way through the narrows where the train was now. The engineer was gesturing maddeningly toward it, then finally, gesturing to the engine cab around them. He quickly raised his hands and made a strange sound. Rourke shook his head. The engineer pointed to the map and then pointed away from the railbed and into the sea at a violent tangent.

“I think he said we’ll derail —holy shit,” Michael said softly.

John Rourke looked out through the window, toward the waves.

“Take the engineer with you. Get him to understand — we’ve gotta get everybody off the train. I don’t care how you do it. I’m going for the boxcar. That’s where whoever the leader here is and that’s where the warheads are. Impact won’t make them detonate. The water could because it will retard neutron emissions. But it might not. If the warheads are packed properly. Getting off the train may buy us ten seconds, or it could save our lives. But if somebody detonates one of the warheads —the German scientists say that—”

“I know,” Michael Rourke told his father. “Maybe a dozen average yield weapons and — “

“Yeah,” and John Rourke embraced his son, touching his lips to his son’s cheek. And he broke into a run toward the

blown open doorway …

Paul Rubenstein threw the full force of his body into the kick, the door into the rail car collapsing inward, Rubenstein thrusting himself through the door, his own SMG in his right fist, one of the Chinese submachineguns in his left, the smoke so thick he could barely see. He started firing at the shapes of men in black KGB Elite Corps uniforms, the shapes going down, the Chinese named Wing beside him then, the last two of Wing’s men entering, Paul hearing the increased volume of firing.

“Cease fire!”

He shouted the command in English and Wing echoed it in Chinese.

The smoke was dense. But he could see another black shape, moving out of the smoke. He stabbed the Schmeisser toward it and his’finger edged back to touch the trigger.

He didn’t shoot. “Natalia!”

One of Wing’s men started to fire and Paul knocked the submachinegun aside, a burst blowing into one of the seat backs, disintegrating it, Paul running forward into the smoke, the black shape gone from sight. He tripped over a body —it wasn’t Natalia. “Natalia!”

And suddenly she was standing there. “I’m all right, Paul.”

Paul hugged her against him.

There was apparently a public address system. Had there been one on the other train? He didn’t remember.

The voice coming over it was either John’s or Michael’s voice. “The train will derail in less than five minutes, into the sea. Evacuate now. Evacuate now. Evacuate now.”

Paul grabbed for the radio.

“John! I got Natalia—John! Come in, John!”

“Paul, ” the voice came back. “Do like Michael said on the PA—get out. I’m going after the warheads. Get out fast. You don’t have to run. If the warheads go —Look —tell Natalia I

love her, old friend. Rourke out.”

‘John! Come in, John! John! Damnit, John!”

No voice came back.

Paul Rubenstein looked at Natalia.

She was reloading her revolvers. “The boxcar up ahead?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Paul Rubenstein only nodded …

The wind seemed somehow stronger now and he was so cold his arms and legs barely responded, but getting rid of the coat was necessary. He had crossed the first car, jumped to the second and was half way across as he looked to his left, toward the sea. The curve that would precipitate the derailment couldn’t be much further ahead now.

The wind buffeted him, throwing him forward, to his knees. He was up again, moving, the end of the car nearly in sight. There were small doors on each end of the boxcar, but whoever was inside it would expect attack from the front or rear of the car.

Falling again, he crawled the last few yards to the edge of the car, forcing himself to stand, the wind hammering at his back. He thought of the old Irish proverb about “May the wind be always at your back”; but was never meant like this.

He jumped, the wind actually making it easier to jump from one roof to another, but making it easier to fall as well —he hit the surface hard, starting to slip, the boxcar roof windslick, but he splayed his hands and arms out and held on. He started crawling, then got to his knees and then struggled to his feet, toward the center of the long boxcar’s roof.

The wind was robbing him of breath and as at last he reached the center of the roof, collapsing to his knees, he had to cover his mouth against the wind so he could breathe.