Survivalist - 15.5 - Mid-Wake (19 page)

Rourke looked at him, knowing the look was odd. “I thought you guys were extinct.”

“Just been layin’ low—Doctor.”

“Get the guys up here, Sam—we gotta boogie.”

Aldridge began speaking in a mixture of American standard English and what sounded like heavily fractured Chinese baby talk, but the men started forward, separating so the ones armed with Sty-20s were bunched together

and the ones armed only with blunt instruments were helping those who couldn’t walk too well.

They gathered round Rourke near the door leading from the laboratory into the corridor. “Sam, you translate as needed. Here’s what we’re doing. This jar has a combustible mixture in it. I’m gonna roll it into the corridor and toward our friends down there,” and he jerked his left thumb in the direction from which he had originally come to the laboratory. “Whoever best knows his way around the prison, take the lead in the opposite direction, because once that container is near enough to our Soviet friends, one bullet in it and the thing should explode if I did it right. And I’m pretty certain I did. Whoever the leader is, take off and the rest of us will follow. We want to reach the main prison compound or whatever so we can spring the people in confinement and swell our ranks. Anything you come across that you or one of the guys we free can use as a weapon, grab it.”

“Not just guys, Doctor Rourke. They got some women down there too. And they should be ready to fight like hell because the guards like to—”

“I understand,” John Rourke whispered.

Sam Aldridge completed the translation, one of the Chinese stepping forward, a Sty-20 in one hand, a bar from one of the cages in the other. His forearms were blistered and blood drooled from the right corner of his mouth, and when he spoke Rourke saw that the man’s gums were hideously inflamed. He pointed to himself and to the corridor, saying something in the fractured English-Chinese patois of the prisoners. Aldridge started to translate it, Rourke preempting him. “He’ll lead us. Tell him thank you.”

Aldridge started to speak, but the Chinese managed an awkward but sincere-sounding, “You bet, man.” Rourke clapped the man on the shoulder, then drew the first Detonics for his left hand. Then flexing his right fist, the pain coming in a brief, heavy wave, he drew the second one, the double Alessi shoulder rig taken from the bag and in place.

“Captain Aldridge—you get the honors. Give it a good roll; I’ll cover you with these.”

“Your hand—I can handle a regular firearm.”

“So can I,” Rourke assured him.

The Chinese man with the bleeding gums and blistered arms stood beside the door. Aldridge opened the door, Rourke nodding. Aldridge shoved the container through, then turned it on its side. Nothing leaked out. “Now, Sam,” Rourke said calmly, stepping into the doorway.

The black U.S. Marine captain started the great jar rolling, the thwacking sounds of Sty-20s being fired toward them, Aldridge tucking back, Rourke firing both pistols simultaneously, the normally moderate recoil of the little Detonics pistols sending a wave of pain through his right hand, Rourke tucking back, the jar exploding, flames belching from it in all directions, screams from the far end of the corridor. Rourke stepped into the hallway, both pistols ready, shouting to Aldridge, “Take that bag and don’t lose it! Now go for it!”

Flames were everywhere in the corridor now, the ceiling afire, Soviet personnel, their uniforms, their bodies aflame, trying to leap to safety, screams filling the air. Rourke heard the sounds of Sty-20s being fired around him, Aldridge and other escapees shooting at their enemies. “Save your ammunition. Move out!”

“You heard the man! Hustle! Hustle! Go!”

John Rourke turned away from the flames, shoving past some of the more injured men, getting up beside Aldridge and the Chinese who had agreed to lead them. The corridor here took a sharp bend and Rourke shouted to Aldridge, “Slow ‘em up and you and I take that corner first in case we have company!”

“Right, doctor!” And Aldridge shouted his commands in English, then a Chinese equivalent. The pack slowed, Rourke safing the pistol in his left hand, reaching into his musette bag. There had been enough chemicals and the proper container for one more surprise. “What’s that? Another firebomb?”

“No—it’s a gas—should render them nauseous. Rut it

should dissipate quickly and there’s not much of it. If we use it, we wait about thirty seconds and hold our breaths and run. Got it?” “Yes, sir.”

They were at the bend, Rourke edging forward along the wall, the flames behind them spreading, the screams dying. The fumes from burning building materials in the corridor were getting thicker, Rourke coughing, his eyes tearing. He blinked, then peered around the corner, ducking back. “They’re waiting for us,” Rourke snapped.

“Lemme see,” Aldridge volunteered.

“Wait a minute.” Rourke drew his knife, the polished section on one of the blade flats that was designed for use as a heliograph mirror-bright. Rourke angled it right, then told Aldridge, “Look in there.”

“A dozen of ‘em—but all prison security it looks like.”

“I’ve been wondering why the troops weren’t out myself. How big’s the regular security force?”

“Couple thousand at least. Could be a lot more.”

“Know a nice guy named Kerenin?”

“The Marine Spetznas field commander?”

“That’s the one. Watch out,” and Rourke took the grenade-sized container of gas, his left arm snaking around the bend into the corridor toward the security guards. There was a sound of glass shattering, the thwacking sounds of Sty-20s being fired toward him, then coughing, wretching sounds. Rourke was already counting seconds, the timing for the gas to dissipate an educated guess.

He reached thirty seconds and shouted, “Hold your breath, squint your eyes against the stuff, and drill everybody with your Sty-20s, then take their weapons and run for it. Let’s go!” Aldridge was translating as they ran, Rourke into the corridor fir3t, the twin stainless Detonics pistols blasting from each hand.

The security guards were either kneeling, prostrate, or leaned against the corridor walls. A few of them tried firing their pistols, Rourke downing four of the men, Sty-20 rounds from Aldridge, the Chinese, and some of the

others downing the rest of the guards.

The escapees used their clubs and Rourke could not have stopped the wholesale killing if he had tried—or wanted to. Twelve Sty-20s with nearly full magazines were distributed among the men, Aldridge with one in each hand now.

Rourke stepped over a dead man and past a puddle of vomit, then signaled the others. “Let’s go!” And he broke into a dead run down the corridor, Aldridge nearly even with him, the Chinese just beside Rourke, his gums bleeding more badly now from the exertion, some of the blisters starting to drain.

As Rourke ran, he rammed fresh magazines up the butts of his pistols, depositing the partially spent ones in his musette bag.

He kept running, the corridor playing out, the Chinese who was guiding them signaling that they should slow, Aldridge shouting back the command in English, the Chinese doing the same in Chinese to the other Chinese among the escapees.

At the end of the corridor, John Rourke could see a rough barricade erected, prison guards on the other side of it.

Rourke signaled a complete stop. He knew the Sty-20s well enough by now and he started toward the barricade, intending to keep out of range. Aldridge and the Chinese man flanked him. Rourke called out to the guards in Russian. “If you surrender your arms and assist in the release of all prisoners, I will personally guarantee that you will be neither abused nor killed. Otherwise, the powerful explosive devices and poisonous gases we utilized against the corridor guards will be turned against you and you will be slaughtered to the last man. You have ten seconds.”

“You’re lyin’ in your teeth,” Aldridge rasped. Rourke, without moving his lips, hissed, “If they go along, okay. No killing.” “Yeah—yeah.”

Rourke began counting aloud in Russian, ticking off

the seconds.

And then part of the barricade fell away and the first of the guards stepped out, hands raised, his Sty-20 in his fist. From inside the two-tiered complex that formed the prison itself, cheering started, rolling toward Rourke like thunder.

It had been necessary to physically restrain some of the female prisoners to prevent them from killing their former jailers. But Rourke was able to enforce his word, the guards now locked in their own cells, many of them stripped of uniform parts to compensate for the rags and tatters of their former prisoners. There had been two dozen guards and there were now two dozen additional Sty-20s added to the collective arsenal, plus several long wand-like implements that seemed to be a creative combination of riot stick and electric cattle prod.

Among the prisoners were whites and a few blacks, these, Rourke learned from Aldridge, taken in the continuing war between the Russians and Mid-Wake, the Americans and their Russian enemies having battled beneath the sea for a period Aldridge described as “centuries.” Most of these personnel were from captured and subsequently destroyed Mid-Wake vessels, some few divers on intelligence missions. The Chinese, Rourke had assumed and further observation confirmed, were prisoners taken during the attacks by the mysterious raiders to whom the Chinese authorities on the surface had referred.

Rourke stood on a table top, one of the Chinese from among the prisoners a fluent English-language speaker, like Michael’s friend Han. As Rourke spoke, the Chinese woman translated. “Soon, there will be more security police, Marine Spetznas—more Soviet personnel coming than we can hope to handle. We must leave here at once. Taking everything that can be useful as a weapon. Captain

Aldridge will lead you to the submarine pens and you can commandeer a vessel or vessels and try for this place called Mid-Wake. You’ll be safe there, you Chinese. We are all allies now. But the diversion you people will create will allow me to get to another part of the complex and attempt the rescue of my friend who is still a prisoner, a woman like some of you, with perhaps the same fate in store for her.” The 120 or so armed escapees, some of them showing the marks of repeated beatings and near starvation, fell totally silent. “If my friend and I reach the sub pens in time, we’ll join you. But don’t wait for us. Just make as much mayhem as possible and you’ll help us best.”

There was a shout, then another and another, and soon all around him were shouting. And then the shouting became a chant, odd-sounding in both languages. But beautiful. The chant was “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!”

Using the prison guards as shields against conventional firearms would have been effective, but against the Sty-20s, when the worst that could result would be an impromptu sleep and a headache, it would have been pointless. So they left the guards locked in the cells and, Rourke leading, the Chinese guiding them, they started from the cell blocks, Aldridge telling Rourke that it would be the first time in more than two years for some of these men that they had left the prison. Aldridge himself had been confined for more than two months, most of that time in one of the cages of the research laboratory.

As they moved through the corridor, at each turn expecting interception, Rourke queried Aldridge concerning the nature of the experiments conducted on the prisoners.

“The Russians seem to love those dart guns of theirs— the Sty-20s. Best I can figure is they’re working to come up with new poisons for them. I’ve actually seen prisoners strapped against a wall and then shot with as many as a half-dozen rounds, medical technicians checking pulse rates, heart rates—stuff like that. Feng—the fellow with the bleeding gums …” Aldridge gestured toward the man who was their guide. “Feng was shot twice a day for better than a week. And the first day, his gums started bleed-mg.

“What about the blisters on his arm? How’d he get em/

“A different thing, I guess. Just regular injections. He

got two injections and then they just left him, and pretty soon the blisters started appearing and splitting and there was pus and everything oozing out of his arms. We tried helping him by giving him part of our water rations—but when they realized we were doing that, they moved his cage further out so none of us could reach him. And then they put him in a smaller cage, underneath two larger cages, and took away the pots those guys used for toilets, and the guys tried, but after a while they couldn’t help it, and—then the infections on his arms got worse, ya know, and … They hate the Chinese. I guess because the Chinese fought against them during the Great War. More than they hate us. Man, I don’t know. But I know none of us are ever going back inside,” and Aldridge jerked his head back toward the cells. John Rourke kept walking.

They were nearing the confluence of tunnels which he had originally seen when entering the security level. The Chinese who was their guide stopped for a moment, apparently considering which of the tunnels to take. Rourke told the English-speaking Chinese, “If it’s of any help, after I penetrated the security level, I reactivated the energy barrier. Tell him, please.”

The Chinese nodded, translating, the first Chinese listening attentively, then pointing toward the third tunnel. Again, they started ahead, unable to run because of the injured among them, but keeping a brisk pace. One of the Marines started singing the Marine hymn. He had a terrible voice, but in a moment others were joining him, the confluence of voices almost pleasing. Rourke wondered if, in the days of “the halls of Montezuma” and the pirates of Tripoli, anyone could possibly have envisioned United States Marines escaping an enemy city underwater in the Pacific five centuries after a war which nearly destroyed all of humanity—when men decided to unleash the power of the sun against each other.

The tunnel was cooler and darker and damper, the sounds of their footsteps there like drums rapping some out-of-time tattoo, Rourke gradually getting those imme

diately around him to quicken the pace.

He knew they were being monitored, security cameras buzzing and whirring as they walked into their scanning range.