Survivalist - 17 - The Ordeal (3 page)

It was something far worse.

He had been trained as a physician, not a psychiatrist. But piecing it all together over the past weeks, over the past days, now— It was suddenly, piteously, abundantly clear.

For a physician without the proper cross-training in psychoanalysis to indulge in speculative diagnosis based on manifested symptoms of mental disorder was just as likely to be amazingly accurate as asking a television repairman—but there were no such persons, he imagined, these days—to diagnose the origin of persistent abdominal pain.

But here, in the middle of a war, cut off from everyone but each other, he was the only game in town.

Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna, Major, Committee for State

Security of the Soviet, Retired, was perhaps as seriously mentally ill as one could become. She had lost all touch with reality. She was in the depths of a depressive phase he wished he did not interpret as classic manic-depression.

The affair at the Soviet underwater city, where she had faced imminent death at the hands of her psychotic husband, had been brutalized, the victim of heavy-handed drug-induced interrogation sessions, threatened with torture, witnessed his—John Rourke’s—own apparent death, been rescued, learned of his—Rourke’s—survival, then intentionally placed her own life in jeopardy all over again for the good of others. The fight between him and Vladimir Karamatsov. Both of them—he and Karamatsov—at the point of death. And then, using a knife, wielding it with both her tiny hands like some sort of medieval broadsword, she had cleaved her husband’s head from his body.

He remembered her face, then.

And then the assassination attempts in the First Chinese City. Nearly killed again. But before that, after that, the depression, the tears she had unsuccessfully attempted to keep hidden.

And the summoning of will, in what he realized now was a manic state, when she had forced herself along with them on the mission to save Michael, but the depressive stage tugging at her throughout it all. And, finally, the violence, Michael nearly killed, nearly torn limb from limb at the hands of madmen.

Unlike the rest of them—himself, his wife, his son and daughter, his daughter’s husband Paul, all survivors from five centuries ago and the days before and after the Night of the War—she had no one.

And he, himself, Rourke realized, had done that to her.

Natalia loved him. He loved Natalia. He loved his wife, Sarah. And Sarah carried his child.

Honor.

Cold. Collapse.

His arms bound more tightly around her, one of the twin Detonics .45s in his right hand. She kept repeating his name, over and over, lifelessly.

John Rourke wept.

Colonel Mann’s hands on the control yoke of the J-7V reminded her of a lover’s hands, caressing something of which he was very fond, very possessive.

She could hear his voice through the headset he had provided her. She sat beside him in the co-pilot’s seat in the J-7V’s cockpit. “This is Iron Cross Leader. Red Leader, do you copy? Over.”

The voice of the right wing commander came in with surprising clarity, but Sarah Rourke realized that her knowledge of radio was several centuries behind the times. Perhaps it wasn’t even radio, but some sort of microwave transmission. “This is Red Leader, Herr Colonel. I am reading you. Over.”

“This is Iron Cross Leader. Red Leader, you are to execute. I repeat—execute. Do you copy? Over.”

“This is Red Leader. Affirmative. Execute, Iron Cross Leader. Red Leader out.”

“Iron Cross Leader out.” In an instant, the right wing commander’s element broke off in a steep bank toward the north. Colonel Mann’s voice began again. “This is Iron Cross Leader. Black Leader, I say execute. Do you copy? Over.”

The voice of the left wing commander, younger sounding, higher pitched, almost feminine in a way, came back. “This is Black Leader, Colonel. I copy execute. Black Leader out.”

“Iron Cross Leader out.” The left wing element banked right

and down, passing beneath them, going toward the north as well. Ahead, a ring of black Soviet helicopter gunships encircled the exposed petals of the flower-shaped First Chinese City. Fires were everywhere and ant-sized figures darted along the ground. An explosion belched upward toward them. She heard Mann’s voice telling her, “Please do not be frightened, Frau Rourke. This aircraft can both outmaneuver and outspeed the Soviet gunships and, thanks to recent innovations of our engineers, outgun their aircraft as well. Rest easily. Please alert me to any particularly sensitive areas where our fire might precipitate greater damage that we might prevent, if you will.”

“Certainly, Colonel Mann.”

“Thank you, Frau Rourke.” Another explosion that seemed just off the tip of the right wing—starboard, she mentally corrected. “This is Iron Cross Leader. Iron Cross element, execute. I say again, execute. Keep with me. We’re going in.” Colonel Mann glanced to his left, then with an element of sternness in his voice she was unused to, said, “Hoffsteder— tighten up!”

“Yes, Herr Colonel.”

“Remensehneider—take the two over the water tower-shaped object.”

Sarah Rourke had a slight sensation of motion in the pit of her stomach and, had it been later in her term, she would have blamed the baby. “Colonel—that funnel-shaped area to your left. That’s the main entrance into the city. From there, Soviet troops could utilize the monorail system to reach any part of it.”

“I understand, Frau Rourke. Thank you.” Already the plane was beginning to dive. She realized her nails were gouging into the armrests of her seat. “This is Iron Cross Leader. Jahns— watch my tail. Do you copy? Over.”

“This is Iron Cross Three. I copy, Iron Cross Leader. Over.”

“Iron Cross Leader out.”

Seven Soviet gunships formed an arc several hundred yards

back from the entrance to the tunnel through which access to the First City was gained, mini-guns licking tongues of flame toward barricaded defenders there, missile contrails zigzagging white plumes of smoke across each other, small explosions belching upward with every-other-second regularity by the entrance itself. Sarah wondered how long the Soviet armada could keep it up without running out of ammunition.

The J-7V barrel-rolled and as she sucked in her breath in what felt as if it would become a scream, Mann’s voice reassured her through the headset, “Forgive me, Frau Rourke. An enemy gunship. I shall prevent such an event reoccurring.” She watched his fingers move over the weapons console, like the hand of an artist, a toggle switch flipped, a button pushed. There was a slight vibration and she realized he had fired a missile. Her eyes were mesmerized by its contrail, and one of the Soviet gunships in the arc of seven suddenly seemed to stop-frame in mid-air, then vaporized, a black and red fireball expanding outward in all directions. The J-7V banked sharply left—to port, she told herself—and the fireball vanished from her field of vision. His hands moved again. Two of the Soviet gunships rotated a full one hundred eighty degrees, mini-guns blazing.

But her eyes followed the tracer rounds from the J-7V’s machine guns, streaks of white and orange against the gray blue of the sky, the farther of the two Soviet gunships suddenly on fire. The J-7V banked sharply to starboard, Mann almost cooing to her, “Forgive me again, Frau Rourke—should this prove—”

“No—I’m fine—the baby, too.”

“You are most gracious, Frau Rourke.” Another tremor through the aircraft, a contrail, a streak of machinegun fire, the second Soviet gunship suddenly losing tail control, chunks of the tail rotor flying in all directions, a puff of gray smoke, then a black ball of smoke, orange tongues licking outward hungrily from inside it, then a fireball and the Soviet gunship was gone.

The J-7V banked to port and climbed, Sarah Rourke pressed back into her seat, the sensation not at all unpleasant, not like a roller coaster ride, more like a gentle nudge. When Annie and Michael were little, she and John had taken them to a carnival and Michael had eaten so much and John would only go on the little children’s rides if any and she had taken them on the roller coaster and been so sick! “Colonel!”

“I apologize again, Frau Rourke—alert me should you experience difficulty.”

He had begun a power dive. She’d seen William Holden or somebody do this in a movie once and— “Look out!”

“Not to worry, Frau Rourke!” Machine guns from both port and starboard weapons pods were firing; a Soviet gunship exploded less than two hundred yards from them. The J-7 V was climbing again. Colonel Mann had warned her, after all, tried to reason with her that she shouldn’t be his tactical guide, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time! “We are almost out of this, Frau Rourke. Alert me should there be any difficulty, please.” She thought it was called a barrel roll. He was into and out of it before she could speak. All she had had time to do was suck in her breath. But now the aircraft vibrated once, then quickly again, two missile contrails arcing away from beneath each wing, two Soviet gunships exploding almost simultaneously, one on either side of them.

The J-7V banked sharply left and they were flying on their side. She thought she’d be sick. They were into level flight again.

More Soviet gunships were moving toward them like metal filings toward a magnet. “Colonel!”

“I see them, Frau Rourke. This was an excellent area to select. You are to be congratulated.”

He banked right—starboard. “Colonel!”

“I see them, Frau Rourke.” Two Soviet gunships coming down out of a cloud bank. “Jahns—cover me!”

“Yes, Herr Colonel!”

The J-7V banked to port, went through something that felt

like a half roll, then began to climb. Before she could speak, they were level again. She thought she might throw up! “Colonel—I don’t mean to—”

“Yes—he fired a missile. Hold on, Frau Rourke, please!” The J-7V was rolling, an explosion just off their starboard wingtip.

A dive. Her nails—she’d been trying to grow them again— gouged the armrests. They were level again. Tracer patterns to right and left. The chin bubble of one of the Soviet gunships exploded and in the next instant the main rotor spun off and the gunship dropped from sight.

“One more for the moment, Frau Rourke.”

One more—one more! “Colonel Mann!”

The black shape of the gunship seemed mere feet from the nose of the J-7V and suddenly the J-7V shuddered, there,was a split second of contrail and they banked sharply to port. The gunship, visible now through her side window, vaporized in a ball of flames.

The J-7V leveled off. “Jahns—take Iron Cross element and clean up. Iron Cross Leader out.”

They were going for altitude. “I should not have so indulged myself, Frau Rourke. We shall observe for now.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” She looked at her hands—they were white except for under her nails, where they were purple.

Akiro Kurinami stepped down from the German helicopter gunship, snow swirling almost lazily beneath the slowly spinning main rotor.

He wiped his bare palms down along the sides of his flight suit. It was cold and the sweat on his hands made him suddenly colder.

Beside him stood the drafted doorgunner. He looked at the young German. “You did well. You can fly with me anytime.” “Thank you, Herr Lieutenant.”

Kurinami extended his hand to the man and they shook.

All around them there was devastation. The landing pads were pitted and blackened with shell holes, some seeming deep enough that a man might well have been able to stand in the bottom of one and not have been able to see over the edge. He remembered the tales told of World War One—the War to End All Wars—of how men had sometimes fallen into such shell holes and drowned.

At least a half dozen gunships had never made it off the ground, their structural bones still smoldering in grotesque death postures. At least five more gunships had been shot out of the air.

Had not Colonel Wolfgang Mann more than twenty-four hours earlier more than doubled the size of the force here, victory for the Soviet attackers would have been a certainty. Much of the new construction for Eden Base, as it was, lay in

ruins. One of the shuttle craft was heavily damaged and another had sustained what appeared from the air at least to have been only minor damage.

He had no idea of casualties and, deep inside himself, didn’t want to know. Despite the friction between himself and Christopher Dodd, Eden commander, there was a kinship with his fellow astronauts, a kinship grown out of having survived the five centuries since the Night of the War, having survived together. Losing one of them was like the loss of a brother or sister.

Kurinami’s own wife and family had died during the flaming aftermath of the Night of the War, when the very atmosphere itself had ionized and the sky caught fire and nearly all life on earth vanished. Or before, perhaps, on the Night of the War itself. He would never know. And he desperately wanted the killing to stop. Now and forever.

The Soviet gunships had fallen back; some pockets of fighting were still in the environs of Eden Base where Soviet commandoes had rappeled in from the cargo bays of the gunships, but the back of the attack had been broken. The presence of Soviet land forces, even in such token numbers, augured a major offensive. Would Eden Base be able to withstand it? Would German supplies of ordnance and spare parts and synth fuel be able to support a protracted defense?

He kept walking, past the potholes, toward the command center, the near edge of the forward side fire-blackened but otherwise seeming undamaged.

The new German commandant, Captain Horst Bremen, stood before it, his curly blond hair wind-tousled, his left cheek dark-smudged, his uniform collar open, an assault rifle in his right hand.

“Kurinami! Over here!”

Kurinami quickened his pace; the German officer strode purposefully toward him. They met beside the remains of one of the helicopters, the acrid smell of still-smoldering synth-fuel residue assailing his nostrils as the wind, bitterly cold,

suddenly shifted. “You agree they will return?”

“Yes, Captain. It seems inevitable from the pattern of their attack.”