Survivalist - 19 - Final Rain (10 page)

The door into the office/conference room opened, a Marine guard visible just outside, a man in a rumpled civilian suit—men’s civilian attire had not changed in noticeable ways in five centuries here—entering, smiling, talking, all at once. “I’m sorry I’m late, Mr. President, gentlemen.”

“Doctor Rourke, allow me to present Mid-Wake’s most eminent scientist, Clinton Milford.”

John Rourke stood up, realizing only as he did that he towered over the man. Milford pushed his glasses up off the bridge of his nose in a way which reminded John Rourke of Paul Rubenstein’s old habit, before the Sleep. Paul would have reached the island by now, or nearly so.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Milford.”

“The pleasure is mine, Doctor Rourke, all mine, sir.”

Milford sat down, taking the empty chair beside John Rourke. John Rourke sat down as well.

Jacob Fellows cleared his throat. “We need to discuss several things with you, Doctor Rourke, and because of the wide range of input and the potentially wide ranging ramifications of this meeting, it is comprised as it is.” Fellows seemed quite the master of circumlocution, but he was, after all, a politician, however pleasant. “The events which have taken place over the last several days—the total destruction of our training operation, the deaths of many of our personnel, the near nuclear accident. Everything points to war on an unprecedented scale. An alliance with the forces on the surface—not just a sympathetic alliance as there has been since first we met you, but a working alliance—seems more vital than ever. And a similar working relationship, between the Soviet forces which have been our historic enemies beneath the surface of the ocean for these five centuries since the war and the Soviet personnel against whom your allies wage war—a similar relationship seems unavoidable. Would you concur, Doctor?”

He looked at Rourke.

Rourke tapped ashes from his cigar into a glass ashtray.

“The forces on the surface and below the surface on both sides have no choice but alliances. Antonovitch—he’s the certain inheritor of the armies commanded by Vladmir Karamatsov—needs nuclear capabilities. Your enemies have such capabilities. However, I wouldn’t think Antonovitch would be so foolish as to launch an all-out nuclear attack without exploring other options first. Although your enemies may not be aware of the fragility of the atmospheric envelope, it’s certain the Soviet leadership on the surface is. In that one respect, and in that respect only, an alliance between the two Soviet factions could be to our benefit. Antonovitch doesn’t seem like a reckless man. Karamatsov was. There’s a modest advantage there as well.

“Yet,” John Rourke continued, “if your enemies are placing similar installations to the one we discovered by

accident on other islands, it’s only a matter of time until they are used, intentionally or accidentally, as was almost the case only a comparatively few hours ago.” He felt very tired, needed sleep, promised himself he’d get some after the conference. “So, an alliance between yourselves and the forces of New Germany, the people of Lydveldid Island, the Chinese First City and the Eden personnel is inevitable. It’s vital, Mr. President. But there are some problems you should anticipate.”

“Such as, Doctor Rourke?” President Fellows said, as if he already suspected the answers but wanted someone to say them.

Rourke mentally shrugged. “The commander of Eden Base, Christopher Dodd, won’t cooperate. That’s his way. He’s up to something. There hasn’t been time to find out what. Nevertheless, the majority of Eden personnel will welcome such an alliance, so he won’t have any choice but to go along with it, at least on the surface. But he cannot be -trusted.

“The leadership of New Germany,” Rourke went on, “can be trusted implicitly. But there are problems there. Some few facts have surfaced lately which indicate the Nazi movement which was deposed there not long ago may still be active, working to destroy the democracy established by Dieter Bern, destroy it from within. Were the new government to be overthrown and the old regime seize power, things could be very awkward. Aside from the obvious problems inherent to a Nazi regime, the Germans have some low technology level nuclear capabilities. But they have the scientific establishment and the minds behind it to take a quantum leap forward and soon.”

“And the Chinese?” Fellows asked, tenting his fingers in front of his face, leaning slightly forward across the table.

“They have neither sea nor air power, and their army is composed largely of foot soldiers and some horse-mounted cavalry.”

“Amazing,” Doctor Milford exclaimed. Rourke looked at the man, saying nothing. “Their government?” Fellows pressed.

“The government of the First City can be trusted. And, of all the potential allies, they alone already have a substantial score to settle with your Soviet enemies here beneath the sea. The Icelandics? If Iceland survives the invasion which is now a fait accompli, they have no military forces, no useful technology, but they’re a fine people and can be counted on to help within the limit of their capacity. There are the wild tribes of Europe, of course, primitive peoples. They are the descendants of the French survival communities, but came to the surface too soon. Too long living in primitive conditions, malnourished, almost totally illiterate. Despite the sort of leathery look to them, they’re like us. And they have the same hopes, although they may voice them differently. Militarily, they don’t count. But we need to include them in the plans of any alliance, if for no other reason than to save them.

“The Second Chinese City,” Rourke concluded, “is no longer a real entity, it would appear. Survivors exist in substantial numbers. With whom they might ally is anyone’s guess. They don’t like any of us. And somewhere on the surface, supposedly, there’s a Third Chinese City. Legend, perhaps, but most legends have some basis, however tenuous, in reality.”

“And you believe that the forces under this—” And Fellows consulted a notepad on the polished wooden table before him. “This Antonovitch. He’s likely realigned his forces with the Soviet Underground City in the Urals?”

“All surface intelligence reports point to that, Mr. President. That means, if it’s true, that Soviet forces on the surface have a well-entrenched technological base, full manufacturing facilities and considerable manpower reserves. The armies of New Germany and the First Chinese City combined would easily be outnumbered three to one or better.”

“May I speak, sir?” It was General Gonzalez. “Certainly, General.”

Gonzalez stood, looking at Rourke for a moment, then saying, “You saw our operation on the surface. It was terrible. But it was the best we could put together. I fail to

see what sort of contribution the Marines can make to surface warfare in the long term, not at present capabilities.”

John Rourke inhaled on his cigar. “Michael tells me that the way your men comported themselves was excellent. Michael is my son. He fought beside a Lieutenant St. James, security officer of the Wayne.”

“She’s a good Marine. The Wayne, the Reagan, yes, they have fine units. Butthe majority of the personnel under my command have no surface experience whatsoever, and almost no real combat.”

“But you have some very good people, General Gonzalez,” Rourke insisted. He looked at Aldridge. “I’ve fought beside Special Forces and SEAL personnel—five centuries ago—and numerous other special warfare personnel. I used to train them. Men like Captain Aldridge here don’t have to take a back seat to anyone.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Sam Aldridge nodded briskly looking away again.

“My point is,” Gonzalez said, “we need time to field a force. At least any sort of substantial force.”

“But you can buy time for that with the people you already have,” John Rourke advised.

Gonzalez sat down, not looking very happy.

“Spell it out, Doctor,” Jacob Fellows said, his voice low. “If you were me, and had the background you have, what would your orders be?”

John Rourke stubbed out his cigar, the smell of it strong in the close confines of the sealed room. “All right. Contact Colonel Mann of the Forces of New Germany. Get this alliance underway. Then we put together teams Some of your best Marine Corps personnel and some of the German Commandos and some of the Chinese military intelligence people. Your best submarines, like the Reagan and the Wayne, perhaps, get these units out onto the islands where the Soviets are setting up their missile bases. The Germans* can spot them from the air for us. We hit those bases, training as we go, largely. That could give us high casualty numbers, but won’t if we go about it properly. The experience gained in the real thing by people who are already well-trained but not used to working together as a unit can’t be taught in the classroom, not in any realistic amount of time. Meanwhile, some of your best people—but ones who don’t have that much combat experience—are flown to Argentina, New Germany. They train there with Chinese and German forces to make up the core of a true land army, a Special Warfare Group, if you will. What I’m basically saying is that there be two Special Warfare Groups,” John Rourke said. “One learns by doing. Men like Captain Aldridge, maybe this Lieutenant Michael spoke of, Captain Hammerschmidt whom I understand is recovering satisfactorily. People like that are members of the First Special Warfare Group. And what they learn in the field they pass on to the trainees. Eventually, we’ve got a commando force that’s substantial enough that we can hit the enemy in its strongholds. The underwater city they have here. The city in the Urals.”

Jacob Fellows smiled. “That’s basically what I was hoping you would say, Doctor Rourke. And there’s no man better to lead this force than you. I want to appoint you—”

John Rourke held up his hand, palm outward, smiling, “Wait a minute, Mr. President. With all due respect, sir, I’m no military—”

“Doctor Rourke. You are still a citizen of the United States, are you not?”

“Yes, sir, I am. I always will be.”

“And I am the President of what remains of the United States, am I not?”

“Yes, you are, but—”

“Then I’m giving you a Presidential order, Doctor. You are hereby commissioned Brigadier General, commander of the First and Second Special Operations Groups of the Allied Forces.”

“Sir, you can’t—what about the—”

“The Germans?The Chinese? From my admittedly limited understanding of surface affairs, you are a hero to both peoples, freeing New Germany from its Nazi dictatorship, saving the First City from nuclear annihilation and

almost single-handedly defeating their historic enemies of the Second City. They will not object, General.” John Rourke sat there.

Admiral Rahn, General Gonzalez, Jason Darkwood, Sam Aldridge, then the President himself stood, began to applaud. For some reason, John Rourke looked at Doctor Milford. Milford stood, was applauding too, but his eyes were laughing.

“The basic procedure is this,” Doctor Rothstein began. “I will place you in the hypnotic state. Through suggestion, I will attempt to aid you to do what you seem perfectly capable of doing naturally, to enter someone’s mind. But under the hypnotic state, you will be entering and leaving at my will rather than your own.”

Annie Rubenstein looked at Maggie Barrow. Maggie smiled, nodded that everything was okay. Annie looked at Doctor Rothstein. “Under no circumstance does Doctor Barrow leave the room while I’m hypnotized.”

Rothstein’s eyes hardened, but he nodded his agreement as he looked away. “Yes. Certainly.”

“Do we get started?” And she looked at Natalia, sedated, wearing a bathrobe, a blanket over her feet, lying on the second couch which had been present in the office when Annie had entered. Natalia had been wheeled in on a gurney, transferred to the couch, the attendants leaving her. Her eyelids fluttering and the occasional rising and falling of her breasts were the only indications she was even alive.

“I have to warn you, Mrs. Rubenstein. What you are doing could, indeed, help us to aid your friend, Major Tiemerovna. But it could also damage you irreparably. I know you understand that, but you may not understand how. So, I’ll tell you. And let me finish.”

Annie leaned back, hands folded in her lap, eyes focused

on the toes of her shoes.

“There are certain types of psychological conditions which could almost be said to be catching, like the common cold. There have been cases—in your era there was a well-known case at New York’s Bellevue Hospital—where two patients were brought in, both severely ill, both with virtually identical symptoms, both persons who had lived and interacted closely. Hospitalization separated them. One recovered totally within weeks. The other did not. The first patient had absorbed the symptoms of the other patient. The danger in this procedure is that you will be closer to another human being than very few people ever get. If you were to catch her symptoms, as it were, your own mind might be completely overpowered. Your own personality might be lost. I’m trying to keep this explanation in lay-ihan’s terms. And I’m not trying to be insulting. But it’s important that you fully understand the dangers implicit to the procedure. Rather than helping your friend, you might destroy your own future.” :

“I understand,” Annie told him. “Now can we go on with it?”

Doctor Rothstein bowed his head, looking very tired. “Yes.”

At the end of the long, dark tunnel, there were stairs. Bjorn Rolvaag gestured up the stairs and Michael nodded. Rolvaag snapped his fingers and Hrothgar sat at their base. Rolvaag switched off his light, then Michael Rourke did the same as Rolvaag started up.

Michael fell in behind him, drawing the two Berettas from the double shoulder holster he wore. Breaking the almost total darkness, there was a bar of light barely visible in the somehow deeper darkness at the height of the stairs.

Michael kept both pistols’ safety off, but his fingers outside the trigger guards lest he trip in the darkness of the stairwell and make an accidental discharge.

The only way to keep his balance, to keep his orientation was to hug to the wall of the stairwell. He did that, only conscious that Rolvaag moved still in the darkness ahead of him by the telltale sounds of breathing, the creaking of Rolvaag’s belt, the occasional tap of the tip of Rolvaag’s staff against a stair tread.