Survivalist - 20 - Firestorm (3 page)

was tinged with nervous exhaustion.

“So, you command a submarine? Wow.”

“You’re German, I know, but you sound very American. Did Germans from five hundred years ago all speak English so well?”

She laughed, winced a little as the nurse daubed something on the toe, said, “I went to college in the United States. Then came back here for my doctorate.”

Darkwood realized he was staring at her, smiling at her. She was very pretty, reddish blonde hair, the hint of freckles on her shoulders where the blanket fell away, a long and slender neck and a nice figure. Inside his head, he could hear Maggie Barrow saying, “Right, Jason! You want to get our relationship going again? I bet!” He shrugged his shoulders, to turn off his conscience perhaps. “What did you earn your PhD in?”

“Agriculture.”

He started to laugh.

“Why are you laughing?” Maritza Zeiss smiled, pouting her lip a little.

“Well, ahh,” and Darkwood smiled. “You’re the first five hundred year old farmer Tve ever met. I didn’t realize farmers were so pretty.”

She started to say something and men her jaw literally dropped as there was a crashing sound.

Darkwood started to his feet, toward her, then saw her eyes. She was staring at something behind him and he turned around. One of the volunteers had dropped a tray of instruments and, as the woman bent over, her hand or something must have caught on the sheet covering the gurney behind her. There was a dead body visible, the face blue-veined and gray. Darkwood had seen the body before, when he and John Rourke and Paul Rubenstein had returned to Eden Base, the body just lying on the ground then, like so many others. But the commander of the forces from New Germany, Colonel Wolfgang Mann, and the Eden Project commander, Christopher Dodd, had been standing near it, arguing over something. Sarah Rourke had just been sitting on the ground beside the wall, staring at it, an empty pistol on her lap. It was the body of the Nazi, Damien Rausch, the man that Sarah Rourke had shot to death there at the wall. Maybe the body was about to be autopsied or something.

Darkwood assumed Maritza Zeiss was shocked at the sight of still

another casualty, regardless of who it was.

But as he turned around and started to say something comforting, Maritza Zeiss said, That is the man I saw with Commander Dodd. Poor man. Commander Dodd said he was an agent working for Colonel Mann. He probably died very bravely.”

Jason Darkwood looked at her as he said very softly, “His was a unique death, I understand. Yes.”

He looked back at the lividinous countenance as the man who’d dropped the instruments, having them under control now, threw the black plastic sheet back over the dead man’s face. “Very unique ” Darkwood whispered.

John Rourke stood just inside the hermetic flap of the tent, snow already dripping off the shoulders of his parka. He’d been offered a seat, refused, then told Dodd why he’d come. From an inside pocket, he took one of his cigars, rolling it in his fingertips, watching Commander Christopher Dodd in the light from the overhead lamp.

Td like to confront her. Thafs what I’d like to do!” Dodd almost shouted, thudding his open palm down on the folding camp table. He was an unconvincing actor. This Zeiss woman must have had more of a shock with being taken hostage like that than anyone suspected. If she can say what she said to your precious Captain Darkwood to my face, HI step down as Eden Base commander, Doctor Rourke. And I know thafd make certain elements here-like Kurinami and Halversen and yourself and your family-exceedingly happy.”

“Well, you’re right there,” John Rourke said, looking at him. The wound across Rourke’s shoulder blades didn’t pain him at all, but it itched. The German spray which acted at once as a healing agent and disinfectant worked, sometimes too well. “If she is incorrect, m owe you an apology for even mentioning this.”

Dodd’s eyes narrowed and he stood up from behind the table. “If she’s correct, Doctor, Td be a traitor, wouldn’t I? So, if I had anything to hide, why the hell would I want to confront her in the first place? Answer me that, if you can! Think about it, man! Just because some of my decisions around here are unpopular, everybody wants to see me get tossed in the trash pile. And I’m sick of it. Til confront her, all right! She’s either lying or crazy. That-what was his name?”

John Rourke lit the cigar. He looked across the blue yellow flame from his old battered Zippo and almost whispered, “Damien

Rausch.”

“Rausch. Yes. That man may have been drifting in and out of camp here. For all I know, he could have been wearing a German uniform. Most of those-“

“They all look alike?” John Rourke supplied.

“That’s not what I meant, darnnit.”

“She’s in her tent, Doctor Zeiss that is. Why don’t we walk over mere and see her. Under the circumstances, considering her ordeal, ifd be the polite thing”

Dodd looked at the watch on his wrist, hesitated, then nodded. “All right. Til go with you. Let me get my coat”

John Rourke only nodded …

Paul looked like a snowman. He hadn’t wanted to come inside Dodd’s tent and had stood outside under the canopy shelter. But the wind blew quite strongly and the snow fell heavily, the result Paul’s parka was covered. He patted his sleeves to get rid of some of the snow as they walked, the three of them abreast, Paul to Rourke’s right, Dodd to Rourke’s left. Brushing away the snow was a useless gesture, Rourke thought, because already his own parka was all but covered with it, as was Dodd’s, and Paul’s was recovering.

They walked across the camp in silence, Rourke puffing on his cigar, Paul still brushing away snow.

Maritza Zeiss’ tent, which she shared with five other women, was on the far side of the base, near the north perimeter. Although much had been destroyed there, the tent was spared.

German troops moved about the area near the prefabricated perimeter wall, repairing it, Eden Base personnel assisting them. There was no way to tell when the Russians might strike again, although logic, substantiated by German high altitude electronic intelligence, dictated it wouldn’t be soon. There weren’t enough gunships in any one place that massing for an attack seemed in progress.

Rourke saw the tent ahead.

Dodd asked, “Is that it? I hope so; I’m freezing.”

Rourke looked at him, saying nothing, exhaling smoke, the smoke lost in the steam of his breath.

They reached the tent, the crunching of snow under their boots stopping. Rourke’s eyes swept over the ground. He thought he detected footprints seeming to come from inside the tent, but the wind drove the snow so strongly that he couldn’t be sure.

Paul looked at him. Rourke nodded. Paul took his gloved right hand from the muff pocket and rapped on the tent pole beside the hermetically sealed door. “Doctor Zeiss? It’s us, John Rourke and Paul Rubenstein. We have Dodd with us.”

Rourke looked at the hermetically sealed flap, then dropped to one knee before it, tugging off his right outer glove, drawing his first finger through the nearly filled, depression in the snow, the depression which could have been a bootprint. “Try again, Paul.”

“Doctor Zeiss? Captain Darkwood?”

“Evidently she’s out,” Dodd said, his voice holding a hint of sarcasm.

Rourke looked up, then stood, dusting snow from his inner glove. “Probably ducked out for a pizza.” John Rourke started opening the tent flap, raising his voice, saying, “We’re coming inside,” then to Paul, his voice lowering, “Watch out.”

As Rourke pulled open the flap with his left hand, his right hand found the butt of one of the Scoremasters in his belt beneath his coat.

His right thumb pulled the hammer back, then swept up the ambidextrous safety.

With his thumb poised over the safety and his right first finger just inside the trigger guard, but not touching the trigger, Rourke stepped through into the weatherlock, his left hand working the interior flap as Paul, just behind him, told Commander Dodd, “Pull that closed after you, huh?”

Rourke drew open the interior flap.

It was dark inside the tent, only a dull glow of gray daylight lighting the tent walls but providing no illumination at all for the interior.

Rourke’s left hand held the German flashlight, his wrists locking together, right over left, the beam from the flashlight and the muzzle of the handgun pointing in the same direction. “Darkwood?”

Paul’s voice came from behind him. “John-to your right.”

Rourke swung the beam from the flashlight and the gun simultaneously, sidestepping.

The light swept toward one of the cots.

On the cot lay the partially clad body of a woman, Maritza Zeiss, her throat slit ear-to-ear, eyes wide open, very little blood across her chest and naked breasts. Blood flow decreased rapidly and coagulation was enhanced under extreme cold. Rourke’s breath made steam, the lit cigar in the hand that held the flashlight.

Lying beside her, half on the cot, half off, coat off, pants pulled down to the ankles, lay Jason Darkwood.

“Paul, check the rest of the tent. Dodd, stay with him.”

Tm going for-“

“You’re doing just what I say unless you want to get planted right on your ass,” Rourke told Dodd emotionlessly, already crossing the tent, dropping to his knees beside Darkwood. There was a dark bruise at the base of Darkwood’s skull just at the hairline.

John Rourke felt for a pulse. It was there, a little weak, but he’d felt weaker ones. Breaming was shallow but regular. Darkwood needed treatment quickly, but a few seconds, under the circumstances, wouldn’t make mat much difference.

Rourke stood, took several steps back, then gradually began moving the flashlight over the two bodies, almost an inch at a time, trying to photograph the scene in his mind. There was a small cut, the blood flow almost negligible, at the left corner of her mouth by the lower lip. A red mark was faintly visible on the left side of her throat, noticeable only because her hair was back, across the pillow, almost arranged that way, it seemed. The red mark appeared to be some sort of abrasion.

The wound itself was a thin line across her throat, either a very sharp knife or something like a straight razor apparently having been used.

Her left nipple was partially torn, but there was no blood visible. Rourke cursed his stupidity for walking to the tent still smoking the cigar. “Paul? Paul!” “John?”

“Go over by the bodies and exhale several times, then get as close as you can or you’re comfortable with and tell me what you smell.”

The younger man nodded grimly. Rourke drew back toward the tent seal, keeping his cigar as far away from Paul as he could. “It’s, ahh-either semen or bleach.” Paul Rubenstein stood up. John Rourke approached the cot again. He shot the flashlight around the tent interior. “Paul. Grab me that inflatable pillow. I don’t need the pillow, just the pillow case.”

“Right.” Paul Rubenstein took the pillow of the next cot, stripped the pillow case from it, handed it to John Rourke. Rourke set down his pistol and flashlight, by the light from Paul’s light placing his still gloved hand inside the pillow case, wrapping the pillow case around his hand several times. Slowly, he slid his hand between Darkwood’s body and the edge of the cot. Rourke’s swathed hand moved over Darkwood’s naked abdomen, across the hair at Darkwood’s crotch. Then he withdrew his hand.

He held up the pillow case. “Paul. Sniff it. Sorry, the cigar”

Dodd snapped, “I don’t have to watch-“

“I agree. Close your eyes,” Rourke advised.

“I don’t smell it.”

Rourke moved his hand back, this time Darkwood’s inner thighs. Again, he held up the pillow case. Again, Paul said, “I don’t smell it.”

Rourke brought the pillow case once more under Darkwood’s body, this time along the shaft of the perns and into the area on either side of the testicles.

Even with the cigar, the semen smell was easily detectable. “Smell it now?”

“Yeah,” Paul nodded, his eyes darting right and left.

“Give me the plastic inflatable pillow you took this off.”

The younger man handed him the pillow. Rourke carefully folded the pillow case to keep the material with the semen sample inside. Now he placed the pillow between Darkwood’s genitalia and the edge of the cot, moving the pillow across the perns. When he withdrew the transparent plastic pillow there were small whitish streaks on its surface. “Keep an eye on that.”

“All right.”

Rourke took up his flashlight again. He searched along the floor. Beside Darkwood’s right hand-the fingertips were blood-smeared-was a Mid-Wake issue bayonet. It was blood smeared, too, very likely the murder weapon, regardless of who wielded it. Also on the floor, as if it had fallen from her partially open hand just above it, was a three D-Cell re-chargeable flashlight, of the type in the strategic stores tapped into by the Eden Project personnel. Rourke wasn’t concerned about fingerprints.

“Get me another pillow case. Rip this one in half or something so it’s easily identifiable.”

“Right.” In a moment, Paul was back with another pillow case, ripped in half. “What are you going to do?”

“What I have to do,” Rourke said hoarsely. Wrapping the pillow case around his hand, he used it to take a semen specimen from the dead woman’s genitalia. “Keep an eye on this one, too. Well get the two specimens typed. Odds are, they match. Then we check that against Darkwood after he provides us with a sample. If Darkwood’s sample doesn’t match-“

Dodd stammered, “Just a damn minute, Rourke! Just because this man is a friend of yours, you’re denying obvious evidence of a rape and murder?”

John Rourke looked over his shoulder at Commander Dodd. Tm having a hard day. Don’t push.”

It was like giving a urine specimen, only worse; and his head ached and his neck ached and when he moved his head his entire body was seized with pain and stiffness. In the end, Jason Darkwood mentally reconstructed an evening more than a year before that he’d spent with Maggie Barrow. Unlike a great many of the officers at Mid-Wake, she had an apartment of her own which she shared with another woman, a Marine Corps officer whose duty schedule was such that she and Maggie rarely even saw one another, one ashore while the other was at sea. Most unmarried Mid-Wake officers, constantly at sea, stayed in available officers quarters when they were ashore.