Survivalist - 21 - To End All War (9 page)

In the five centuries since he had last worn one, nothing had changed. Five centuries ago, lapels had swung pendulum fashion from wide to narrow, to wide to narrow again, then back to wide, and shirt collars had gone from the wing type—which he personally detested—to more standard collars, then back to the wing type again.

Two tailors from New Germany’s most exclusive men’s clothiers had arrived at the unnecessarily large apartment he had been given for his use, bringing with them a large variety of formal clothes. After realizing it was puerile to protest, Rourke submitted to the inevitable, but selected from among the clothes the most conservative, those closest to the solitary tuxedo he had owned Before the Night of the War.

Black.

The lapels were of a medium width. He eschewed a cummerbund just as vigorously now as he had then.

The shirts—why did they insist he needed a half dozen? — were plain-fronted, requiring studs, and had the standard type of collar featured on those designed for less splendifer—

ous purposes.

The ties—three—were neither ultrasmall nor the size of a mutated butterfly, but essentially identical to the tie—one— he had used five centuries ago. He had, of course, opted now, as then, for the sort of tie one did oneself.

And, just as it had been five centuries ago, a tuxedo was damnably difficult for hiding any sort of substantial handgun. A curious coincidence, he thought, reflecting on it now as he knotted his tie. But when he and Paul and Michael had stopped at The Retreat to pick up Sarah, Natalia, Annie, and Maria, during the course of a fast inspection of The Retreat systems, he’d checked the gun cabinets, of course, not just the glass case that was in the open in the Great Room, but the other storage areas as well. He’d stored the CAR-15 he no longer had the luxury of carrying in its proper place, returning the Colt Lawman two-incher as well, since he no longer carried a companion .357 Magnum revolver, his Metalifed and Mag-Na-Ported Python having been damaged beyond easy repair some time ago. But he’d noticed a handgun he thought might prove useful, one of the last guns he’d acquired Before the Night of the War.

He’d bought it for practical as well as for emotional reasons back then. When he would occasionally confer with an influential friend at Smith & Wesson, he would ask the same questions that apparendy many thousands of other Smith & Wesson fans had on their minds: “Any plans to produce the old Centennial Model in stainless steel?”

When the gun eventually was produced that way, sans grip safety and in the more rust-resistant form, Rourke held out for some time, telling himself there were better things he could spend his money on than another firearm. But, in the end, he’d acquired it. The telling thing was the Centennials were tested for Plus P Plus, so he could safely fire ordinary Plus P .38 Special through the gun.

Although the handgun came with nicely figured smooth Goncalo Alves stocks, he immediately removed these and substituted, instead, a Barami Hip Grip. The Hip Grip, on those rare occasions when he would carry a short-barrelled

J-or K-Frame revolver, had always proved itself as the most concealable way.

Before he closed up the case in which he’d found the Model 640 Centennial, he decided to take it along.

A modest supply of new manufacture .38 Special made for him by the Germans but to the exact specifications of the old Federal 158-grain Semi-Wadcutted Lead Hollowpoint Plus P loading, a spare set of the Hip Grips, a solitary Sa-fariland J-Frame speedloader, and he was set, stashing the gun in his pack for some future use as an emergency hideout.

The bow tie knotted, John Rourke went to the pack that lay on the foot of one of the two double beds. Sarah would return to their room in a few moments, but he had a meeting to attend before the banquet, so time was of the essence.

He extracted the Centennial from the pack, checked it for functional reliability, loaded it with five of the SWLHPs, then slipped the revolver on its Hip Grip into the beltless waistband of his trousers, taking the A.G. Russell Sting IA Black Chrome from the dresser top where his other weapons lay and securing knife and sheath near the small of his back.

As Rourke was about to slip into his jacket, the door to the apartment opened and he left the bedroom. It was Sarah.

She wasn’t ready yet, of course, but looked lovely nonetheless. Her hair, not quite as long as Annie’s, was sofdy arranged, drawn back at the nape of her neck. She was dressed simply, as was her habit, in a pretty pastel floral print maternity-style top—something Annie had made for her, he surmised—a blue skirt, and low-heeled shoes.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Rourke smiled.

“Annie and Natalia … that was terrible. Annie told me all about it. Thank God they were together.” “Yes. You look very pretty.”

She smiled at him. “You look pretty.” John Rourke didn’t know what to say and he cleared his throat. “So, 111 see you at dinner?”

“Yes.”

She started to walk toward the-bedroom, Rourke deferring to her as she went through the doorway, following her. She stopped before the dresser. “You’re leaving your Detonics .45’s?”

“Won’t carry under a tuxedo unless it’s tailored for them or the jacket’s a couple of sizes too large, at least in the shoulder holsters.”

She turned around and looked at him as he slipped into his coat, coming closer to him and putting the palms of her hands against his chest. “What are we going to do? I mean, if we lose this big batde everyone’s starting to talk about, we don’t have to worry about it. But, if we win—”

“I love you and I always have loved you.”

“And you love Natalia, too, John. I know that, and in a way I’ve come to accept that.”

John Rourke folded Sarah into his arms. He touched his hps to her forehead. “You’re my wife.”

“The consolation prize?”

“I never said that,” he told her, still holding her.

“You know what’s the interesting thing, John? I can really understand why you love her. She’s extraordinary, not just the way she looks or what she can do, but she’s extraordinary.” ‘

“So are you.”

She leaned up and kissed him lighdy on the mouth. “Big deal what I can do, John. Or anything else about me. But she’s so much like you, and maybe she’s just a litde bit better, and maybe that’s what’s so intriguing about her.”

“Uhh …” He didn’t know what to say, which was always his problem, he realized.

“You gave me two fine children.” Then Sarah touched her abdomen gendy. “Three. At least Dr. Munchen told me he doesn’t think well have twins, and I didn’t want an ultrasound or any of the newer tests. And you love me. It’s all right that you love Natalia, John. It wasn’t your fault. And whatever you decide, I know it’ll be the right thing for all of us.”

John Rourke held her more tighdy and kissed her hair, remembering why he’d first told her he loved her more than five centuries ago.

Some things did not change.

A lit cigar in his clenched teeth, John Rourke entered the meeting hall they had used earlier.

A half-dozen German Long Range Mountain Patrol guards under the command of a senior sergeant stood guard at the doors. Rourke was admitted without question.

Seated in a chair, wearing his dress uniform, was Jason Darkwood. Standing beside him, arm still in a sling, was Sam Aldridge in Marine Corps Dress Blues. Otto Hammerschmidt stood by the window, deep in discussion, it seemed, with Colonel Mann, both German officers in dress uniform.

Neither Michael nor Paul had arrived yet. Nor had Dieter Bern.

Rourke crossed to Jason Darkwood in three long strides, Darkwood starting to stand. “Relax, Captain. How are you feeling?”

“Full of antibiotics and bandaged in a few uncomfortable places and a litde tired. But okay.”

“I know the feeling,” Rourke smiled, starting to offer his right hand to shake, but remembering he’d just removed the bandages from both his hands less than an hour ago. “Forgive me,” and he nodded toward his hands. “Still a litde tender.”

“You’re out of uniform, General.”

“Yeah, right,” Rourke smiled good-naturedly. “And that’s the way I intend to stay. Remember?” Rourke joked. “A general has a right to make his own uniform, which means I’m not out of uniform at all, am I?”

“Touche.”

Sam Aldridge laughed sonorously. The doors to the chamber opened again, and Michael and Paul entered, Rourke staring at them. He’d never before seen either man in a tuxedo, and seeing his son dressed that way was an experience he doubted he’d ever forget. He thought, My God, he’s grown up!”

“Dad, Dr. Bern will be along in a litde while. One of his aides met us in the corridor.”

“Thanks, son,” Rourke nodded. Now he studied their attire more clinically. Where were Michael’s Beretta 92Fs? Where was Paul’s Browning High Power? Mentally, he gave them each high marks, knowing neither of them would have traveled unarmed any more than he would. He looked-away, not wanting to find die spots where they’d hidden their guns. “Well, gentlemen, a party coming up. How nice, and how useless.”

From the windows where he still stood, Wolfgang Mann called out, “Yes, but the habiliments of civilization are important at times, aren’t they, Doctor?”

Rourke lookeaover his shoulder toward Mann and smiled. “I suppose. But 111 confess I’d enjoy the prospects of this banquet more if it were for some purpose other than what I understand it to be.”

“You will be awarded the Knight’s Cross, Herr Doctor. Few men have earned such a distinction.”

Rourke had not realized he was to be given a medal. “Look, I don’t-“

“You didn’t know!” Mann exclaimed, leaving the company of Otto Hammerschmidt suddenly and crossing the room toward Rourke. “Forgive me, Herr Doctor!”

“Forgiven, but I really don’t—”

“I knew,” Paul said, “and so did Michael. I mean, John, without you, who of us would be here? The German Republic would still be a Nazi dictatorship, and … well, if anyone deserves a medal, you do.”

John Rourke looked at his friend, then down at his hand, realizing he needed to find an ashtray but couldn’t, instead tapping ashes into his left palm as he cupped it. “All I ever did-“

But before Rourke could complete his thought, the doors opened again and Dieter Bern entered, positively withered

looking in an ill-fitting, impossibly overlarge tuxedo that, like its wearer, appeared to have seen better days. “Gendemen, it appears from our latest reconnaissance overflights that the Russians have stationed several of their undersea boats off our coasdine.”

John Rourke looked at Colonel Mann. “And this is the time for a party?”

But Deiter Bern continued to speak. “If they intend the use of nuclear missiles, we are all dead. If not, it is their move in any event. I suggest that we utilize the evening to its fullest potential, gendemen. Tonight we live, while tomorrow we might die.”

John Thomas Rourke looked at his son and his friend, then at his son again. What sort of life had Michael lived until now? A dead wife and baby? A mistress. Was that all?

And he looked at his friend, his son-in-law. What had Paul and Annie had?

As he flicked more ashes into his palm, John Rourke answered his own question.

They had lived all that life allowed them.

It was time he did the same.

Natalia entered the ballroom and the music should have stopped. John Rourke’s heart nearly did.

She walked at Paul’s right, Annie, beautiful as well, at his left. Both women wore black.

A short distance behind them walked Michael, his mother at his left arm, his mistress, Maria Leuden, as his right. Sarah’s pregnancy was barely detectable with the dark blue floor-length gown she wore, and Marie Leuden, her glasses absent, her hair up, wore a floor-length, bare-shouldered dress of pale green.

The military orchestra played a waltz-tempoed German pop song Rourke did not recognize beyond origin, but it was pretty enough and he walked across the ballroom floor, threading his way past the dancing couples, straight toward Sarah.

She looked up at him. “Dance with me?” Rourke asked his wife.

She came into his arms as he drew her out onto the floor.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her honesdy.

She leaned her head against his chest for a moment.

“I understand we’re supposed to drink and dance and have a good time for a while yet until the banquet, then more drinking and dancing and having a good time.”

“You’re getting a medal, John.”

“Yes,” Rourke drawled out, his eyes surveying the floor without even consciously trying. “That young officer who’s Hammerschmidt’s brother … he deserves a medal. Darkwood deserves a medal.”

“I hear hell get once once he returns to Mid-Wake. And he’s getting one here tonight.”

Rourke looked down into his wife’s gray-green eyes. “Anything else happening this evening I don’t know about?” “It depends. What do you have in mind?” Rourke smiled, drawing her closer against him… .

“I am empowered,” Antonovitch said wearily, “to offer half of all territories to be conquered and our full logistical support technologically and otherwise in your reclamation efforts associated with these lands. All of this in exchange for your full cooperation in prosecution of the war effort against the Allies and your turning over to us ten percent of your submarine fleet plus whatever Mid-Wake vessels might be captured, with, of course, your full support for our successful operation of these vessels.”

The head of the triumvirate smiled, folding his hands on the conference table. “Ten percent of our fleet? The Mid-Wake vessels are yours, but this ten percent—”

“I can assure you, Comrade, that your forces would be more than compensated. You would have full right to all armored vehicles and surface weapons technology captured from the Allies, as well as ten percent of our armor, to include the mobile missile launchers we discussed earlier.”

“And the Particle Beam weapons technology, Comrade General? Would you share this with us?”

“I am not authorized to do so, Comrade. But such details as these would be open to discussion in the future.”

“We should, of course, be prepared to share with you our nuclear warheads.”