Survivalist - 23 - Call To Battle (20 page)

Dr. Thornton Rolvaag appeared without warning at Rourke’s elbow. “You move quietly, Doctor,” John Rourke observed.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Rolvaag extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet the man my ancestor thought so highly of.”

“A pleasure to meet Bjorn Rolvaag’s spiritual descendant” Rourke said, taking Rolvaag’s hand, smiling. “It’s hard to imagine a Rolvaag, however, without a staff in his hands or a great dog at his heels.”

Rolvaag smiled. “I have several dogs, raise them as a matter of fact. One is even named Hrothgar. Looks a great deal like the original Hrothgar, really, as far as I can tell from photographs; you’ll have to meet him and see for yourself. And my Hrothgar carries a litde of the original Hrothgar’s blood. As to the staff, well, Tm afraid Tm not much of a weapons man, although like almost everyone I own a few firearms and I’ve learned how to use them with at least a modicum of skill.”

“Your predictions, Doctor, do they take into account the fate of the geothermal vent from which Mid-Wake derives its power?”

“They’re hardly predictions in the crystal ball sense, of course. They’re probabilities based on the interpretation of identifiable available data. There is that possibility concerning Mid-Wake, obviously. We’re working on a computer model even now concerning that so that we can try to arrive at some meaningful projections relating to the geothermal vent. For the moment, it’s a wait and see situation. I liked your daughter’s question. On the surface, it sounded a bit-“

“Naive? On the surface, one might be tempted to think so, yes; but, Annie isn’t the sort of person to let grass grow under her feet waiting around helplessly for the inevitable. And she provoked an intriguing response, youll have to agree, Doctor Rolvaag.”

“You know weapons and explosives far better than I. Do you think it could work, Doctor Rourke? I mean, utilizing some artificial means by which the pressure within the volcano can be relieved?”

“Both the United States and New Germany have new conventional explosives, more powerful than anything which existed in my time,” Rourke said. “I think the possibility bears serious investigation, serious and rather rapid investigation, actually. You might save an incalculable number of lives and prevent terrible devastation.”

Rolvaag smiled a little. “Would you help me talk with the Navy?”

“Yes, certainly,” Rourke nodded. “Let’s do it right now.” In the far corner, nearer to the screen, he saw Admiral Hayes. Immediately, Rourke began walking with Rolvaag toward the woman. The computer animation had reached the part where the side of the mountain collapsed and immense quantities of molten rock spilled forth. The video presentation was fascinating, but John Rourke didn’t want to see life imitate art.

When the telephone rang, Emma Shaw had been doing something she considered inherently foolish, putting her hair into ultrasound rollers. When she picked up the receiver, she had only one roller left to go. Curls and waves of the natural kind originated within the molecular structure of the hair follicles themselves. When curls were made artificially, the molecular structure was bent. In centuries gone by, chemicals and/or heat were the medium for bending the hair. By accident, when ultrasound showers were designed for field use in arid climates (Northern Australia, the Gulf Coast fringe of North American Eden, etc.), it was discovered that hair follicles were affected. Over the last fifteen years, ultrasound rollers had replaced almost every other means of curling one’s hair.

The telephone call, from the Officer of the Day for the unit to which she was temporarily assigned, had told her that all leaves were cancelled and she should report with all speed to unit headquarters at Pearl. She hung up, finished putting in the last roller and threw together her gear, out of the house in under eight minutes.

Ultrasound rollers did their work in less than fifteen minutes, so when she was ten minutes away from Pearl, on the straightaway where she figured she could get away with it, she kept one hand on the wheel and freed her hair of the rollers with the other. Without brushing it out, she looked in the rearview mirror and was reminded of Medusa. But she managed to brush her hair reasonably well before turning into the access road to the main gate.

Past the security checkpoints, she went immediately to her fighter wing. There was traffic everywhere, on the ground and in the air. For the last several minutes of the drive, she was able to observe the huge C-6000 Skyjumpers taking off, not roaring into the upper atmosphere on their enormous jet boosters for intercontinental atmospheric insertion jumps, but flying low and slow, almost afterburnering it by comparison to their usual thrust. Island hopping? She wondered.

She parked in a vacant slot for the wing and crossed the field toward Wing HQ. A stiff wind blew in from the sea, cold, too, the wind feeling good in her hair, the collar of her bomberjacket turned up against its cold on her neck. The one time in God only knew how long she had curled her hair, she was going to be packing it under a helmet.

Shore Patrol was guarding the entrance to Wing HQ and, even though she had her I.D. badge clipped onto the left breast pocket flap of her jumpsuit and the two guys at the door with energy rifles knew her by sight, it was still necessary to have a more positive I.D. She did the palm print thing with the panel on the door (that palm and finger prints could be prosthetically altered these days hadn’t filtered down to Navy security yet) and was at last given access …

For an officer of his rank to participate in a field exercise was, of course, sheer madness. But, it was necessary. And his English, when he was cautious, could be accent-free. So was the English of the men with him. It was one of the reasons they were chosen for the operation.

There was a certain thrill in the blood on a mission such as this, almost like a sexual release when it was over. Croenberg had plenty of sex when he wanted it, but somehow commando work was even more satisfying; perhaps its edge of death was the reason.

Several of the others were already on base, Croenberg and a

fellow named Rauph, a good young man and particularly so with any sort of edged weapon, were driving together. Rauph showed his I.D. at the main gate, as did Croenberg and, without further ado, they were inside Pearl Harbor, the greatest base of military power of the United States. It was that easy.

Hopefully, this simplicity would be the hallmark of the mission itself, to rescue young Martin …

Ed had a family, wife, kids, but Tim Shaw, although he had a son and a daughter, had no home responsibilities. But he did have his work. With the coming disaster, the Nazi commando team responsible for the attack on Sebastian’s Reef Country Day School would be in a better position to wreak havoc than they could ever have expected. So, it was more important than ever to stop them.

Yuri hadn’t been at the apartment when Tim Shaw had gone there earlier with Annie Rubenstein. What a neat girl, he thought, smiling just thinking about her. She had spunk, just like Emma did, living proof that someone could have balls without having testicles.

His hat low over his eyes, his coffee steaming the windshield of the unmarked cruiser, Shaw sat behind the wheel and watched the building while he ate his dinner. Indigestion and divorce were the two chronic problems of the police officer. He’d never experienced divorce, his wife dying as the result of a freak accident. Indigestion, on the other hand, was inseparable from the territory. But the cheeseburgers at Bingo’s were usually at least edible, sometimes pretty good. This-his second, but it was dinner-was a pretty good one. Half-devoured, he put it aside and grabbed a few french fries, munching on them as he watched for Yuri to either enter or leave.

Most likely, Yuri was not home, no lights in his windows, no car in his parking slot.

It was possible that Yuri’d picked up word on the street that the cops were after him and knew where to find him, hence might never come back here. But that wasn’t likely. The kids who’d talked up Yuri’s address were scared, maybe just scared enough not to try crossing the cop who would have put them away.

Anyway, it was too early to give up and go home.

Shaw sipped at his coffee again.

The cheeseburger, a little greasy, went down easy. One thing he liked about Bingo’s was the tomato was always fresh, the cheese always real rather than synth, the meat real meat and not mosdy soy protein like some of the chains used these days. And the hamburgers were wrapped in waxed paper. Somehow, they tasted better that way.

Cheeseburger number two down for the count, he continued with the french fries. The usual thing, it seemed, was that the subject would show up while the food was still being eaten, ruining a perfectiy good (at least sometimes) dinner.

No Yuri.

French fries gone, Tim Shaw broke open the pie. Whereas the chain places had these little pies that looked like squished loaves of bread and tasted fried, Bingo’s had real pie, sliced right there in front of the customer, packaged on the spot.

Apple pie (his favorite), Shaw took a bite, then sipped at his coffee again.

A good dinner enabled a man to do his best thinking.

Rather than the matter at hand-Yuri would take care of himself, either showing up or not-Tim Shaw considered the obvious look in his daughter Emma’s eyes when she looked at John Rourke. Ever since she’d been old enough, he’d wanted her to fall in love with somebody, get married, raise children, do all the natural and normal things. If she was in love with John Rourke, aside from the fact that Doctor Rourke was a larger-than-life living legend born more than six centuries ago with children Emma’s age and a wife who was neither dead nor alive, as best Tim Shaw could make of it, Rourke would be a bad choice on other grounds.

According to what his son and Emma’s brother, Ed, said, Doc

tor John Thomas Rourke was the best man he’d ever seen in combat. And the times that were coming-war with Eden-would demand a great deal from a man like that. Assuming that everything else was somehow taken care of, what would Emma do with the guy she loved off all over the globe fighting and her at home worrying?

Tim Shaw didn’t have any answers, and he wondered if maybe he even had the right questions. Emma going head-over-heels for John Rourke, somehow, just seemed like a no-win proposition for her, something which would only bring her unhappiness.

Like every father from the beginning of time, Tim Shaw imagined, he wanted his daughter to have a life full of happiness, not sorrow. And Doctor Rourke, however neat a guy he was-and Rourke was all of that and more-was also trouble.

Finished with his pie, as Tim Shaw glanced across the street again he saw a car pulling up, German-made with an internal combustion engine, one of the cars patterned after the classic vehicles of the Twentieth Century. Essentially hand-built, running on synth-fuel instead of storage batteries, they cost a fortune. As a boy, Tim Shaw had been fascinated with both antique guns and antique automobiles, alert for every new book with photos of the antiques that were uncovered in archeological digs. And Shaw recognized this car, a red and white 1957 Chevrolet dripping with gleaming chrome, as readily as he recognized the guns of the Rourke Family.

There was a woman behind the wheel of the Chevy.

Yuri sat in the front passenger seat.

As Shaw’s own father would have put it, Yuri and the woman began to “swap spits” there in the front seat. Shaw’s mind raced. When was the best time to grab Yuri? Now? When Yuri exited the Chevy? When Yuri went up to his place?

Tim Shaw decided. The street had more possibilities. Shaw grabbed a radio out of its niche in the dashboard and dropped it into the left outside pocket of his raincoat.

His car was parked almost directly opposite the Chevy.

Taking a last swallow from his coffee, Shaw hit the kill switch for the dome light as he stepped out of the car and into the street. The brim of his fedora was still low over his eyes.

Tim Shaw started crossing the street, looking both ways, but not just for traffic. It was always possible Yuri was setting him up, but doubtful. Shaw’s course was a diagonal. By the time he was on the other side of the street, he was behind the Chevy. He took the curb, walked up from behind the Chevy and, as he approached the passenger side-the window was down-he did two things. He glanced into the back seat to make certain it wasn’t a setup for him and he snatched the .45 from his trouser waistband.

His left hand went to the door handle and Shaw slipped in just behind Yuri, thumbing the .45’s hammer back to full stand as he laid the muzzle behind Yuri’s right ear. “Hey, don’t let me stop yas” Shaw said low, almost under his breath, grinning as Yuri’s body stiffened. “A full body erection! Whoa, you passionate guy you!”

Yuri stammered, “You mother fuck-” “Shut your face, you worthless sack o’ shit.” “Yuri? Who is this-“

“Tim Shaw, ma’am. Tm a police officer, so rest easy.”

“You got no fuckin’ warrant, you-“

Shaw shoved the muzzle of the .45 a litde harder against Yuri’s mastoid sinus. “I need a warrant to arrest ya, Yuri, but I can kill ya without a warrant.”

Yuri passed gas, loudly and violently and his face went pale. The woman’s brown eyes went wide and there was just the hint of a laugh at the corners of her pretty mouth. She was black, maybe about twenty-five, her face really pretty and what Shaw could see of her figure making him wish he could see more. Shaw shut the door and the dome light went out. “What’s a nice girl like you doin’ in a place like this, kid?”

“It’s my car!”

“And a gorgeous car it is, babe. You won’t mind if Yuri and I finish our business outside, huh? After all, wouldn’t want blood-” (Yuri had gas again) “-or somethin’ worse, huh?

Wouldn’t want it all over your upholstery.” Shaw tapped Yuri with the muzzle of the .45. Tell the young lady good night, dirtbag. Tell her!” “Good night.”

Tell her ya had a nice time.” “I had a nice time.”

There ya go! Stick with me Yuri and youll be a killer with the broads.” Shaw looked at the girl. “No offense.”

“I betchya he could learn a lot from you,” she said, smiling, her eyes even prettier than before when Shaw opened the door and the dome light spotlighted her face.