Survivalist - 23 - Call To Battle (8 page)

And that would be a far worse fate than death, to live physically only. If Martin were rational, the man that he could have been, fine and strong like Michael, Martin would choose death to that.

John Rourke stuffed one of the ScoreMasters into his trouser belt and pulled on his old battered brown bomberjacket.

Then he went out into the night to walk, to think, hoping that perhaps the fresh air would make it easier for him subsequently to fail asleep.

There was a Marine walking across the quadrangle. The young man saluted. Rourke nodded and said, “Good evening.” Rourke kept on walking.

His thoughts shifted to Emma Shaw. The woman was good company and a good cook. More than that, she was a good woman. She seemed to combine so many of the qualities John Rourke loved in Sarah and had loved in Natalia. If things were different, Rourke thought… But, they were not. Nor did he regret for a moment that he was married to Sarah, even though he knew she would leave him when she awakened to learn the fate of the child she had nearly died giving birth to, a fate John Rourke would have to fulfill.

Rourke sat on a rock overlooking the harbor area, his eyes focused far out to sea.

What he needed more than anything else now was for someone’s arms to be around him; more than at any time in his life, his soul ached with loneliness.

He looked down into his hands. His eyes, always light-sensitive, enabled him to see in the dark. There was movement by his loafer-shod feet. It was a grasshopper, not particularly large, really nothing noteworthy about the creature. Rourke kept his feet still so that he would not inadvertently step on the creature.

The grasshopper, like all lower animals, led a much less complicated life. But, with the privilege of human thought came responsibility for thought’s consequences.

The grasshopper just “hung around” for several minutes, Rourke watching the creature all the while. And then it moved off. Rourke stood up, careful to direct his feet in the direction opposite the grasshopper’s path.

Life was fragile, Rourke thought, for all.

He had raised dogs or had helped his family to raise them since his earliest memories, so he wasn’t at all upset that one of them was barking in the predawn hours. A dog might bark because it sensed danger and sought to raise an alarm, or because it experienced some sort of distress, or simply because it felt like barking.

But since his dogs didn’t usually bark at this hour, he pushed aside the covers and started out of bed, just in case.

“Thorn?”

“Some barking; I’m gonna check,” he told his wife, Ellie. There was another practical concern, of course. Their nearest neighbors were better than a quarter of a mile away, but their children were light sleepers-a good trait, he’d always thought-and might be awakened.

He pulled on a pair of shorts, stepped into his slip-on deck shoes and did one more thing. From the nightstand on his side of the bed, he took up his shoulder holster. He was not a firearms afficionado, but as with most people these days, carrying a gun was for him as natural as breathing, and a fine insurance policy for continuing to do so.

Although never “into guns” as a hobby, he took his marksmanship seriously and was quite careful in his selection of the firearms which he did possess. All were cartridge arms reproductions from Lancer; energy weapons had always seemed like overkill to him and required more maintenance than did cartridge arms. The charge had to be frequently checked and the contacts in this high salinity climate of Hawaii, although

sealed of course, had to be kept scrupulously cleaned.

When he had purchased his guns, he’d consulted with “expert” friends, then read the literature, shopped wisely for price against value and, at last, made his decisions. All his purchases were Lancer-made reproductions. The gun which was carried in his shoulder holster was the SIG-Sauer P-226. The gun which he kept primarily for home defense was ideally suited to other needs should those arise; it was the Heckler & Koch SP-89. The design had intrigued him on an intellectual level. It was a semiautomatic shoulder stockless pistol version of the MP5 submachinegun (Lancer reproductions of these were still in use by some SEAL Team and Honolulu Tac Team personnel).

He had read that in the declining years of the twentieth century, when the SP-89 was developed, civilian ownership of selective fire weapons was frowned upon and all but impossible; these days, such was not the case, of course. If a civilian wanted to own the state-of-the-art plasma energy assault rifle that was current issue to United States military forces, or a Lancer reproduction of the Browning .50 caliber machinegun, all that was necessary was the money to buy it.

There was considerable crime, as there had been throughout history, simply because some men and women did not like to work; but, very little crime was violent, and a miniscule portion of that directed against individual citizens. Home burglaries were a novelty, as were robberies of stores, banks and the like; with virtually everyone armed if he or she chose to be, violent criminality had little chance for success.

The opposite was supposedly true in Eden, where possession of any sort of weapon by a civilian was punished with horrible severity; in Eden, cries of violence against the general population were nearly the rule rather than the exception.

Although the SP-89 was only semiautomatic, he felt no need for anything more than that, as was his prerogative. The firearm his wife carried in her purse was at once equally as eclectic and equally practical, a Taurus Model 85CH, a snubby .38 Special revolver with an exposed but totally spurless and profileless hammer.

He was not a hunter, so he owned no rifle, but kept a shotgun for emergencies, this also Lancer-made, a reproduction of the Remington 870 pump.

As he started downstairs, he looked in at the children’s bedrooms. Trixie tossed and turned a bit as the barking persisted; Daniel seemed undisturbed as yet.

He took the stairs as silently as he could, grabbing his leather jacket when he passed the halltree and pulling it on over the shoulder holster and his bare skin beneath.

He walked through the house from front to rear, exiting via the kitchen door to the backyard and the dog runs beyond. Raising the oversized Malamutes was not as profitable as raising the smaller pet varieties or the Dobermans, but he had a special interest in these animals.

They were all up, awakened by the one which barked.

As he approached, the animal calmed, looked at him.

There was always one named “Hrothgar” in the family. Not that these Hrothgars were true physical descendants of the original who was the companion of Bjorn Rolvaag, of course. But, for more than a century now, someone in the Rolvaag family raised dogs and named one of those dogs Hrothgar.

Thornton Rolvaag stroked the muzzle of his Hrothgar, saying to the animal, “Something’s bothering you tonight, isn’t it? Hmm?” This Hrothgar, however, did carry some of the original Hrothgar’s genes, and had the slightest part of wolf in him because of it.

Hrothgar stood feet planted by the door to his shelter within the run.

Thornton Rolvaag drew his hand back and walked along the fence to the entrance, opened it, went inside. Hrothgar sat before his shelter now. Rolvaag whisded softly and Hrothgar ran to him. “I should have checked for seismic activity, shouldn’t

I? When will people learn to understand animals, huh?” He played roughly with the dog’s ears-Hrothgar loved it-and gave the dog a hug.

What was called in the history books “The Great Conflagration” had one beneficial effect to a man who raised dogs; among the species wiped out was Ctenocephalides canis, the common dog flea.

“Hrothgar-you go back to sleep and I’ll go do what I should have done in the first place, okay?”

It was odd how Hrothgar seemed almost capable of understanding, because the dog turned around, winding itself down in a descending spiral until it lay prone beneath the roof of its shelter.

Thornton Rolvaag left the run, closing the gate, stopped to give a quick look and a quick pet to each of the Malamutes, then returned to the house.

In the kitchen, he took a glass of water from the tap, drank it, then set the glass on the counter over the dishwasher. His coat still on-the night was chilly-he went toward the front of the house, to his home office.

As he had anticipated from Hrothgar’s behavior, his computer link to the seismographic equipment at the University indicated the volcano was acting up again.

As if on cue, the phone rang. He tried to remember where he’d left it, found it beneath a stack of hard copy, picked it up. “Thornton Rolvaag.”

“Thorn, Betty.”

Betty Gilder, his professor during his postgraduate days at the University of Hawaii, was these days technically his boss, but more than that, she was a combination mother-figure and good old friend. “I’ve got the stuff coming in over my computer. Hrothgar woke me up.”

“I think we should hire that dog of yours full-time, Thorn.”

Til ask him and see what he says,” Rolvaag volunteered.

“Think we can get around the fact he doesn’t have a PhD?”

Til loan him mine,” Rolvaag volunteered.

“You weren’t so flippant when I was your faculty advisor, sonny.”

“Yes, mother. Want me to come in?” “No. But, do me a favor?” “Sure. What?”

Betty sounded a little tired. Tm bushed. Ride herd on it for a little while so I can get some sleep. Then get some sleep yourself and come in by noon, okay?”

“Fine.” Rolvaag lit a cigarette. “Til call you if there’s anything anomalous.”

“Kiss Ellie and the kids for me.”

“How about Hrothgar?”

“Sure,” Betty said.

“Get some sleep, mom.”

“Right.”

The line clicked dead.

Thornton Rolvaag set the phone down on the desk. He heard the rustiing of clothing behind him, turned slowly toward the sound. It was Ellie, in nightgown, bathrobe and bare feet.

“Betty, right?”

“Right.”

“And Hrothgar was playing seismologist again, right?” Ellie asked. “Right again.” “Want coffee?”

He took a step closer to her and she came into his arms, leaned her head against his chest for a second. “A hug’s fine.”

She took his cigarette from his other hand and dragged on it, exhaling as she said, Tm gonna go pee, then get to bed. Kids have to be at school the same time they always do. If you’re asleep, what time do I get you up?”

Tm gonna keep an eye on things for an hour or so, then hit the rack. Get me up by nine or ten; have to be at the University by noon.”

“Want pancakes for breakfast?”

“Sounds good to me.”

She leaned up on her bare toes and kissed his cheek. She had been raised on a farm on Hilo, grew up barefoot and never outgrew it. He drew her against him, kissed her lightly on the lips. “Need a sweater?” Ellie asked.

“I can get it.”

“You watch your computer screen; Til get it. And then Til go pee.”

“Think about the rolling of the surf across the-“

“Ohh, shut up!” Ellie said, laughing.

Rolvaag flicked ashes from his cigarette. When he looked back toward the doorway, she was gone.

By the time she returned with his bathrobe, his slippers and a cotton afghan in case he got cold, he had the readings coming in from the major sensors.

The Old One was restless tonight, but he’d seen her worse.

He changed-“You just wanted to see me naked, who are you kidding?”-and kissed Ellie again, then sat down at his desk.

He heard her clothes rusding again as she left. After a few minutes, he heard one of the upstairs toilets flushing.

Rolvaag started jotting down notes.

Wilhelm Doring set down his suitcase.

“Why are there not separate accommodations?”

“I thought that you and the woman would be-“

Doring started to say something, but stopped as he heard Marie Dreissling clear her throat. He looked away from Stroud and looked at Marie, instead. “Yes, Marie?”

“I do not object to the accommodations if they satisfy you, Willy.”

She was blushing.

Doring felt the corners of his mouth turning down. He looked back at Stroud, their contact here in Honolulu and, perforce, their landlord. “Fine. Make certain we get a good night’s sleep.”

“Yes, certainly Herr Sturmbannfuhrer Doring-“

“Willy; I am ‘Willy’ to you and to everyone else. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Willy.”

“Good. You may leave us.”

Stroud, who was a contract agent to the Gestapo and was so deferential as to be annoying, left at once, bowing slightly as he backed through the doorway of his own building. The building, like many in this section of Honolulu, was largely immigrant housing. Refugees from Eden came here, as did other nationalities, Russians and Chinese in particular, and some Wild Tribespeople, because Hawaii had employment. There was a booming economy here, the jumping-off point for the Far East and Australia, where there was more employment still.

The population of Hawaii was largely technocratic. Consequently, laborers to handle the automated farms stretching along the Pacific toward what once was Japan and the expansive livestock and agricultural facilities on Australia were in desperate demand. The wages were good.

Every iota of data concerning the enemy had been made available to Wilhelm Doring, and he devoured it because even the smallest fact could be of benefit to him in the success of this operation.

Stroud had been waiting for them on the beach road with a large electrically powered van. The two wounded men were already stabilized before reaching the beach. Once on the beach and certain that the landing zone was secured, they had aimed the inflatables back into the shipping lanes with small time-detonated charges aboard which would take their engines and thwarts to the bottom after the synth-rubber burned.

They changed in two-person shifts (except for Marie Dreissling of course) into civilian-appearing clothing, packing their gear into more of the fabric suitcases they had brought.

Doring was taking off his windbreaker as he noticed Marie staring at him. Doring stripped away his body armor vest. Marie was still looking at him. Doring pulled his energy pistol from the waistband of his trousers. “Marie, there will never be anything permanent between us. You realize this?”