Survivalist - 12 - The Rebellion (26 page)

But as he fell, he heard a clear, German-accented voice.

“You will not move, Captain Dodd—or you will be shot.”

Munchen.

“Doctor Munchen, stay outa this,” Dodd snapped. “We need these people’s vehicle, their weapons. We may need them if your German friends attack again.”

Paul Rubenstein turned his eyes away, a dust devil rising as Doctor Munchen fired a three-round burst from his machine pistol. “The next time, Captain Dodd, you will be dead. As ranking officer here, I represent the interests of my commander. And hopefully also, the interests of reason. No helicopter can be spared to aid them—this is a military necessity. But it is a moral necessity that they be allowed to try—to rescue Annie Rourke. Help Herr Rubenstein to his feet, Captain—and do nothing which will provoke your death.”

Dodd’s eyes flickered in the lamplight from the nearest tent pole—and then Dodd, very slowly, began to move. He reached down, stopping, Paul Rubenstein holding the High Power in his right hand, his left arm going over Dodd’s shoulders.

To his feet. With Dodd half supporting him, Paul moved toward the truck, reaching it then, shaking his left arm loose of Dodd, Madison reaching down to him. Paul clambored aboard.

As he settled behind the wheel, he told Madison, “Keep your rifle on Dodd—he moves, kill the son of a bitch.”

“Yes, Paul.” She nodded, thrusting the muzzle of the M-16 through the open passenger-side window.

Paul Rubenstein released the brake, putting the Ford into gear. He shouted past Madison and through her open window. “Doctor Munchen. God bless all of you—I hope you find what you want.”

Doctor Munchen pulled himself to attention, then curtly bowed his head, nodding. “And to you, Herr Rubenstein— this God, may He bless you as well in your endeavors. I am sorry that no more can be done to help.”

“I know that.” Paul nodded, then cut the wheel hard left as he eased clutch pressure, turning out of the lamplight and toward the night. Annie …

Annie Rourke had made her decision. She watched now as Forrest Blackburn loaded supplies aboard the helicopter. When he made his move, she would make it seem as though she realized there was no choice but to surrender to his desires. She would not make it obvious. Tears—they would help.

And he would undo the straps which bound her. She would hesitate, then pretend that she would accept him.

From the gear he had found cached, she had noted several objects of interest. Two M-16s. A full flap military holster of some fabric material, inside the holster a pistol. She had watched him as he had checked it, cleaned it of the cosmolenelike substance that had protected it. It was something she recognized from her father’s arms locker—a Beretta 92SB-F, the military 9mm adopted just before The Night of The War. But the object of greatest interest lay in the sheath on the opposite side of the belt—a bayonet for an M-16.

A knife. She could kill with that as he folded his arms about her, as he touched her. Natalia.

It was what Natalia would have done—had done?

Rourke kicked through the glass door at the base of the steps, an alarm sounding now, high pitched, agonizing to the ears, his left hand wrenching down the panic bar. He threw open the door, passing through first. Gunfire hammered toward him and he drew back, shards of glass left in the doorway shattering now under the impact of assault rifle bullets. Rourke snapped both Scoremasters through the open doorway, firing in tandem, emptying both pistols as he dodged to the side of the corridor opposite the doorway. Two of the SS security personnel were down.

Past them, around the bend in the corridor and then down a single flight of open stairs—the second floor was the communications center.

But to get past them. Kurinami—Rourke could see the Japanese in the doorway, having rested his burden of Deiter Bern.

One of the German machine pistols was in Kurinami’s hand. “What do we do?”

Rourke reloaded the Scoremasters, nodding toward the end of the hallway.

Kurinami smiled. “I was afraid you would say that. “Let’s go,” and Kurinami charged forward, Rourke beside him, the .45s spitting, the German machine pistol firing bursts, a cry issuing from Kurinami’s throat. “Banzai!”

Security men going down, gunfire hammering into the

corridor walls, Rourke feeling something tugging at his left rib cage, firing out both Scoremasters. He stabbed the empty pistols into his belt, drawing the twin Combat Masters, firing as they closed with the remaining SS.

Kurinami’s right hand flashed outward, then his left, a bayonet in each—Rourke had seen them on the man’s belt earlier. The knives arced outward, downward, right to left, screams from the SS security personnel.

Rourke’s little .45s empty, Rourke stabbed them into his hip pockets, grasping the butt of the Gerber Mkll, hacking with the spear point blade into flesh.

One of the SS men raised his assault rifle, a fresh magazine slapping home. Rourke’s right arm punched outward, like a rapier thrust, the knife biting into the SS man’s throat, pinning the man to the wall.

Rourke drew the Python—the SS security team was no longer a threat.

“I’ll guard here—get Bern.”

“You are wounded, John!”

Rourke touched at his rib cage. “Very perceptive of you—go on,” and Rourke snatched up one of the assault rifles, starting to hunt for spare magazines. He found four fully loaded, ramming one up the empty magazine well of the rifle, working the action.

He started forward, breaking into a run along the corridor, halting by the edge of the bend, pulling back.

The assault rifle slung at his side, Rourke reloaded his pistols. He glanced behind him. Kurinami, an assault rifle suspended below his right arm, carried Deiter Bern in his arms.

Kurinami was beside him then. Rourke started around the bend of the corridor. But Kurinami hissed, “Hey— about shouting, ‘banzai’ back there, you know?”

Rourke looked at the young lieutenant. “What about it?”

“Well. I always wanted to try it.”

Rourke nodded. “Kinda like somebody born in Texas shouting, ‘Remember the Alamo,’ huh? Don’t sweat it— come on, stay behind me,” and Rourke took the bend in the corridor, tucking back as gunfire hammered into the wall near his head.

“What do we do now?”

Rourke was just about to tell the Japanese, “I don’t know,” when the volume of gunfire dramatically increased, but somehow sounded wrong.

Rourke peered past the corner. “Hartman—all right!” And Rourke broke into a run, shouting to Kurinami, “Come on—hurry!”

Captain Hartman and his team of counterfeit SS personnel. At least a dozen of Hartman’s men were locked in combat with the genuine SS security team, and they were closing, the real SS falling back. Rourke opened fire, into the backs of the SS, some of them turning toward him now to return fire, Hartman’s men closing at hand-to-hand range, machine pistols discharging at close range, the smell of burning flesh on the air, mixed with the acrid smell of the chemical propellent from the German weapons.

As Rourke narrowed the gap, emptied his Scoremasters, Hartman s men beat down the last of the SS, Hartman firing two bursts from his machine pistol into the commander of the SS unit.

Hartman stepped over the body as Rourke slowed, stopped.

Hartman rendered a military rather than Nazi salute. “Herr Doctor, the way is clear to the nerve center of the communications area. The leader and a dozen SS hold it as the leader utilizes the television system and the radio system to appeal for support. We must go at once.”

And Hartman turned to his men, pointing to one, then another. “You. You—relieve the Japanese officer of his burden, quickly.”

Hartman turned again toward John Rourke, bowing

slightly, his heels clicking together. “Herr Doctor, if you would accompany me?”

“What about Natalia?” Rourke began, walking beside Hartman, stepping over the bodies of the dead SS. “And your standartenfuehrer.”

“I think perhaps he should be called colonel, now, hmm, Herr Doctor? Both the colonel and the Major Tiemerovna are well—they wait with the rest of my unit by the broadcast area for us to join them. You are wounded?”

“Creased my rib cage—I’ll be stiff as hell tomorrow,” Rourke began, starting to take the steps downward two at a time, “but I’m fine now. Anybody’s got a field dressing and some tape I wouldn’t mind it.”

Hartman nodded, then in German, “You there—attend the Herr Doctor’s wound—quickly!”

Rourke stopped beside the railing, looking down toward the position below. Natalia waved up toward him, and then so did Wolfgang Mann—he was at the head of his troops, his men barricaded on both sides of the walls which tunneled toward the broadcast studios. At least two dozen personnel were with him, more joining him from Hartman’s unit. Rourke had the BDU blouse opened, pulling back the left side, holding the shoulder rig back, gingerly touching at the wound. It was shallow, but bleeding heavily. He shrugged, closing his eyes against the sudden cold of the antiseptic/healing agent the trooper sprayed against the wound. He let the man position the field dressing, then held his breath as the tape was applied to secure it. He looked at the German soldier. “Thank you for your care,” Rourke told the man in German.

The soldier snapped to attention and nodded. “Herr Doctor!”

Rourke started again down the stairwell, surveying the position below. There were enough personnel for a frontal assault. But it would take a heavy toll. Before he reached the base of the stairwell, Mann was to his feet, shouting to

his men as he limped ahead “Follow me!” Hartman’s force was moving, Mann and Hartman at the forefront, a machine pistol in each of their hands. Glass shattered in the front of the broadcast studio, the leader’s voice—it could be no other—audible now.

The voice—fear edged—called for defeat of the fifth column, adherence to the strict principles of Nazism which had brought them so far, for the people to rise up in his defense.

Rourke took the stairs downward, Natalia meeting him at the base of the stairs, one of her revolvers in her left hand. Rourke leaned against her, one of the Scoremasters in his right fist. They walked ahead, in the wake of Mann—helped by two of his troops—Hartman and the anti-Nazi force.

Gunfire.Screams. As Rourke and Natalia passed through the shot-out entry way, he heard a new voice. “This is Colonel Wolfgang Mann. The leader is dead. I bring to you a man we all trust—Herr Professor Deiter Bern.”

The voice matched the body—frail, old sounding, but though the words of Deiter Bern were older, their strength—democracy, freedom, equality, tolerance—was not diminished.

Rourke sat in the leatherette swivel chair, his feet propped on one of the communications consoles, a cup of coffee beside him. Deiter Bern’s words were long since concluded. And so, except for a few pockets of SS resistance at the far end of The Complex, was the fighting. Wolfgang Mann had refused medical care, attempting instead to contact the remainder of his forces in North America. A voice crackled over the speaker. Rourke sat more erect.

“This is Hauptsturmfurhrer Helmut Manfred Sturm. I announce this to you, Standartenfuehrer Mann, and to all

other traitors. The remainder of my force, what is left after combatting heavy Russian forces, shall embark this hour in a final attack against the Eden Project base. We know their strength and they cannot resist our attack. Then, Herr Standartenfuehrer, my men and I shall return to The Complex and fight you and all other traitors to fully restore our rightful system of Nazism.”

John Rourke was sitting beside Wolfgang Mann. There was pain in Mann’s eyes, but not from injury. “Helene Sturm’s husband—mein Gott.”

John Rourke took the microphone into his hands, Natalia beside him. “Captain, this is John Rourke. You don’t know me. But I know your wife. I’m a doctor—I delivered twin daughters to your wife, Helene. Both your wife and your daughters nearly died at the hands of the SS under the personal direction of your leader who is now dead, after your son Manfred betrayed your wife to the leader of the youth. When Colonel Mann, others and myself rescued your wife, your oldest son was assisting in your wife’s torture and your infant daughters were about to be mutilated before they could be born. Your three remaining sons were already prepared for torture. But they, like your wife and twin daughters, are safe now. Your son Manfred—he had to be killed to prevent him stabbing your wife in the throat with a surgical instrument. Rourke over.”

There was silence from the speaker, only the crackle of static—then panicked shouts that were unintelligible, and the roar of a single gunshot.

Rourke handed the microphone to Wolfgang Mann. John Rourke said nothing.

He started walking away from the communications console, picking his way over the shards of glass, the unmoved dead SS personnel. Natalia walked beside him. His left hand held her right hand—tight.

In the foyer beyond the communications studio was a small white column, rising perhaps four feet, and atop the

column—identical except for materials to one he had seen earlier outside The Complex—was a bust of Adolf Hitler.

John Rourke still held Natalia’s hand, but with his right hand he drew the Python. The hydrostatic shock characteristics of the .357 Magnun over the .45 ACP made it the logical choice. His voice a whisper as he raised the Python to eye level, he told Natalia Tiemerovna, “I don’t think anyone will want to worship him anymore.” And John Rourke pulled the trigger, and the face of Hitler shattered into dust.