Survivalist - 21 - To End All War (11 page)

She looked to her right. John was already in motion, the little snub-nosed .38 revolver he’d picked up at The Retreat in his right hand. Beside her, she felt a familiar presence. “Any good ideas, Michael?”

There was one of his Beretta 92Fs in his left hand. “Yeah, I guess. Let’s go.”

As she got to a crouch beside him, she could already see Annie and Paul, guns drawn, moving off the side of the platform at the far end of the speaker’s table. So far their movements had not been detected, the Nazis so methodical as they swept their way forward.

Side by side with Michael, she edged back toward the near end of the table.

Many of the round tables were overturned, officers sheltering their women behind them, those apparent few who carried arms returning fire but with little or no effect.

And then Natalia heard John’s voice, “Let’s get them!”

And with only the litde revolver in his hand, he was running toward them.

She knew then the meaning of the expression about one’s heart leaping to one’s throat… .

Rourke found the nearest of the Nazi attackers, a man close to his own size, carrying an M16 like all the others he was able to see. “Dodd” Rourke rasped. It was the power-mad Eden Project Commander who had to be responsible for arming these men. Natalia had told him that the arms used during the attempt made on her life and Annie’s could only

have come from the Eden Project stores.

Rourke advanced. As the black-clad Nazi assassin he’d targeted made to fire on another group of defenseless people, Rourke stepped away from the wall, the Centennial in his right hand at near-maximum extension, his right first finger drawing the trigger back until the cylinder was fully rotated and it was just ready to break. “Hey!”

The Nazi wheeled toward him, and Rourke pulled the trigger that extra fraction of an inch to strip it, the litde stainless steel .38 Special bucking hard in his hand under the pressure of the Plus P load, the bridge of the killer’s nose collapsing, blood spurting outward across the man’s face as the Nazi fell back.

Darkwood came up in the edge of Rourke’s peripheral vision, weaponless. “Grab that M16.” “Right, Doctor.”

Rourke dodged left, four shots remaining in the litde revolver, a single speedloader with five more rounds in an outside pocket of his tuxedo. There was pistol fire from the opposite wall. Rourke looked toward its origin, Annie and Paul engaging two of the attackers.

More debris was falling, and as Rourke looked upward for an instant, he realized the ceiling was about to completely collapse.

More of the Nazis were entering through the doors to the hall, but some of the German officers had already gotten weapons. Fighting was everywhere. Rourke reached round his back and under his coat, jerking the litde A.G. Russell knife free of its sheath.

The Centennial in his right fist, the pear-shaped boot knife in his left, he started forward. A German officer was locked in combat with one of the Nazis, the latter twisting his Ml 6 around and dealing a glallcihg blow to the officer with the buttstock. As the officer fell back and the Nazi turned his weapon to fire, Rourke stepped between them, firing the revolver at almost point-blank range into the Nazi’s chest. The German officer grabbed for the Ml 6 and Rourke moved on.

At the far side of his peripheral vision, he could see Nata

lia, the Walther in her left hand, the Bali-Song knife—she would have been carrying it in a garter on her thigh beneath her dress, he knew from experience—flashing open in her right, slashing across the throat of one of the Nazis, blood spurting everywhere around them.

John Rourke kept moving, gunfire tearing into an overturned table, the people who had tried taking shelter behind it already dead. Rourke found the source of the gunfire, firing the Centennial once, then again, spinning the Nazi assassin back on his heels and down.

Rourke wheeled right, feeling something more than any normal sensory trigger. One of the Nazis, his face twisted in rage, opened fire as Rourke threw himself left. Rourke fired, the last round in his five-shot revolver catching the Nazi high, in the mouth, the man staggering, his M16 discharging into the floor ahead of his feet, chips of floor tile and ricochets flying everywhere.

As Rourke looked right, another of the Nazis was closing in on him, swinging an M16 around toward him. Rourke dropped the revolver into an outside pocket and grabbed up a chair, flinging it at the Nazi. The chair impacted the assault rifle and the weapon fired wildly right as Rourke closed with the man, his right hand around the Nazi’s throat as his left hammered forward, his fingers crushing the windpipe as his knife gouged up under the man’s sternum.

Rourke pushed the man off the knife, picking up the M16.

As Rourke started to turn, another of the Nazis was bringing his weapon to bear, fewer than six feet away. There was no other choice, and Rourke’s left arm arced outward, his fingers releasing the handle of the Sting LA. As the knife buried itself in the right side of the man’s chest, Rourke brought the muzzle of the M16 up, the weight of the weapon convincing him that the twenty-round magazine had to have at least a few rounds left.

He punched the rifle toward the man as the Nazi struggled to raise his weapon. Rourke fired, the M16 splitting a three-round burst and emptying.

One of the Nazis was beating down a woman with the butt of his rifle. Rourke raced the few steps toward the man, ramming the empty rifle’s muzzle against his right ear, blood spurting as the Nazi screamed, then fell.

Rourke was on him now, his empty rifle fallen to the floor. Rourke’s right hand closed over the revolver in his pocket, drawing and smashing it down over the Nazi’s left temple, killing him.

Rourke tore the sling of the dead man’s rifle free, the weapon in his right hand now as he glanced once at the woman — dead — and advanced toward the doorway. Michael, his pistol apparently empty and with no spare magazines, was using the Beretta like a bludgeon, smashing one of the Nazis over the head again and again, bringing the man down. Then Michael dropped to one knee and rose up, an M16 in his hands, firing into two more of them.

Rourke reached the doorway, a knot of Nazi personnel just on the other side, pinned down there by three German officers with captured M16’s, along with Sam Aldridge.

Rourke looked back into the banquet hall. Bjorn Rolvaag, his expression almost placid-looking, was beating three of the Nazis back toward a wall with nothing more than a chair. One of the Nazis tried to raise his weapon. Rolvaag smashed the chair over the man’s face, then waded in on the other two men, hammering them down with his fists.

Jason Darkwood was at the doorway now, with him Otto Hammerschmidt. A heavy volume of fire was pouring through the doorway, emanating from the Nazis stalled outside.

A stalemate, and once more John Rourke looked toward the ceiling. More and more plaster was raining down and the crack he’d noticed seconds ago was widening.

Sarah, a bloody steak knife in her right hand, Rourke’s A.G. Russell knife in the other, was moving through the room, inspecting the dead and injured.

More gunfire from the Nazis on the other side of the doorway. Rourke tucked back closer to the wall beside which he stood. “Keep away from the opening!”

Inside the hall, those who could drew back.

Darkwood shouted from the other side of the doorway, “Colonel Mann took three men with him and went out through the kitchen to get behind them and—what’s the term, Sam?”

“An envelopment.”

Darkwood nodded. “He said give him about two minutes. I make it he’s got a minute to go.”

Rourke looked at the ceiling again. “Maybe we do if we’re lucky.” He looked at Aldridge. “Sam, get people organized to evacuate the wounded. Fast.”

“Yes, sir!” and Aldridge started barking orders in the next breath.

“Hammerschmidt, help him. Get Rolvaag with you.” “Yes, Herr General!

Rourke shook his head, looking at Michael, Paul, Annie, Natalia. “Annie, Natalia, help Sarah and Maria with the injured. If someone looks too hopeless to get out, it’s going to be a judgment call.”

“I will make it,” Natalia answered.

Rourke nodded as the woman moved off. “Michael, Paul, Jason, get us six more people who are armed. Hurry up.”

Rourke was already checking the Ml6. Eight rounds remained in the magazine. “I need magazines!” Rourke shouted to anyone within hearing range. He let the M18 fall to his side on its sling, taking the bloodied revolver from the pocket of the ruined tuxedo, his thumb pushing forward on the cylinder release catch, his trigger finger pushing the cylinder out of the frame. He let the revolver roll back in his hand, nesting it between his thumb and little finger, sliding his thumb up over the frame and punching the ejector rod downward, spilling the empty brass to the plaster-covered floor between his feet.

He took the speedloader from his pocket as he righted the revolver, started the five rounds into the five charging holes, and let the loader activate against the ejector star, all five rounds chambering simultaneously. As his left hand pocketed the empty loader for later use, his right thumb swung the cylinder closed and rotated it slighdy left and down, indexing it.

He dropped the revolver into his waistband just left of his navel.

A young German officer ran up, handed him seemingly filled twenty-round magazines. “These are all that I could find, Herr Doctor General.”

Rourke smiled, shook his head, and put one of the three twenties up the well of the Ml6, keeping the one with eight rounds as a spare, then handing around the other two magazines.

The ceiling would go at any second.

Rourke shouted back, “As soon as we’re into the corridor, start evacuating as quickly as possible!”

And he looked at Michael, Paul, and Jason Darkwood. Darkwood had six other men. All nine were armed with M16’s. Paul had his battered old Browning High Power in his left hand, the hammer down.

“You and you.” Rourke picked two of the men at random. “Understand enough English?” he asked perfunctorily. They both indicated they did. “Good. I want suppressive fire on the Nazi position.” Han Lu Chen, the Chinese intelligence agent from the First City, approached, M16 in hand. Rourke nodded to him, then continued. “Nice controlled bursts, firing high and low, alternating so they’ll think there are more than just two of you. Keep firing until you’ve each fired three bursts, then cease fire until we’re through the doors and on them. Then join us, right?”

“Yes, Herr Doctor General,” the senior of the two men — boys—acknowledged.

“Take up your positions. Paul, Michael, stick with me. You too, Han. Jason, take the rest of them.”

Darkwood grinned, “Yes, Herr Doctor General.”

“Blow it out your ear,” Rourke grinned back.

Flanking the door on either side, the two young Germans who were to provide the suppressive fire were in position. In almost perfect synchronization, the two officers opened fire, neat three-and four-round bursts in a crossfire pattern against the Nazi position beyond the large double doors of

the banquet hall.

The ceiling above John Rourke was groaning loudly now, about to collapse.

As the German officers snapped their rifles up, Rourke shouted the first word that came to mind, “Charge!”

His twice-liberated M16 firing in short, full auto bursts, Michael and Paul flanking him, Rourke raced through the space between the doors.

The Nazis were positioned just inside the doors of the hall in which the dance was being held, the room still brighdy lit and decorated with banners featuring both the German and United States colors.

Rourke and the others with him sprinted across the corridor, a grenade hurled toward them. Rourke wheeled toward it, shouting, “Out of the way!” and took one of the greatest risks he’d ever taken. He kicked the grenade as hard as he could, sending it arcing down the corridor in mid-air as it exploded. Gunfire tore past him and into the floor near his feet.

Michael and Paul were the first two through the doorway, Michael taking a hit, going down, firing, then getting back on his feet. Rourke’s rifle had eight rounds remaining in the magazine and he threw the selector to semi-auto, firing a single shot into the chest of one of the Nazis, wheeling a few degrees left, then firing a second round into the head of another. As he tried for a third shot, one of the Nazis threw himself at Rourke, deflecting the M16. The third shot went wild, Rourke and the man falling to the floor.

The man was powerfully built, his hands enormous, closing around Rourke’s throat. John Rourke’s right knee smashed up, missing the groin, striking the pelvis. But his right hand got free enough to reach for the Centennial inside the waistband of his trousers. With the muzzle flush against the man’s testicles, Rourke fired, the recoil nearly snapping his own right wrist.

Rourke pushed the man away, then fired a second shot into the Nazi’s head as he got to one knee.

His M16 gone, Rourke had only the revolver. He fired, hitting another of the Nazis in the left side of the-neck. Paul was butt-stroking one of the Nazis as the man fell, twisting the pistol from his grasp. “John!”

The pistol—a Beretta 92F—sailed from Paul’s hand. Rourke caught it, stepping back, firing the last two rounds from his revolver into the chest of a Nazi turning toward him with an M16.

Rourke turned the Beretta in his left hand, worked the safety off, and double actioned another round into the Nazi’s throat.

Michael, his left arm bleeding, was locked in combat with two of the Nazis.

Rourke jumped a dead body, smashed the butt of the Centennial down across the neck of one of them, then fired a point-blank double tap from the Beretta into the chest of the second man.

Michael shouted, “Thanks,” stabbed the Beretta that was in his right hand toward another of the Nazis, and fired, killing the man.

Rourke caught up an M16 as he dropped the Centennial into his pocket, the Colt assault rifle in his right fist, the Beretta 92F in his left. Rourke fired into a knot of Nazis trying to escape toward the rear of the hall, cutting down three of them, wounding a fourth.