Survivalist - 21 - To End All War (16 page)

And then a sudden realization struck John Rourke in the growing blackness as he clung to the body of a man who might well be dead and a current dragged him deeper into the abyss by the second: What if, this time, he did not survive?

Annie Rourke Rubenstein screamed and clutched at her chest, her entire body gone limp. She fell forward, Maria Leuden beside her, screaming for help.

Inside herself, Annie saw, felt, infinite blackness, a wave of nausea passing over her, dizziness so intense that her consciousness began to ebb. “Natalia!”

“Momma!“The nausea again. “Nata—” Annie sprawled onto the floor of the platform, clutching at her throat, trying to hold back the blackness closing in around her.

“Annie?”

“Da-“

“Your father?”

“Da—Nata—” Walls of blackness closed around her and she was spinning, the blackness a blur going faster and faster. Her arms were no longer numb but ached from holding her body. But the body she held was not her own, and her mind was searching for something.

“Ann? What is it?”

“Mom-“

“Open the collar of her blouse, Natalia. She’s having some sort of attack. I don’t know—”

“There, Annie, try to breathe.”

“We need a doctor! We need a doctor over here!”

The blackness deepened and welled up within her mind, blotting out thought now. Her arms hurt so badly, and she wanted to reach out to something and stop. Above her, she saw her mother’s face, Natalia’s face. She heard Maria screaming for help.

Hands touched at her.

She couldn’t let go of the body she held so tighdy. The darkness was consuming her… .

John Rourke’s arms ached.

And he was aware of the body that he held more than he had been an instant earlier. Why? This guy was going to die, too? Was that it?

The heel of Rourke’s right hand rested against something hard. What was it?

Only a very small portion of his mind still functioned, like a tiny white dot surrounded by encroaching blackness, nearly blotted out. What could this object be? He searched and searched and wondered if perhaps the information he sought were not within the boundaries of that ever-shrinking white dot.

But, at last, he found what he sought.

The object was an explosive charge for use against the screw of an Island Classer, in the event the vessel could not be penetrated but had to be crippled instead. Several members of each team from the J7-Vs carried these charges with them, for use against the main screws and other vulnerable areas of the monstrous-sized submarines.

John Rourke felt a momentary glow of pride. He had remembered.

The white dot was closing in, and for some reason he knew now that he had to push back the blackness surrounding it, and if he could accomplish that, the other thing that had started nagging at him would be recognizable, retrievable from his mind.

What was that?

Something about the explosive charge.And the nature of a current.

As he spun uncontrollably and inside himself fought back the blackness, he tried to remember what it was that he was supposed to remember… .

Several missiles fired as if in battery, Jason Darkwood felt it was at least marginally safe to proceed. He signaled Michael Rourke and Paul Rubenstein aft with half the remaining men along the portside of the submarine’s underbelly, Sam Aldridge and the balance of the men accompanying Darkwood to starboard.

Darkwood’s eyes focused on the dual display of his Steinmetz. In three minutes, the agreed-upon time would be reached, and if the submarine could be breached, it would.

German Intelligence overflights had hinted strongly at three Soviet vessels positioned offshore, and going on that assumption Dr. Rourke had elected targets for each of the teams air-dropped from the J7-Vs designating the Island Classers simply as numbers one through three, number one being the vessel farthest south, number three the vessel farthest north.

And each team was given a predesignated rendezvous time and location.

Two minutes and forty-three seconds remained until the three teams designated to assault Island Classer number one, Darkwood’s one of the three, were to rendezvous beneath the main diver access hatch.

And where was John Rourke?

Darkwood, a Soviet Sty-20 pneumatic in his right fist, his helmet on vision intensification, swam ahead.

If a single flipper tip touched prematurely against the Island Classer’s hull, the mission would be blown. If a random video scan caught them, and the operator were observant or the scan were computer linked, they would be equally undone. Fish, of course, would graze against the side of a submarine on station keeping speed, essentially hovering in the water in neutral buoyancy. But each such touch meant an automatic video scan of the hull. And the hulls of Island Classers, like something out of Jules Verne, could be electrified. Any living creature touching the hull would meet instant death.

If intruders were detected—of the human kind—there were various standard options within the Soviet Navy, the most potentially deadly among them the release of what American naval personnel had dubbed Claymore Clusters, clusterlike charges similar to those used defensively in the United States Navy by attack submarines like the Reagan, of which Darkwood was captain. But, unlike standard duster charges, which were high explosive, these antipersonnel cluster charges employed by the Soviet Fleet were similar in nature to the Claymore Mines of the Vietnam War more than five centuries ago.

When the Claymore Clusters were triggered, a comparatively small explosive charge propelled thousands of nearly microscopic fiberglass darts in all directions. The darts were not strong enough to penetrate or even stick to the hull of the Island Classer from which they originated, but were amply strong to penetrate the suit of a diver.

Darkwood had seen men—twice—who had fallen victim to Claymore Clusters. Very litde recognizable as human had remained of them.

He swam on… .

John Rourke’s litde white spot was merely a spec now, and thoughts of his wife and daughter and son and Paul and Natalia—the only people in his adult life that he had ever loved—seemed much more important to him now than trying to recall what it was he could do with the explosive charge the German commando had secured to his utility belt.

And, even if somehow he were able to stop the flow of the current, how could he ever find his way back to the rest of the attack force going against the Island Classers? Time eluded him completely now, and minutes or hours or anything between might have passed since he’d fallen victim to the current.

Indeed, Rourke smiled within his helmet, stopping the flow of the current would be as likely as stopping the flow of time itself.

And his arms were weary of holding the German, but he would not let go while the will to try to save the man was still with him.

He would hang on.

And, soon, the darkness would eradicate even that one tiny white speck remaining to him.

Sarah Rourke held her daughter’s head against her breast. Annie whispered, not as the needle—Sarah had inquired and it was an injection of a mild sedative—had punctured her arm, but afterward, as the sedative began to take its effect, “He’s dying-dying-Daddy!? He-“

“Jesus,” Sarah whispered, her lips touching at Annie’s hair, her hands caressing her daughter’s face. Annie was experiencing her father’s death. John.

Without him, what would there be?

Sarah shivered.

Natalia’s voice beside Sarah Rourke was calmer than she ever would have expected it to be. “He’s more than mortal. How can he die?”

And Natalia began to cry.

Sarah Rourke’s left arm moved toward Natalia as the woman dropped to her knees beside them. Her arm folded around Natalia and she drew her head to her shoulder, holding her.

Annie’s voice, strange, detached, came again. “One litde spot.”

Annie’s gift of the mind, as Sarah Rourke had always thought it to be, was the most horrible of curses. Annie was, mentally, experiencing her father’s death as surely as if somehow she were inside him, as if she were her father.

And Sarah Rourke wondered, when the actual moment came, would Annie die, too?

Natalia cried. Sarah kissed Natalia’s forehead. “We’re in this together, all of us; and nothing will change that.”

Natalia started to pull away.

Sarah held her. “You don’t have to be strong now.”

And Natalia’s arms went around Sarah, her body heaving with heavy sobs.

Annie whispered, “… stopping the flow … stopping the flow … the …”

Sarah Rourke held her daughter and her rival, held them as tighdy as she could.

And tears filled her eyes.

The platform shook. Another missile had struck. Dust from the cavern ceiling streamed down on them, Sarah averting her eyes. Perhaps Annie’s curse was a blessing in disguise. Because if the missiles successfully destroyed the mountain and the cavern ceiling were to collapse on them, Annie might be so consumed by her father’s death that she would be spared the experience of her own.

Sarah bit her lower lip, holding on to these two women, both of them closer to her than any sisters could ever have been. And as she looked away for a moment, she saw Maria Leuden, hands cupped in front of her, eyes downcast, for all the world looking like some woebegone litde girl who had done some terrible thing and now expected to be punished.

Sarah tried to speak. She couldn’t. She cleared her throat. “Maria, come kneel beside me.”

And Maria Leuden, haltingly, hesitandy, came forward, dropping to her knees. Sarah’s right hand reached out to Maria, taking the girl’s hand and holding it tighdy.

“…the flow.”

John Rourke’s litde white dot began to close over, but as it did, the flow of blackness was halted. “… the flow.” The explosive charge.

John Rourke fought against the blackness. “… the flow.”

If he could stop the flow of time … no. Time wasn’t what he needed to stop. The current.

If he could stop the flow of the current …

The white dot began to grow, pushing back the blackness. At the edge of the white dot, there had to be a portion of clinical reasoning remaining, because he realized that it was a new adrenaline rush pushing back the blackness.

But the adrenaline wouldn’t last that long.

The explosive charge.The flow.

The walls of the abyss shot past him. No. That wasn’t right. They were massive sheets of rock, stationary. He was moving past them, spiraling round and round and round. The blackness was closing in again. He fought it back.

Use the charge.

Activate the timer.

Set the charge.

Stop the flow.

Time?

No. Stop the flow of the current. The walls of rock.

John Rourke began flexing the fingers of his right hand, moving them down the German commando’s ribcage and to the explosive charge attached to the man’s utility belt… .

They touched helmets, Jason Darkwood, Sam Aldridge, and the commander of the second team. They hovered beneath the primary hatch. Sam Aldridge said, “I should do it. You’re beat already, Jase.”

“Captain Jase, Sam, hmm? No. You guys wait, I’ll lock the missile hatch.”

“And what if you don’t swim fast enough, Captain? You’re dead, then, and you’re the only one of us qualified to take command of this friggin’ Island Classer once we’re inside.”

“I swim fast enough, Sam.” And Darkwood holstered the Sty-20, then took the bar that was taped alongside Sam Aldridge’s right thigh. Sam was right, of course, but as they’d swum their way aft, Darkwood had come to the realization that John Rourke was likely dead and wouldn’t have been if he hadn’t let the doctor talk him out of the dangerous thing, just so he could get inside the Island Classer.

He wouldn’t cost another man his life this day if he could help it.

Sam Aldridge was holding onto the bar. “Let it go, Sam. That’s an order.”

His lifelong friend let go of the bar. “You get killed, I’m pissed, Jase.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want you ticked off, would we, Sam?” And Aldridge pulled back from the huddle, let his wings flex, and rolled, then started swimming up along the submarine’s starboard side hull and toward the missile deck… .

John Rourke’s right hand fumbled for the timer control on the explosive charge. If he took the charge from the German commando’s belt, he wouldn’t have enough hands to get the job done. The white dot was larger now, holding its own, but with difficulty.

The charges had been preset for two minutes, but the diode timers could be changed. He desperately wanted to lower that time now, but there was no way to see what he might be doing to the timer until he removed the charge from the utility belt. And he would have a second or less to attach it before the current swept it from him. Not enough time to even begin to alter the timer.

He found the control that activated the timer. He memorized its position.

Now Rourke’s hand moved from the charge to the belt, determining how best to release the charge from the utility belt. The Germans used a modified version of the Bianchi clip, which had replaced the Alice clip in the days before The Night of The War. Rourke’s fingers found the rolled ends of the clip, freeing one of them so the clip was only half secured to the belt.

Now his fingers moved back along the shape of the charge to the rear of it, where the timer interlock was positioned. He activated the switches in sequence, his fingers almost too thick for the controls.

He flipped the last switch.

Two minutes.

Was there room inside the white dot to count seconds?

He abandoned the idea, because if the plan worked, he might just live. If it didn’t, he would surely die.

His hand moved toward the clip, his fingers prying at the second rolled piece. It didn’t want to budge. John Rourke almost laughed.

Now at least he knew how he would die. He would blow himself up and take the German commando with him.

“Damnit,” Rourke rasped into his helmet.

His own voice sounded very odd to him, tired but familiar… . His gloved fingers tore at the clip and he popped it loose, the charge nearly torn from his grasp as he grabbed for it.