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

The watertight door would be locked and it made no sense to even try it.

While Paul and Michael scrounged weapons from the dead, John Rourke took the magnetic mine from the pack on his son’s back and clamped it near the locking mechanism.

Paul, the Soviet light machine gun leaned against the bulkhead near him, started the rope of plastique-like explosive, feeding it out of its protective tube as Michael molded the

substance into the juncture of watertight door and flange.

John Rourke had two of the Soviet assault rifles now, fresh forty-round magazines loaded. He moved back along the companionway, gas spraying from small jets where the bulkheads on either side of die companionway met the overhead.

The gas was grey as fog and billowed downward in thick clouds.

Michael shouted, “Ready!”

“Now!” John Rourke called back.

Michael and Paul raced back along the companionway, drawing into shelter in the leg of the “L” beside Rourke as the first explosion came, the second one—louder—just after it.

The manner in which the explosives were set would result in a Misme-Chardin effect with the watertight door, propelling it inward and across the Con. But John Rourke had planned ahead. The same explosion from beneath the Con level or from forward would have destroyed most of the submarine’s instrumentation, but from aft it would knock out the actual Con itself, along with the periscope array—he hoped.

Otherwise, he had just made a derelict of the Island Classer, one they might not even be able to surface.

John Rourke stepped into the companionway, breaking into a run for the doorway opening, a jagged maw now, smoke rising around it still. And Paul was beside him, firing the Soviet LMG in controlled bursts, high through the doorway opening.

• Paul neared the doorway, firing the LMG up and down, right and left. Michael fired a burst from each assault rifle he held.

Rourke reached the twisted flange and jumped it, one of the Soviet rifles in each fist. Crew personnel lay everywhere, bodies twisted and torn. Small arms fire emanated now from the height of a circular stairwell just beyond the command chair, the Soviet commander lying dead in his seat.

Marine Spetznas holding off Darkwood’s people below, John Rourke returned fire, Paul edging right to maximize on the LMG’s effect and minimize equipment damage, Michael moving forward beside his father, their assault rifles spraying controlled tjursts into the stairwell. Gunfire from below the level of the command deck increased. There was the sound of a gas grenade exploding, purple translucent fingers off gasex-tending upward within the stairwell.

John Rourke let one of the assault rifles fall to his side on its • sling, tearing one of the sound and light grenades from his gear, shouting through the mask he wore, “Egg!” He pitched the grenade down the stairwell, averting his eyes, doing the best he could to protect his ears from the sound, the whine painfully loud. As it began to subside, his ears still ringing from it, Rourke moved ahead.

A Marine Spetznas, obviously temporarily blinded, ran out of the stairwell, firing an assault rifle, spraying bullets everywhere. Rourke got him with two short bursts from one of the Soviet rifles, putting him down dead.

Shoulder to shoulder now, John Rourke, flanked by his son and his friend, advanced across the Con. From below, he could faindy hear Jason Darkwood ordering, “Follow me!”

Natalia huddled from German small arms fire in the midst of a dozen Elite Corpsmen. Fewer than ten yards separated her from the nearest of the five Soviet machine guns. From the gear of the three dead men, one of whose uniforms she wore, she had three grenades.

The dozen men surrounding her were the problem now— the men and the time. The missile bombardment had apparendy ceased, and if this were indeed a signal for the full-scale Soviet ground attack, in a few more minutes all would be lost unless the main entrance could be retaken. She pushed away thoughts of what had happened to Sarah and Annie and Maria and the other women in the aftermath of the collapse of the National Defense Headquarters, and what fate might have befallen John and Paul and Michael and the others who had gone to assault the Soviet submarines laying the bombardment.

She focused her thoughts now on killing the twelve men surrounding her and reaching the machine gun emplacement. She had one assault rifle only, and even had she two of the weapons, she could not hope to take out all twelve men before at least one of them opened fire and killed her.

And then a smile crossed her lips.

Crouching lower as the German small arms fire conveniently increased in volume, Natalia took one of the Soviet grenades from her equipment harness. It was similar in outward design to the American baseball grenades of five centuries ago. A cotter pin of some plastic material kept the spoon attached to the body. She glanced over her shoulders on either side, her “comrades” clustered in small groups, some returning fire, most hiding behind cover.

The Bali-Song.

She opened it slowly so there wouldn’t be any noise. Inverting the grenade, propping it over a fragment of paving from the street, she levered downward with the Bali-Song’s primary edge, cutting through the plastic cotter pin, leaving its end flush against the juncture with the spoon so no pin showed.

She closed the Bali-Song now and pocketed it, drew the issue bayonet from her gear, then wedged it beneath the handle of the spoon, between the handle and the grenade’s body. She pried upward, her right hand squeezed hard around the bayonet’s hilt. “Let it be pot metal,” she almost prayed.

The bayonet was starting to bend, but the spoon handle snapped, flicking away.

Without hesitating, Natalia rolled the harmless grenade into the midst of the men around her, making her voice as deep as she could when she shouted, “Grenade! Run, comrades!”

She started to run, glancing back, the men who’d been around her dispersing in all directions.

Two men ran in the direction of the machine gun emplacement.

Natalia fired her assault rifle in two short bursts, killing them, German small arms fire rippling across the pavement near her feet. One of the men behind the machine gun raised up, stabbing a pistol toward her. She fired, stitching him from abdomen to throat.

The second man in the machine gun team swung the weapon toward her.

Natalia fired again, a long burst into his neck and face, knocking his body back. She threw herself toward the machine gun.

Two Elite Corps men charged toward her.

She pulled one of the Smith & Wesson L-Frames from beneath her BDU blouse and shot one man in the chest, the second in the neck, stabbing the revolver into her waistband as she swung the machine gun on line with the nearest knot of Elite Corpsmen and opened fire, spraying the machine gun across their position, killing or wounding nine of them. She swung the muzzle of the machine gun, firing long bursts at every Elite Corps position within reach, firing, firing.

And she screamed in German, “Attack! Attack!”

Natalia swept the hat back from her head, her hair cascading down, her right finger pressed against the machine gun’s trigger… .

Jason Darkwood said, “Well, not in perfect condition, granted, but I think we can establish contact with the other two Island Classers. Michael, why don’t you?”

“Right,” Michael Rourke nodded.

Jason Darkwood added, “Make sure to find out, Michael, which submarine may have our people in control and which may have a Soviet commander still at the helm.”

“Okay, Jason.”

Darkwood merely shook his head, John Rourke watching him. Darkwood’s face would have been amusing—just seeing how the man was trying to cope with a bridge crew of largely inept amateurs —except that the survival of New Germany and the Allied cause depended on whether or not he could get the Island Classer’s missiles turned against the Soviet land forces while at the same time avoiding a batde with one or both Island Classers near them.

Darkwood turned to Sam Aldridge. “How are we on weapon’s systems, Sam?”

“We’ve got a full complement of cluster charges to port and starbord, and a full complement of torpedoes fore and aft, and nineteen missiles remaining. None of the warheads nuclear, as far as I can tell, Jase.”

Darkwood said. “Very well. Adjust targeting to the last available coordinates for the Soviet land force. All of the missiles”

“Yes, sir!”

Han Lu Chen, at the sonar console, volunteered, “As far as I could tell, Captain Darkwood, one of the Soviet undersea boats has turned around.”

” ‘Coming about’ is the proper terminology, Mr. Han.”

Michael Rourke sang out, “Jason, I’ve got confirmation that the Island Classer nearest to us is in Allied hands. Evidently, the third team got stopped.”

Jason Darkwood looked down at his hands, and whispered, “There were a lot of good men in that third team. Shit. Mr. Rourke, if your Russian can manage it, signal the third Island Classer to surrender now. No terms except that their lives will be spared. Period. Don’t wait for a response. On the same frequency, signal Island Classer number two to prepare to fire starboard side cluster charges on my command. The full complement, and prepare for firing torpedoes fore and aft at their discretion.”

“But will they know how?”

“Of course not,” Darkwood told Michael Rourke, “but the Russians won’t know that.”

“I’m on it,” Michael shouted back.

Darkwood turned to Paul Rubenstein, at the engineering console. “Mr. Rubenstein, how’s it coming getting some control over this litde submarine we’ve inherited?”

Paul, crouched beneath the console, called back, “I think I’ve got enough things wired together that we have a full range of motion, Jason.”

Darkwood nodded, saying, “Very good, Mr. Rubenstein. Be ready to push the right buttons and pull the right switches when I indicate.” Darkwood turned to Michael Rourke again, saying, “Repeat the command again for surrender; don’t wait for response; make a big show of talking to Island Classer number two about releasing that full complement of starboard side cluster charges in the next twenty seconds. Then listen for Island Classer number three to surrender—I hope.” He looked at Sam Aldridge. “Sam, you ready to fire some of those missiles at the Soviet ground force position?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Darkwood looked at John Rourke, asking, “Doctor, do you have indicator lights showing that we’re basically in one piece enough to fire a missile without ripping ourselves apart?”

John Rourke smiled, saying, “I have green lights on all watertight doors linking major compartments”—he glanced at the weapons station, then looked back at Darkwood—“and fore and aft torpedo tubes all show to be sealed.”

Darkwood looked at the watch on his left wrist, asking, “Michael, any word from our Soviet neighbors?”

Michael answered, “Nothing yet … hey! Wait a minute! Yeah, I’m getting a message now from Island Classer three that they are standing down.”

Darkwood called back, “Order Island Classer number three to cease all navigation at once and order Islander Classer number two to keep those cluster charges ready to fire. Also, they should be prepared to fire torpedoes as necessary should the Island Classer recommence navigation.” He looked at Sam Aldridge, saying, “Sam, let’s pound hell out of that Soviet land force. Fire those missiles one every sixty seconds until I say otherwise.”

There was dead silence on the bridge and then the Island Classer seemed to vibrate as the first missile fired.

John Rourke watched the engineering station. The submarine was holding together if the readouts were correct… .

As Germans swarmed toward her position, Natalia stood up, throwing both hands in the air, shouting in German to them, “I am Major Tiemerovna! I am Major Tiemerovna! Do not shoot!”

German Long Range Mountain Patrol personnel formed a ring around her, faces startled, guns lowering, a man pushing through, calling to her, “Fraulein Major! I salute you!” It was Colonel Mann, his usually impeccable uniform smoke-smudged, his hat gone, an assault rifle in his hands. “Missiles are striking Soviet positions where troops were massed for assault on the city. Three of my armored units are blocking entry to the city. The Soviet commanders can only withdraw toward the sea!”

“John,” Natalia whispered.

And she sank to her knees and started to laugh, tears rimming her eyes. …

John Rourke stood on the deck of the Island Classer, sea spray washing over her bow as he focused his binoculars toward shore.

J7-Vs crisscrossed the beach and German helicopters swarmed out of the setting sun.

All three Island Class submarines were now in Allied hands, Jason Darkwood commanding and essentially navigating all three from the Con of this one on which John Rourke stood, renamed The Freedom and, unofficially, the first vessel in an Allied Navy.

Soviet land force units not already destroyed by conventionally armed missiles fired from the Island Class submarine Freedom were withdrawing under the pressure of German armor and air power, withdrawing toward the sea.

They would have no choice but to surrender or die.

Rourke turned up the collar of his borrowed coat, inhaling smoke from the thin, dark tobacco cigar clamped in the left corner of his mouth, the binoculars hanging now from his neck.

Radio transmissions from the mountain city indicated that Sarah, Annie, and Maria, as well as the other women who had been in the Leader Bunker, were alive and well, despite the destruction of National Defense Headquarters above the bunker. Evacuation was even now underway.

And Natalia rode with Colonel Mann, Wolfgang Mann personally commanding his forces as they pressed the Germans toward the sea. Soon all three Island Class submarines would depart for the Soviet Underwater City, to aid in interdicting—God willing—Soviet nuclear retaliation. Already, Mid-Wake vessels—the Reagan, the Wayne, the captured Island Classer Roy Rogers, and others—were ringing the Soviets, containing only—or hoping to—until the full strike would be launched.

That would be within days, a two-pronged strike against both the underwater Soviet complex and the heart of Soviet power in the Urals. And that would end it, one way or the other, Rourke realized.