Survivalist - 15.5 - Mid-Wake (37 page)

On Karamatsov’s orders, a Soviet suicide squad had penetrated Mt. Hekla in Iceland, and as a result his wife, Madison, pretty Madison, and their unborn child had been murdered.

It was Karamatsov who, before the Night of the War, had worked tirelessly to bring about Armageddon so he could rise from its ashes as master of the world.

It was Vladmir Karamatsov who now controlled the most powerful armies on the nearly barren earth, and who was clearly willing to risk the total obliteration of mankind

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It was Karamatsov’s men who had attempted, under the leadership of one of his KGB Elite Corps officers, to seize thirty nuclear warheads from the Chinese arsenal which had remained unused during the Night of the War, his intent clear: nuclear blackmail or nuclear death.

With his father, John Rourke, and with Paul and Natalia and the help of Chinese forces, they had stopped Karamatsov’s KGB Elite Corps, sent the Chinese train carrying the missiles to the bottom of the sea, and narrowly escaped with their lives.

Karamatsov. The gas which Annie, the Chinese girl, and Maria Leuden drove through the night had been Karamatsov’s secret weapon for destruction, a gas which drove men mad and made them turn on each other and kill like vicious animals.

It was time Vladmir Karamatsov died.

When the Russian colonel, Antonovitch, had mistaken Michael for his father, his heart had died. If the fate of John Rourke and Natalia Tiemerovna were unknown to the Russians, then they were gone.

Michael Rourke kept running.

How would he tell his mother, Sarah Rourke, even now pregnant with John Rourke’s child? And how would he tell his sister, Annie?

But she would know—Annie would know.

Michael Rourke kept running, the ground rising as it neared the sea, the sky amber tinged and yellow.

He kept running.

At the height of the rise, he stopped. Karamatsov’s encampment was below. And beyond it, in the sea …

“Oh my God,” Michael Rourke sighed, then dropped to his knees in exhaustion and despair.

Sebastian moved quietly down the companionway, Lieutenant Mott, the Communications Officer, having the con. It was either Louise Walenski, the Warfare Officer, or Andrew Mott. Seniority was of no concern. Louise Walenski was a competent officer, and so was Mott. Louise Walenski’s sex had not colored his judgment either. But Warfare Officers, by their very nature, tended to rely on force, and Sebastian distrusted force except as a last resort. The only others aboard the Reagan of equal rank to Sebastian were Lieutenant Commander Saul Hartnett, who was off duty and, like Jason Darkwood, sleeping, and Lieutenant Commander Margaret Barrow, and Medical Officers were not to be considered for command duty on a vessel of war.

Sebastian stopped at the compartment door and knocked.

He waited. As he had anticipated, there was no answer.

He let himself in, the total darkness of the compartment cresting over him as he closed the door behind him. But he knew Jason Darkwood’s quarters well. He closed his eyes, counted to ten to let his eyes become accustomed to the change in light, then opened his eyes and moved slowly yet easily enough across the compartment to the desk, turning on the lamp there. It was what had been called a “Banker’s Lamp” and was of brass, or more likely some look-alike substitute, and had a green translucent shade. A fondness for antiques was commonplace among the citizenrv of Mid-Wake, although the onlv true an

tiques were relics of the first generation of scientists who had inhabited the colony, or those items which from time to time had been recovered from what were called “treasure vessels”—sunken ships that were not radioactively dangerous, with hulls that had survived undersea pressure sufficiently so that they could be explored with some degree of safety.

Sebastian had always found the love of antiquities rather maudlin, considering the circumstances of Mid-Wake’s genesis and continued existence.

There was adequate light now from the desk lamp and he proceeded to the personal area of the compartment, a small non-essential bulkhead separating it from the official Captain’s Quarters, the door open. He stopped before it and rapped the knuckles of his right fist gently against the jam.

“Commander Darkwood. I’m afraid it is time for you to awaken.”

There was a grunting noise, presumably Jason Darkwood’s recognition of the fact that he was being awakened.

“Sebastian?”

“It is I, Jason. You requested to be awakened in three hours. I am complying with your request.”

“Thanks—thank you. There’s some coffee that’ll warm up beside my desk. Interested?”

“Thank you. I presume you are?”

“Yes—if you don’t mind.”

A light went on and Sebastian turned away from the doorway and back to the desk. There was a microwave coffee pot plugged in on the small credenza behind the Captain’s desk, and Sebastian worked the controls after first making sure that there was indeed enough coffee for one. There was adequate coffee for four, and Sebastian assumed that would mean for one cup for him and the rest for Jason.

There were two cups, clean.

He sat down opposite the desk and waited, hearing the

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on the desk and since it was not regulation equipment, he assumed it was used for entertainment value. He picked it up, holding the earphone beside his right ear as he activated the controls. He noted the diode counter so he could return the tape to its proper position.

It was a film from five centuries ago. An enormous library in the rather primitive videotape formats of the day had been transported to Mid-Wake for the entertainment of the first inhabitants. The tapes had been copied and enhanced down to the present day, the only way people of Mid-Wake could even come close to knowing what it had been like on the earth of their forebears.

This was a film featuring the famous actor John Wayne, the namesake of the only other ship in the Mid-Wake fleet which matched the rather astounding capabilities of the Reagan. It was, unfortunately, in dry dock after narrowly surviving an encounter with three Island Class Soviet submarines. The Wayne had the capabilities of the Reagan, but not the same Captain.

In this film, John Wayne was an Irish-American who had returned to his native land and was attempting simultaneously to adjust to the radically different environment while wooing a very young and charming Maureen O’Hara. Sebastian had seen the film several times.

“How do you like the movie, Sebastian?”

Sebastian looked up, pushing the stop button, then beginning the rewind. He had set the controls so the tape would return to the position it had been in originally. “I find the film to contain one of John Wayne’s more sensitive portrayals, Jason, as you know. It has always been one of my favorite films.”

Jason Darkwood was naked from the waist up, the hair on his chest starting to gray a little, unlike the curly—still wet—hair of his head, which was not graying at all. Jason consulted his wristwatch. “Time flies when you haven’t slept for thirty-six hours.”

“I find the deepest sleep the most restful, Jason.”

“I would have enjoyed experiencing it more fully. Every-

“Your penetration team is well-rested and even now preparing for the attack.”

Jason only nodded. The coffee had long since been ready and Jason went to it. “Want a cup?”

“Yes, thank you.”

As Jason Darkwood poured—it smelled satisfactory—he asked, “What do you think about Sam Aldridge?” “He is a fine officer.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it, Sebastian. Should I pull him from this?”

“Doctor Barrow has pronounced him fit for restricted duty, and yet he seems adequately suited to normal duty by his very bearing and demeanor. But with a Marine, that is difficult to gauge. He is the best man for the job.”

“I know that or I wouldn’t have overidden Margaret’s decision and decided to take him along in the first place.”

“I would think you are seeking to expiate what you and you alone perceived as guilt and/or responsibility in the affair which resulted in his unfortunate capture.”

“If I had gone with—”

Sebastian interrupted. Since he almost never interrupted anyone, he assumed it would be forgiven. “I should beg to differ, Jason. Had you accompanied Captain Aldridge on the mission which resulted in his capture and incarceration, it would merely have resulted in your capture and incarceration. The mission to sabotage the Soviet nuclear-missile effort was ill-conceived at best. Admiral Rahn is a brilliant strategist, but equally well-known as a terrible tactician. It is his lack of ability in tactics which resulted in Captain Aldridge’s fate, not the fact that you did not accompanying him.”

It was pleasant speaking with Jason at times like these—he was a man of supreme discretion and nothing said in confidence was ever betrayed.

“You think I shouldn’t go now then?”

Sebastian looked at his superior officer. He accepted a cup of coffee from him. “I am afraid that your analysis of the situation is undeniably correct. You and you alone have discovered a secret means of entry to the Russian

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j domes. And Captain Aldridge, of all the personnel aboard i the Reagan, has an intimate knowledge of the domes once inside. It appears that you are each other’s indispensable man and there is no alternative but that you both go. I would prefer it otherwise, as would all of those who count you as a friend.”

Jason Darkwood crossed from the far side of the desk, set his coffee cup down, and extended his right hand. “Sebastian. Thank you.” “Thank you, Jason.”

The Captain of the United States Attack Submarine Ronald Wilson Reagan raised his coffee cup. Sebastian raised his. They clinked the cups together. “Here’s to coming back to drink more of this god-awful coffee.”

“And here,” Sebastian intoned, “is to the pleasant company with which to consume it.”

“Amen.”

John Rourke opened his eyes.

“They had told me you were about to awaken, sir.”

Rourke turned his head toward the voice. There was light and shadow, light through nearly closed Venetian blinds, the origin of the voice in shadow. His throat was dry as he spoke. “I hadn’t quite pictured the afterlife exactly this way.”

There was a rich, genuine-sounding laugh. “I am Jacob Fellows, sir, the President of Mid-Wake.”

John Rourke closed his eyes, opened them again. He could see the image that belonged to the voice more clearly now. His lifelong light sensitivity had, as a biological trade-off, always enabled him to see better than the average person under low light conditions. The speaker— this Fellows—was tall and broad-shouldered, though sitting. And evidently he was possessed of a thick head of hair from the silhouette of his head. “President?”

“Yes, sir. Would you please identify yourself for me?”

John Rourke licked his dry-feeling lips. “What happened to Sam Aldridge?”

“He’s aboard the United States Attack Submarine Ronald Wilson Reagan, his mission to attempt the rescue of the woman you were trying to—”

“Natalia,” Rourke whispered. It flooded back to him. He had made it as far as Kerenin’s apartment, there had been the shootout in the narrow hallway and he had been suckered by the trick with the mirrors, and even thought he had killed Kerenin … “I’m a doctor—my self-diagno

sis was that I was dying from my wounds.”

“Perhaps in your own era you would have, sir. May I please have your name?”

“John Rourke. Why are you so interested?” Rourke was beginning to feel something in his abdomen—not pain in the true sense, but more of a heightened awareness.

“Did you ever meet a Commander Gundersen?”

John Rourke closed his eyes. “He was a submarine commander. I got shanghaied after some crazy guy pretending to be on a special mission for U.S. II gutshot Natalia. The only way to save her life was to use the medical facilities aboard his vessel.”

“He remembered you as well, and also this woman Natalia. Are you the same John Rourke who was born in the twentieth century?”

“Who else do you …” He was too tired to argue and he closed his eyes… .

Jason Darkwood stood in the Scout Sub Bay before the airlock door. Surrounding him were Sam Aldridge and Tom Stanhope and their Marines. Sebastian stood beside him, and Darkwood noticed Maggie Barrow on the observation platform. Like his men, he was already into his black double-layered diving suit, the inner layer to maintain constant atmospheric pressure for his body, the outer layer designed to compensate for the pressure of the sea around it.

“Several years ago, by accident really, I discovered a means of entering the Soviet domes. The details don’t really matter at this juncture. Suffice it to say I was inexperienced enough to get myself caught between their attack sharks and some of their Marine Spetznas divers on Iron Dolphins.” There was a portable computer-linked light board behind him, and he took the laser pencil and began to move it over the tactical diagram of the Russian city, his movements on the smaller board enhanced and enlarged on the larger board, the Marines repositioning thpmsplvps in ordpr to morp armiratelv observe.

“Now, each of us learned the available data on the Soviet domes back when we were in training. There are three large domes—to my right here, the main dome, which was the original dome when the Soviets first entered this environment before World War III and they were still being supplied by the Soviet base at Cam Ranh Bay in Vietnam. The actual working city itself is located there, and beneath the main level are three other levels, consisting of maintenance, security, and research, this latter a bio-medical facility utilizing prisoners as lab animals.

“Immediately to my left here is the central dome,” and he moved the light pencil over it. “This is a suburban area, mainly for workers in the main dome, military personnel, and the like. There are schools here, some light industry,
etc.
And to the front of this dome as we face this representation is the Marine Studies area, equipment storage, and the like. Now—between this dome and the next is a smaller dome which contains the shark pens and the control room for the sharks. A passageway here leads into the largest of the two small domes, where the lagoon is located through which their Island Class submarines and their Scout subs enter and exit. The dry-dock facility is here,
etc.
Behind it and still under this dome are the Scout sub pens. The machinery needed for maintaining the air pressure which keeps the lagoon at a steady level is here. The actual factories wherein the Soviet fleet ships are built and maintained are here. This is probably the most militarily heavy area and also the least secure, since the very presence of their submarines makes them think that no one would attack here. Behind this dome is the larger dome, where the far suburbs are located. Businesses, schools for the upper class—political functionaries at the upper levels, scientists, high-ranking military officers, high-ranking entertainers, and the like.”