Survivalist - 17 - The Ordeal (8 page)

Prokopiev put his utensil in the food packet and looked at all of them in turn. “The suggestion is that we somehow seek to foil any plans for detonation the Chinese may have?”

“Chinese of the Second City,” Han hissed. “My people long ago mastered nuclear power in all respects and would never consider such a barbarous act.”

“There’s Paul to consider. Once he’s found Dad and Natalia,” Michael said slowly, “they may need medical help, God knows. And inside that city is no place for a woman. Prokopiev and I have been there. So has Han. If the two of you—” And he looked at Annie and Maria. “If you guys could—”

“You mean if we helpless women were suddenly to become so capable? Bullshit!”

“Listen, Annie, huh? If you and Maria go to the rendezvous with Paul and Otto, then get outa here, maybe—” He really didn’t know what “maybe” might be. But he was certain he would not allow his sister and/or the woman he was in love with to enter the Second City. He wasn’t enthusiastic about allowing himself to do it either. His head still ached from the last time.

“There is confusion everywhere,” Prokopiev said. “If you would allow me to contact my own forces, I could run the raid myself and none of you need risk your lives. It would—”

“Vassily,” Michael began, “if your people had the nuclear weapons they possess in the Second City, I wouldn’t exactly rest easy. And it’s not a matter of possession. It’s a matter of second guessing just how desperate they are in there, or how stupid, and just what they’ll do with their backs to the wall. What was your intelligence assessment of their technological capabilities? Do you think they have the technical expertise to make something go off?”

“We had no way of knowing,” Prokopiev said, lowering his head, his face red-tinged by the glow of the heater, his eyes closed.

“And you attacked the Second City?” Annie said incredulously.

“All military operations, Mrs. Rubenstein,” Prokopiev announced, raising his head, looking at her, “incorporate a certain amount of calculated risk.”

“Incalculable risk!” Annie told him. “You guys are nuts!”

Maria, kneeling beside Michael now, said softly, “Considerable variations of computer models were made concerning the technological abilities of potential survivors of what the Americans refer to as ‘the Great Conflagration’—”

“The Dragon Wind,” Han Lu Chen nodded.

“Yes,” Maria went on. “One of the models I found particularly intriguing, however unlikely, seems to fit in here, and because of that more than anything anyone has said, I am

frightened. The computer model dealt with the concept of the medium of destruction in effect metamorphosing, becoming an object of worship since it had, in effect, spared those who survived to worship it. The logic is primitive but valid. And if such a society were to exist—which seems to be the case of the Second City—the model was extended to incorporate the possibility—statistically closer to probability—that some of the mechanics at least of operating such weapons of destruction might indeed become incorporated among the trappings of such a religion, as part of holy ritual, as it were. In theory, at least,” Maria Leuden continued, sounding very much the Fraulein Doctor, her gray-green eyes sparkling behind the lenses of her wire-rimmed glasses, “such ritual could be graduated, much as was conventional religion, such as was Christianity or Muhammadanism. The Christians, for example, had certain high holy days, such as Christmas and Easter. The Moslems had their feast of Ramadan. There are countless examples. The Jews, certainly, with their various celebrations commemorating events from their history. If the worshippers of the Second City perceive themselves facing some ultimate crisis, as logic would dictate even the most ardent among them must, then those most ardent among them would seek consolation in their religion, perhaps some special ceremony. Such a special ceremony,” Maria concluded, her normally soft alto lowering, “could well include the ritual necessary to arm or detonate a warhead. Sort of calling on the ultimate power of their god, who of course spared them once and, if their propitiations are heeded, would spare them again while at the same time vanquishing their enemies.” Her hands suddenly clasped Michael’s left bicep, very tightly. No one spoke.

Michael Rourke just stared at the palms of his hands, listening to everyone breathing, to the soft hiss of the heater/cooker, the muted howl of the wind outside, to the slapping sounds as a gust of wind struck at the shelter

broadside. “We go inside if we can get there. There isn’t any choice.” And, inside himself, he knew he’d be a fool if he didn’t take Maria Leuden with him. What was in her mind might be their only chance for success. Survival beyond that was something his own logic dictated he shouldn’t waste the effort to consider.

Paul Rubenstein and Otto Hammerschmidt prepared to cross the river, Hammerschmidt saying, “Idle speculation, I know, my friend, but if only I had the facility to call up our combat engineers. We would have a bridge across which a tank could be taken and it would be erected in under ten minutes.”

“The Russians had machines like that five centuries ago.”

“I studied them. German is better.” Hammerschmidt smiled wolfishly. Paul Rubenstein just shook his head. There was no bridge-laying equipment, just the rappeling gear from the emergency equipment aboard the Specials. And he smiled at the thought of the person at whose insistence each item of emergency equipment had been included. John Rourke, his friend, his father-in-law, in the most real sense of the word his mentor, had, once again, planned ahead.

With the ropes there was a grappling hook which fired from a disposable launcher, the launcher disposable because it was not repackable in the field, the rope under mechanical compression. The ropes were flat, made of something which reminded Rubenstein of the Kevlar material John had once shown him in a bullet-resistant vest. The launchers were designed to fire upward, so he assumed they would fire outward as well. But, before Otto Hammerschmidt had mentioned it, Paul had realized it was a matter of trajectory, holding high enough that the spring-loaded grappling hooks would deploy over the object to which they hoped for

attachment rather than level with or below it.

They had traveled down along the river’s course for more than an hour, scouting a potential crossing, at last settling on a gap perhaps twenty-five yards across. But it was the depth that bothered him. The gorge through which the river cut so violently was at least seventy-five feet below them, and white-water rapids made the water glow eerily despite the otherwise poor visibility of the snowstorm.

Since it was impossible to get the Specials across, they had argued over it, then eventualy flipped a German coin for it. Paul Rubenstein had won. He would cross, explore the opposite bank on foot, Hammerschmidt waiting with the Specials.

“Are you ready, Paul?”

Rubenstein brushed snowflakes from his eyelashes and nodded. Before he had taken the Sleep he’d worn glasses, and in snow or rain they naturally became wet and were difficult to see through. But without them the snow or rain assaulted the eyes directly. He reflected that one couldn’t win.

“I’m ready,” he lied, because he was at once impatient to be gone but reluctant to crawl across the rope spanning the gorge when it would be attached on the opposite side only by an almost randomly positioned grappling hook.

Hammerschmidt put the launcher to his right shoulder. “A pity it doesn’t have sights,” the German commando captain remarked.

“A real pity, yes,” Rubenstein agreed, wiping more snow from his eyes.

“Then here it is.” And as if punctuating his words, the launcher fired with a pneumatic hiss so flat-sounding that it reminded Paul Rubenstein of someone passing gas.

His eyes tracked the roughly conical shape as it shot over the gorge, the flat rope uncoiling in its wake like a snake run over by a truck on some country road five centuries ago. He realized absently that he was wondering if somewhere on earth snakes survived. But before he decided anything concerning that, the

conical shape of the grappling hook device disappeared into a swirl of snow. Hammerschmidt fell to tugging at the rope, Rubenstein helping, the rope suddenly going taut.

They both threw their weight on the rope, trying to pull it free lest it work itself free. The rope was taut as a flat piece of metal.

Together, they tied it off into the rocks near them, then further secured it to a tree, discarding the launcher, Hammerschmidt saying, “I’ll bury the launcher in the snow once you are across.”

“Hopefully that’s all you’ll bury. Gimme a hand.” Together, they manipulated one of the Specials into position beneath the stretched taut rope, Paul Rubenstein tightening the sling of his Schmeisser submachine gun, tightening the strap of the musette bag in which he carried its spare magazines. He checked the safety strap of the tanker-style holster in which his battered Browning High Power was carried. These two firearms and his Gerber MKII knife were all he would take, the bulk of his arctic gear and the need to move fast and potentially far on foot defining his practical limits.

“Are you certain that you will not change your mind, Paul? I could rope over a rifle and a small pack and—”

“No—gotta travel light. Gimme a leg up.” He mounted the saddle of the Special, then grabbed the rope with his gloved hands, Hammerschmidt taking his feet, helping him as he swung them up and over the rope. The rope was already crusting with ice.

“Any famous last words?”

“Yeah, but I’m too polite to say them.” Rubenstein made himself laugh. And he started moving out, feet first, handover-hand, Hammerschmidt helping him the last three yards or so until he reached the edge; then he was out, over the gorge, the wind shrieking like a tortured soul, lashing at his body, at the rope, the flat rope vibrating with it. “I think I can, I think I can,” he murmured, already short of breath, moving steadily, not daring to stop.

Below—he cursed his stupidity for looking down—white water crashed over the rocks and flickered up toward him with beckoning fingers. He shook his head, kept moving, gauging it now that he was at the approximate center of the gorge, at the point of no return where it no longer made sense to even attempt to turn back. But he could not in any event. He kept moving, wishing suddenly he still smoked, thinking about Annie—he loved her and she loved him, and if none of the other things that had happened to him since meeting John Rourke aboard that flight into Atlanta that was diverted to New Mexico on the very Night of the War could be considered miraculous, then their love could. She was so exquisitely pretty, brilliant, headstrong, gentle, loving—everything he” had ever wanted in life was part of her. Paul Rubenstein kept moving.

Someday, they’d have a child—more than one. He found himself smiling—John a grandfather.

Paul looked down again, his fingers stiffening, his legs and forearms cramping, his shoulders aching. He remembered—he actually remembered nothing of it beyond what he was told after he recovered—John Rourke edging across just such a precarious rope to rescue him from a flaming helicopter in the aftermath of Karamatsov’s attack on the landing Eden Project shuttle crafts. The pain was something John had felt. John hadn’t given up. Paul kept going, his fingers barely able to close, the cold numbing him too now, the wind gusting, tearing at him. His hood blew down and his ears and face suddenly tingled with the cold.

He kept moving. And then the rope vibrated more strongly than it had before and he didn’t move. Upside down, he looked back, barely able to see Hammerschmidt by the very edge, Hammerschmidt gesticulating wildly, evidently shouting but his words lost on the wind. But the understanding was there. Hammerschmidt evidently thought the grappling hook was working loose.

Paul Rubenstein looked ahead, the rope vibrating strongly

again, rocks of immense size and jagged shape on the opposite wall of the gorge. He could cut the rope, swing toward the opposite wall of the gorge, hope to cling to something.

The rope lurched and Paul Rubenstein felt a sudden sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, an instant of total weightlessness, then a shock to his arms and legs and back.

The rope swayed maddeningly.

He realized the grappling hook’s position had shifted.

Cut the rope and swing toward the wall?

And what if he struck against the rocks so hard that he died? Annie a widow in a world like this? And John. And Natalia. “No!” Paul Rubenstein shouted into the wind. He started moving again, but the ice on the rope now that it swayed was making him lose traction, and for each inch he moved forward, he slipped an inch downward, his relative position unchanged.

Rubenstein licked his lips. His cheeks and ears were numb with the cold. With his right hand, he reached out, as far ahead of his torso as he could. And then he swung his left leg from the rope, the rope vibrating maddeningly. He hung there, his left knee carrying much of his weight, both fists clenched to the ice-slicked synthetic rope.

With difficulty—nothing he knew compared to what lay ahead—he cleared his left leg of the rope, hanging there for a frightening instant by his hands alone, gusts of wind ripping at him, snow and spicules of ice pelting his exposed flesh.

He snarled at the wind, as if somehow it were a mortal enemy, at the night, at the snow, at the rocks and the raging white water below him, then pulled. He’d never been the world’s greatest athlete, having discovered muscles in his adulthood he’d never known he had as a child, but he swung his right elbow over the rope, the rope, despite its flatness, gouging through his parka and into his flesh and musculature, his arm tingling with the pain.

He threw himself up and forward, hurtling his left leg over the rope, for an instant what little balance he had gone as he slipped forward, his right arm moving quickly, his gloved fist

closing over the rope. He hung there, breathing, glad for the opportunity.

His right leg—he swung it upward.

He was now faced in the opposite direction, could use his feet for leverage against the rope, its very flatness now his enemy. He hung there, but only for another moment, the numbness of exhaustion which was overtaking him an enemy still worse. He started moving again, wedging the rope between the outer edges of his crisscrossed feet, pushing with his feet as he pulled upward and forward with his hands.