Survivalist - 20 - Firestorm (12 page)

The end justifies the means, Natalia?” Sarah asked, not really asking at all, almost taunting, leaning forward, something in her eyes making Sarah look as if she were about to cry.

“Peace is still a worthy ideal, Sarah. Ifs why we’re all fighting. But the very basis of hardcore liberal idealism in which you believed was what allowed evil to flourish and precipitated the very violence you abhorred. The end doesn’t justify any means or every means. But depending on die circumstances-that’s situational ethics, not Communism-some ends justify some means. We all do what we have to do. We are all who we have to be. Just like you have to be in love with John and I have to be in love with him, too. And Maria is in love with Michael. And Annie is good at everything she tries. And John is heroic and Michael is heroic and Paul is heroic. Nobody told Paul to be heroic. He did what he had to do. Not just because circumstances dictated that or because his very being dictated that, but for both reasons. Circumstance could have dictated anything, and if Paul hadn’t been Paul, he wouldn’t have responded the way he had.

“I know we’re all here to thrash tilings out,” Natalia concluded. “But we cant predicate that on blaming ourselves for who we are or what we are. We have to work within the framework of our identities, not cry over who we are.” She shouldn’t have used that word-“cry”-Natalia realized almost as she said it, Sarah’s tears coming, Natalia slipping off the couch and dropping to her knees beside Sarah, hugging her to her…

Freidrich Rausch sat in the tunnel of foundation materials beneath one of the partially completed modules of Eden Base. The wind howled beyond the confines of his meager shelter as he stroked one of the sti-letto-bladed knife’s edges over the stone, the yellow light of the lamp his only companion. Taped onto the cold radiating wall, the tape at one corner dropping down from moisture which condensed and almost instantly froze from his breathing, was a map.

The mountains of Northeastern American Georgia.

He stared at one mountain’s shape now.

Inside that mountain was not only Rourke’s wife, but Rourke’s daughter (the wife of Rourke’s best friend, the man a Jew), the mistress of Rourke’s son and the mysterious Russian woman who was said to be Rourke’s own mistress.

When he killed them all, not just Rourke’s wife who had killed his— Rausch’s - brother, the great Herr Doctor Rourke would be undone. So consumed with vengeance that his effectiveness would be destroyed, it would be possible to go ahead with plans both here, in Eden, and in New Germany.

He set down his knife, picked up the flask of liquor and removed the stopper. He took a strong swallow, a toast to Rourke’s mountain and the promise it held.

And the women there, who would not have to die exacdy immediately.

Snow was drifted all about them, a sliimmering wall of white the consistency of the frosting on a cake, swirled by the wind. The hurricane which was now blown out in the Gulf of Mexico, this was its legacy.

To be forced down in such a storm was not unique, but to be forced down such a short distance from one’s own base and to be trapped by the near zero visibility was intolerable because there was so much to do. The storm would have all but halted the restoration of fortifications surrounding Eden Base. The only consolation was that the Soviet forces would be equally handicapped, slowed down, he hoped.

Wolfgang Mann spent die time reviewing orders, studying maps and computer projections—preoccupied.

He had taken his turn working to repair the fuel line, been the last of his shift to return to the comparative warmth of the gunship, the pilot and three of the commando unit comprising the alternating shift. Mann had ordered that no person be exposed to the numbing cold for more than fifteen minutes at a time, their arctic gear not suited to the blizzard conditions surrounding them.

With any luck, this last shift would have the fuel line repaired and it would be possible to start the main rotor again, the batteries kept warm and ready. It would require time in order to properly warm the engine powering the main rotor to the point where the machine could be flown out. Synth-oil turned to something nearer the consistency of glue under these conditions. Scientists at New Germany worked to develop better suited lubricants but this was here, this was now. If the winds would ever decrease to the point where take-off would be possible, and the machine were warmed by then, perhaps-Wolfgang Mann threw down his pencil in disgust. In an age where so much was computerized, he had always thought better with a pencil and blank paper, preferred to make real marks on real maps and,

only then, transfer to computer.

And he was preoccupied, could not properly concentrate anyway, had welcomed his tour at repairing the fuel line-he could not take his mind from Sarah Rourke and he was ashamed of his thoughts. Sarah Rourke was the wife of another man, bore that man’s child in her body, and that man was fine and good and more noble than any man he had ever known. And his own wife-there had not even been the occasion to fly back to New Germany for her funeral service-was only recently taken from him.

He had loved his wife and she loved him, but they had never been friends, really. His work, her volunteerism, all of that and many other factors, many beautiful things in common, the basis of fond memories which filled him with sadness more deep than he had ever felt, at the mere thought of her passing. But they had never been friends.

The fault for that was almost entirely his own, Wolfgang Mann realized. He had never thought of friendship with a woman, hence never attempted it, nor thought of friendship breeding feelings he dared not even speak.

Women were different from men. He smiled at the brilliance of his insight. But they were, or so he had always thought. They had things which interested them which no man was interested in and they, in turn, could not be bothered with the things of men. But he had oriented his thinking always toward the external, never to personal qualities, thoughts, observations, shared emotions beyond passion.

Sarah Rourke was extraordinary.

He smiled as he thought that she should have been German.

He could never tell her his thoughts. Aside from how embarrassed such thoughts would make her feel, she would likely cease to be his friend.

And, somehow, he would have a new sort of emptiness with which to deal, with which to live.

And he worried now. Four women, no matter the strength of the Herr Doctof s mountain Retreat, no matter the skills of Fraulein Major Tiemerovna, four women would be no match for Freidrich Rausch.

Wolfgang Mann looked back at his charts. He snapped his pencil between his fingers, without really tfiinking of it.

He could send troops to guard the Retreat, despite the fact that

Doctor Rourke-and everyone, really-had felt it best not to draw attention to the specific location by placing personnel in the immediate area.

Wolfgang Mann told himself all the things that he could to reassure himself. They had primary and backup radio capability. Regardless of the weather, a good pilot could take-off and land a J7-V close enough to the Retreat, and with a few volunteers give this maniac Rausch what he deserved.

And the Retreat was a veritable arsenal of conventional weapons, was sealed within granite and steel, its entrance disguised so well that it would be impossible to discern, especially now, snow certainly drifted over any telltale markings by the entrance, over the rock counter-balances themselves.

She-they were safe.

There was a blast of bitterly cold wind and a wash of icy spicules of snow blew across the interior of the cabin. “Herr Colonel! The fuel line! All is in order!”

The radio message was encoded and it took almost a minute for the radio operator aboard the J7-V to decrypt. “Request landing at following coordinates. Emergency.”

The pilot of the J7-V looked up at John Rourke. “What should I do, Hen General?”

John Rourke had totally dismissed his appointment to the rank of brigadier general by the president of Mid-Wake, and, fortunately, so had most of the persons with whom he regulary associated. The young German pilot was another story. “Does the message appear genuine, Lieutenant?”

The lieutenant looked at the radio operator. The radio operator said, “With your permission, Herr General. The message appears authentic. The decryption key is proper.”

Rourke looked over the lower control panel set in the cockpit dash and toward the cloud layer beneath them. Nothing was visible to the naked eye but clouds, an endless and enormous gray sea of them. “What do your sensors show?” Rourke asked the copilot and navigator.

There appear to be heavy concentrations of helicopter gunships-German, Herr General-both in the air and on the ground. There are no other vehicles in evidence.”

“Anything else?”

There are signs of human habitation, Herr General.”

Michael spoke from behind him. “Dad, these coordinates match the coordinates for one of the villages the Wild Tribes people were relocated to, to protect them.”

“I don’t like this,” Paul murmured, looking at the map beside Michael as Rourke looked back.

Take us down, Lieutenant. Give it a flyby at a decent altitude that’ll allow more detailed observation. If everything appears satisfactory,

bring us in. That fellow who wants to see me can keep for a little while.” “Yes, Herr General!”

As Rourke walked aft, he heard Paul saying under his breath, “Herr General.” ^

John Rourke looked at his friend and smiled. Rourke took his seat, seeing to the security of his weapons first because of the anticipated landing, the twin stainless Detonics Combat Masters still on his body in the double Alessi shoulder rig…

Paul Rubenstein sniffed into his arctic parka, shivering, the cold having nothing to do with it. As he stared out the rapidly steaming-over window, he could hardly believe his eyes. Modular buildings of the same construction employed by the Germans in their field hospitals and other field accommodations of a permanent or semipermanent nature, sliced in half, as though ripped apart, but blackened at the center.

The battered old Browning High Power mat had been nearly as constant a companion to him as John Rourke since the Night of the War-it was holstered now in the rig John had dug out for him from supplies kept at the Retreat. This was the first time he’d had the chance to use it. “This was made by DeSantis. They called it the ‘Slant Shoulder Holster.’ Thumb break instead of a trigger guard break, like my rig. I hadn’t remembered I had it, but I was involved in a job with the FBI’s Special Operations Group a couple of years before the Night of the War. They swore by the High Power, some of the guns having more than forty thousand rounds through them with just a change of barrel and a few minor parts. I needed the holster because I was told to use the same gun the FBI unit used, all the same equipment so Fd be indistinguishable from them.” And then John Rourke had smiled, “But I had a .45 under my clothes.” John Rourke and the .45 ACP were an inseparable combination, Paul Rubenstein realized. Yet John had never been so closed-minded as to say die .45 was the only gun to carry. John carried and used .357s and .44 Magnums and on at least one occasion Paul could remember had said, “More important than the caliber is the accuracy and skill with which ifs employed, and that translates to the man behind the gun. For all practical purposes, a .45 ACP and a decendy constructed 9mm hollow point have about the same effect on a target barring extenuating circumstances. That was a debate which raged for years after the Army adopted a 9mm pistol. A lot of the same people who were complaining were the same people who still used Hardball in their .45s, too. The stone age must have been a wonderful era because so many people were nostalgic for it.”

The fuselage door opened and Paul Rubenstein, pulling up his hood and hiding his hands in his pockets, followed John Rourke out into the gray cold. No snow fell.

What weapon was this, which had wreaked such horrible destruction here? Not artillery; not explosives.

There was no sound, except for the beating of the rotor blades of German gunsbips overhead and the cooling of the J7-Vs jet engines. The snow fell so evenly it was like a curtain, silent and cold.

The wind was totally still.

Bodies lay everywhere, many only charred lumps hardly recognizable as once human beings who fought to stay alive, loved, nurtured, some few of the bodies covered with blankets or inside black body bags, hundreds more of them exposed to the cold, but beyond caring.

“God bless them,” Paul Rubenstein murmured, closing his eyes for an instant, turning his head away.

He heard Michael saying, Tve never seen any pattern of destruction like this. What-“

Paul opened his eyes and turned to look as John Rourke spoke. “Ifs an energy weapon. It has to be. Like nothing we have.”

The Soviets’ Particle Beam weapons,” Paul almost whispered.

John looked at him.

“What if they’d found a way to miniaturize and developed some sort of power source for them,” Paul offered. The technology seems impossible, but what if it isn’t? What if the Soviets used this village as some sort of testing site to determine operational characteristics in the field?”

“I don’t think we could counter an energy weapon with anything we have,” Michael added, turning his head, looking away. “All those people-my God.”

And John Rourke made the sign of the cross.

Paul Rubenstein had a different faith, but the same emotion. “Amen.”

It was late, but none of them at least admitted to feeling at all like sleeping and, after all, Sarah had called it a “pajama party” anyway.

Natalia was nearly dressed for it, down to her bra and a pair of Chinese silk tap pants. As she hung up die pale rose colored skirt she’d worn earlier, her eyes caught a glimpse of something else hanging in the back of the closet. Most of her things had been sent ahead of her and, tired after the long trip from Mid-Wake, she had wanted desperately to rest. Annie had asked if she-Natalia-would like her things unpacked and Natalia had agreed.