Survivalist - 20 - Firestorm (17 page)

There seemed to be two classes of these J7-V aircraft, Jason Darkwood noted, and this was evidendy one from the luxury class. Colonel Mann’s J7-V had a full bathroom, everything included, even a small stall-type shower, much like those on Soviet Scout Class submarines.

Jason Darkwood, the pain in his head and neck throbbing only moderately, took the container of pills given him by Doctor Munchen and opened it. He was to take one every four hours and have the prescription renewed at New Germany. And yes, Doctor Munchen had told him, the drug they contained reacted with adrenaline, in some patients more than others; but, die reaction was not harmful. Jason Darkwood also realized that there were two definitions of the word “harrnful.” To him, as a Fleet Officer in the United States Navy, a little pain was better than a lot of impaired judgment and a nervous reaction which prohibited normal activity.

He spilled the contents of the bottle into the chemical toilet and flushed it. He looked at himself in the mirror, noticed he was smiling.

Jason Darkwood felt better already…

Otto Hammerschmidt realized he was faced with the horns of the proverbial dilemma. He was a captain. He played chess with the ranking field grade commander in all of New Germany, Colonel Wolfgang Mann. There were general staff personnel, of course, but they never ventured into the field. The dilemma was that he could checkmate Colonel Mann on the next move.

“And what are you waiting for, Captain?”

Hammerschmidt looked up. “Herr Colonel?”

“Do you have so httle respect for me, Hammerschmidt?”

Otto Hammerschmidt replied, “I have the greatest respect for you,

Horst Hammerschmidt remembered the time he and his older brother, Otto, had run afoul of three boys in the Youth. The boys, schoolmates of Otto’s, had pressed after Otto for several months to join and abandon his school athletics. It was because Otto was so good in intramural sports that it was not compulsory for him to join the Youth. Horst Hammerschmidt had perfected his athletic abilities so he could achieve the same exemption.

In those days, there had been no question-at least among the younger people of New Germany-to the leader’s near mfallibility and the preeminence of Nazism over all other philosophies, had any others even been openly available for study. But the Youth were fanatics, many of them.

The three boys had followed Otto and Horst home from a track competition in which older and younger boys were competing. Horst had competed in the triple broad jump, the 220 and the 440, not against his brother, but against students his own age and year. Otto was master of the 220, but excelled equally at the mile and the high jump.

On the way toward die main entrance to the city from the playing field, the three boys from the Youth had intercepted them. Their leader, Hugo Goerdler, an older boy who, it was said, worked with the Youth simply to satisfy his unnatural sexual appetites, insisted then and there that Otto and Horst quit athletics and join the Youth.

Otto’s word was law with Horst then, the beginnings of the respect he had always held for his older brother. Otto had looked at him. Then Otto looked at Hugo Goerdler. “I will not, Hugo. Nor will my brother, Horst. Now, leave us.”

That was when the fight began.

Hugo Goerdler stepped back and told the other two boys to show the Hammerschmidt brothers the error of their ways.

Despite the fact that the Youth boys carried clubs made from heavy sticks, the Hammerschmidt brothers prevailed.

Then Otto turned to Hugo Goerdler, who stood there, almost paralyzed with fear. Otto said to him, “Fight me, Hugo.” “I will not fight you.”

Otto walked up to Hugo Goerdler, wiping blood from his lower lip where one of the stick clubs wielded by the two Youth boys had connected. Otto punched Hugo Goerdler in the mouth. It was a fast up-percut and knocked Hugo Goerdler flat on his rear end. As Hugo Goerdler fell back into the grass, he began to cry. Otto hauled Hugo Goerdler to his feet. Goerdler begged for mercy. Otto told Goerdler, “If you ever bother my brother or me again, I will beat you until you have no tears left. Remember that.” And Otto let go of Hugo Goerdlefs uniform front and let Goerdler fall back into the grass.

It had been warm in the sun as Horst Hammerschmidt and his big brother, Otto, walked home together, exchanging anecdotes about the fist fight, singing each other’s fighting skills, laughing-but a little hollowly as Horst Hammerschmidt remembered it now - at the tragically pathetic character of Hugo Goerdler.

Horst Harnmerschmidfs mind focused on that warm spring sunshine of years ago.

Because he was dying now, freezing to death …

Jason Darkwood was in dress blues. He remembered Maggie Barrow, when she’d helped him pack, telling him, “What are you going to need dress blues for?”

“A Fleet Grade officer may be called upon-“

“Oh, well, excuse me, Captain, sir!” And she saluted him. She looked kind of funny saluting him because she was wearing one of his shirts and nothing else. They’d just made love, for trie first time in a long time. In a way; Jason Darkwood wondered if that was part of what had unnerved him. Had she made love to him because she thought she’d never see him again, as a parting gift?

He had to find out, because if she hadn’t, he wanted to convert some of his United States Savings Bonds into cash and help her to start a civilian practice at Mid-Wake. Married women could serve in the Navy-as doubdess Maggie would as a Reserve Officer-but not sea duty.

He loved her.

He straightened his tie as the fuselage door opened.

He stood.

Colonel Mann, his cap at a slightly jaunty angle, Otto Hammerschmidt, die epitome of spit and polish, Sam Aldridge, boots shined to mirror brightness-Jason Darkwood stepped up to stand beside Colonel Mann. They were of equal rank, but Darkwood stood to the left.

He recognized the song being played by the military band. And he had spotted the counter-snipers surrounding the air field as they’d taxied.

The song was Deutschland Uber Alles …

The meal, veal, vegetables, pasta, things Jason Darkwood couldn’t even recognize added in for good measure, was beyond the point of satisfying, nearly orgasmic.

Now, smnVing cigars, along with Colonel Mann, Sam Aldridge and Otto Hammerschmidt and a rather unprepossessing older fellow named Deiter Bern, Jason Darkwood sat in a beautifully panelled library. Paneling was a novelty to him-real paneling-because at Mid-Wake, there was no wood of course.

A knock came at the doors and Colonel Mann turned toward it, as did Deiter Bern, the headman of New Germany, Darkwood unsure of his proper tide beyond “Doctor.”

A junior grade officer, uniform creases sharp enough to cut a tough shark steak, entered die room, saluted Colonel Mann (despite the fact both were uncovered) and even bowed slighdy.

Colonel Mann returned the salute, took the message handed to him and read it.

Then he walked over to Otto Hammerschmidt. He spoke in English, Darkwood realized out of politeness. “Your brother, Otto, he may be gravely injured. Sergeant Schlabrendorff, whom I believe you know, has just arrived at one of our distant mountain outposts with reports of an attack by the Soviets utilizing some type of energy weapon. An expedition is being mounted even now to reach your brother. You would care to go, of course?”

“Yes, Herr Colonel.”

Otto Hammerschmidt looked halfway between death and tears…

Jason Darkwood’s dress blues would need attending to. There had been no time to hang them up, simply change to batde gear-black BDUs-and grab his weapons and move to the waiting helicopter gunship.

And they were off.

Trees, everywhere beneath them, a veritable Biblical Garden of Eden.

And, he now understood now why the surface dwellers fought as fiercely as they did. The surface was Paradise.

The story of the Garden of Eden had not been apocryphal, but instead a prediction, a prediction not of the Fall that had been, but the Fall to come. The Night of the War was the Fall. And. now, desperately, men were trying to reclaim their heritage, their future too.

Paradise was worth dying for.

Paul Rubenstein sat at the main control panel of the Atsack, snow falling so thickly the wiper blades and defrosting system could barely keep pace in providing acceptable visibility.

Michael came forward and stood beside him. “Want me to spell you for a while?”

The Atsack was lumbering over a ridgeline toward a plateau they’d crossed enroute to the area where Vassily Prokopiev had told them he’d wrecked the Soviet half-track truck. The snow was deeper, of course, and the erratic winds altered the drift pattern. Because of that and the inherent ruggedness of the terrain, it was necessary to constantly monitor the headsup display showing computer translated readouts from the all-side sensors. Despite the comparatively enormous wheel size and base, the Atsack could get stuck. And no group of human beings, no matter how resourceful or physically strong, could ever hope to push it out without mechanical aid.

“Paul-you want me to-“

“Yeah-as soon as we get someplace where if d be safe to change hands on the controls.” Michael leaned over Paul’s shoulder. “Can you talk?” “Sure. Whafsup?”

“There were a series of microdots. Dad’s got them under a microscope now. Seems to be a full set of plans for both the Particle Beam weapons themselves and the power source.”

“Great. At least well have what they have.”

And then Paul heard John’s voice behind him. “Not that great. I don’t think ifs intentional, probably simply because Antonovitch didn’t have enough scientific training to realize. I can barely read the materials. But it seems that the system for linking the power to the weapon in such a way that there isn’t instantaneous discharge-which would atomize the weapon and anything or anyone anywhere near it-it seems that that’was omitted. We’re going to need to get

our hands on one of the guns themselves in order to make a working prototype from these plans, unless the scientists of New Germany or Mid-Wake are a good deal farmer advanced than available data suggests.”

“Shit,” Paul observed. The ridgeline was levelling out onto the plateau, and he could already envision himself getting out from behind the Atsack’s controls for a while. He was starting to get a headache. “How do we get one of the guns? Why did I ask that?”

He heard John Rourke laughing behind him.

Michael said, “Well, the obvious thing that suggests itself is stealing one, right?”

John answered, the laughter gone from his voice, replaced by a timbre which suggested some difficulty in speaking, as if emotion were bottled up behind the words. “Logically, Fd suppose what we saw at that Wild Tribes relocation village was a field test for one of the weapons. Before World War Two, gas was tested on defenseless Ethiopians. The Spanish Civil War was in many ways a proving ground for Hitler-the Condor Legion. Let me contact Captain Hartmann at the base. See if there are any more reports of an energy weapon being utilized. Well hurry.”

As John Rourke finished speaking, Paul Rubenstein noticed something on the headsup display, long range radar data showing incoming vehicular traffic from both the norm and the east. “We’ve got trouble, maybe.”

The next instant, John Rourke was sitting beside him at die secondary console, Paul Rubenstein able to see him at the far right edge of his peripheral vision. “Looks like three vehicles from the norm and another three from the east, Paul.” He could hear John Rourke’s fingers working over the computer console, summoning data. “Got it. The radar configurations match those of Soviet Armored Personnel Carriers, full track vehicles roughly thirty-five feet in length. Troop capacity is thirty-six, plus a two-man crew. All the data is tentative because they’ve just been introduced into the field.”

“Great,” Paul observed, not meaning the word the way he had meant it the last time he’d used it. “They’re closing fast. How big are the treads, John?”

“A meter in width. They should be able to roll over almost anything. Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“Climb up into the gun turret. And beep something mind, Michael”

“What, Dad?” _c “If they’ve just been introduced into the field, these new APCS,

they might have been introduced with the new armament. Thafd

give us six Particle Beam Weapons to face.” Paul Rubenstein could feel his armpits starting to get wet with

sweat.

The headsup display showed the vehicles moving into some sort ot attack formation. “You got it, Paul?”

“Long as you want me to, John. Think we can outrun them? or at least outmaneuver them?” “I have a feeling well find out very shortly, Paul.”

Otto Hammerschmidt sat staring out the window set in the helicopter’s sliding door to the portside of the fuselage. He said nothing, only stared. The window material was bullet-proof, of course, and slight distortion was evident in the image beyond it.

The dual (analog/digital) display Steinmetz on Darkwood’s left wrist showed they’d been en route for a little bit more than an hour. These helicopter things were very fast, but Jason Darkwood had to admit they almost seemed to stand still by comparison to the J7-V vertical take-off jet fighter bombers of which the Germans seemed so justifiably proud. If he could get a submarine to move that fast-He smiled at the thought, but a glance again toward Otto Hammerschmidt, in fear for the life of his younger brother, forced the smile away.

Colonel Mann, tall, straight, his face open and friendly as it always seemed, the eyes clouded in thought or some problem that needed resolution, came aft and sat down beside him. “Captain Darkwood.”

“Colonel.”

“We will be reaching the rendezvous site in approximately seven minutes. From the information I have been able to obtain, it would appear that some sort of energy weapon was used by the Soviet personnel who attacked the Commandoes of the Long Range Mountain patrol. Sergeant Schlabrendorff, Lieutenant Hammerschmidt’s senior non-commissioned officer, was worn and tired, not having slept for better than forty-eight hours, still insisting that he be allowed to return to the aid of young Hammerschmidt. He has been brought along, partially sedated. The two men are friends, you see. Rather like you and Captain Aldridge.” Colonel Mann gestured toward Sam Aldridge, Aldridge asleep in the rear of the machine, snoring softly.