Chapter Forty-two
Rourke had stuffed all his belongings into the Lowe Al-pine systems pack, all except the scoped CAR-15. And one of the Soviet SF-ers had carried it through when escaping the truck in which he had hidden. The GRU sergeant had carried Natalia’s gear. Rourke fished in the pack now, no time or inclination to change from the borrowed Soviet uni-form, but instead needing the rest of his weapons related gear. The belt and flap holster for the Python, the ammo dumps in place, the big Gerber MkII strapped there. The Milt Sparks Six-Pack with its six additional Detonics maga-zines. The Metalifed Colt Government MkIV Series 70, the Thad Rybka small of the back holster with the two- inch Colt Lawman MkIII, the musette bag which carried extra magazines for the CAR-15 and M-16 and an identical bag carrying extra magazines for the Detonics pistols and for the Colt, these latter working in the Detonics pistols as well.
Rourke stripped away the Soviet uniform tunic.
He slung the musette bags cross body from his shoulders, using the wide belt from his Levis to secure the Rybka hol-ster and the Sparks Six-Pack in position. He secured the gunbelt for the Python as well, finding one of the speed loaders in the musette bag with the pistol magazine. He rammed the Safariland loader against the rear face of the opened cylinder, the ejector star activating the release, the loader dumping into the cylinder—six 158-grain semi-jack-eted soft points.
He holstered the Python. Natalia had stripped away her uniform tunic as well, ripping away the necktie from her shirt, opening her shirt collar. She positioned the Safariland double flap holsters on their belt around her waist, check-ing the twin L-Frame four inchers. She reholstered the Smith revolvers, securing the flaps. From her huge black canvas bag she took the Ken Null SMZ
shoulder rig, slip-ping it on, securing it to her belt on the off gun side. From the floor beside her, she picked up the silencer fitted Walther. She twisted the silencer free of the muzzle. “No need for this now. We can safely assume they know we’re here,” and she dropped the silencer into her purse.
She slung the purse cross body under her right arm, then shifted it across her back.
Vladov’s men who had changed into KGB uniforms stripped them away. Beneath them were their own Special. Forces uniforms, not the fatigues they had worn earlier, but blue parade dress uniforms, medals in place.
Vladov affixed the dark blue beret to his head, at a rakish angle, Rourke noted. “We will likely all die, gentlemen, Ma-jor Tiemerovna. We will die if we must, but we shall carry the pride of our unit to our graves.” Vladov picked up his AKS-74, then looked to his men. “Five of you—you, you, you there—you and you—take up positions on both sides of the RPK and behind it — you,” and he pointed to the fifth man, “will back up the machinegunner. The RPK will be dismounted and you will serve as the ammo bearer.” He turned to Rourke, Rourke realizing Reed was now standing beside him just inside the flange surrounding the interior vault door. “We are ready to proceed.”
“Where?” Reed snapped.
Rourke answered him. “We’ve got two jobs—to knock out the particle beam weapons so they can’t be repaired at all. We’ve got to locate the cryogenics laboratory and de-stroy the cryogenic serum, and if possible sabotage any-thing else along the way—life support systems for the Womb—anything like that.”
“And you are to steal as many of the cryogenic chambers as possible—this is General Varakov’s directive—to save yourself and the major and your family—and perhaps some of the men who fight with Colonel Reed.”
“And the men who fight with you,” Rourke corrected Vladov. “Them as well.”
“What the hell do you mean?” It was Reed, and as if punctuating his remarks, small arms fire began to erupt from the far side of the vaulted stone hall beyond the inte-rior bombproof vault door.
“They prepare to attack, Comrade Captain,” Daszrozinski shouted from beside the M-72
combination where he supervised the temporary defense.
“Very good, Lieutenant,” and Vladov turned to Reed. “It may be possible, Colonel, that some of your men or my men may find sanctuary at Doctor Rourke’s mountain Retreat and survive the holocaust. But I suggest there is little time to argue. And I suggest that it is more likely the case none of us shall leave this place alive.”
The gunfire was increasing in volume.
Reed nodded, “At least I agree with ya on that, Captain. Which way, Rourke?”
“Past their position, to the left—if General Varakov had his information right. A long corridor—it should be a shooting gallery.”
“You’re always so fuckin’ pleasant,” and Reed stomped away, raising his men.
Chapter Forty-three
Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy knew the target. Only one person could have set them against him. The person was Varakov. And the target was the cryogenics laboratory. The microphone in his left hand—the hand trembled slightly— he announced over the Womb’s public address system.
“At-tention all personnel. This is Colonel Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy. The Womb is under siege from within. Approximately two dozen American saboteurs and Soviet traitors. They are armed with assault rifles and handguns and possibly with plastic explosives. They are dangerous. Their objective is to reach the cryogenics laboratory and to destroy our very chances of survival. They are to be stomped out like the vermin that they are. They would de- stroy our plans for world order in the future. They are our enemies. All personnel are to be armed—male and female personnel. Ninety rounds of ammunition per weapon. The arsenal rooms are then to be locked and secured and guarded, appropriate officers of the day will take charge. Hunt these traitors and saboteurs, hunt them down, kill them. But if at all possible, two of them are to be brought to me alive. The sole woman, Major Natalia Tiemerovna, the treacherous widow of our late spiritual leader Vladmir Karamatsov, a hero to us all, in whose memory we still serve. A man—American. He is tall, muscular appearing. He reportedly habitually carries two small, stainless steel finish .45 caliber pistols in a double shoulder holster. His name is Dr. John Rourke. He is a terrorist with the Ameri- can Central Intelligence Agency. The person responsible for bringing one or both of these persons to me alive shall be awarded the highest honors and hold great responsibility and influence in the new order that shall be formed after the awakening. This is my word. I shall personally lead a search and destroy unit in pursuit of these enemies. Find them. Stop them. Kill them. Bring Dr. Rourke and Major Tiemerovnato me—alive.”
Rozhdestvenskiy looked at his hand—it had stopped shaking.
He would win—he must.
Chapter Forty-four
The CAR-15 slung across his back, an M-16 in each hand, Rourke sidestepped past the flange of the interior bomb-proof vault door and broke into a dead run, opening fire toward the Soviet KGB position where the corridor began on the far side of the huge vaulted room. The distance to the KGB riflemen was approximately one hundred yards. Spraying both rifles toward them in three round bursts, Rourke skidded on his heels, Natalia and Vladov catching up to him, Reed already running ahead with his own contin-gent and some of the Russians.
Behind them, Daszrozinski and one other man huddled beside the slowly moving sidecar of the M-72 combination, the RPK light machinegun blazing toward the KGB posi-tion as well, Daszrozinski’s AKS-74 assault rifle blazing. Rourke shoved Natalia ahead of him, running again—there was no cover. Ahead, one of the Americans went down — there was no sense stopping to check the body—the back of the head exploded with the hit. Natalia snatched up the dead man’s M-16 as she ran past, a rifle in each hand now, too, firing.
Rourke glanced back. The driver of the motorcycle com-bination was down, slumped across the handlebars. Daszrozinski pushed the dead man—the chest peppered with bullet holes—from the bike saddle, swinging on, driv- ing now. The RPK still fired, but the assault rifle fire from the KGB position was heavy.
Ahead, perhaps twenty-five yards still, was the farthest left corridor. The lead elements of Reed’s men had reached it. An instant later there was covering fire from the corridor mouth.
Rourke had heard what Rozhdestvenskiy had said over the PA system—mentally he had corrected the KGB com-mander. He—Rourke—had been an employee of the CIA, but was no longer. And he knew Rozhdestvenskiy knew that, but it made good copy to his troops. Rourke ran on, the M-16 in his right hand fired out, still pumping the
