Survivalist - The Web Part 2

He heard the voice behind him. "Yes, Comrade General-that is correct. The Politburo has decided-"

" know what the Politburo has decided,' Varakov told him evenly. "That the KGB should have greater authority here, and that you, as Karamatsov's best friend in life should be his successor in death. That KGB will have the final word-not the military."

"That is correct, Comrade General."

Varakov turned around, slowly, facing the vastly younger and slightly taller man.

Rozhdestvenskiy continued speaking. "In matters that strictly involve the military, of course, yours will be the final word, Comrade General. But in matters where the KGB-"

"In any matters," Varakov interrupted, ctI am sure there will be KGB involvement, will there not?"

"So many incidents have unforeseen political ramifications, Comrade General-it may be difficult to avoid. May I smoke?"

"Yes-you may burn if you wish." Varakov nodded, half-wis.h.i.+ng the man would. He watched as Rozhdestvenskiy took from under his uniform tunic a silver cigarette case, the^ cigarettes in it looking more American than Russian; then a lighter that perfectly matched the case, and lit the cigarette in its steady flame. The new KGB colonel-the new Karamatsov, Varakov thought-like the man he replaced, was too reminiscent of a n.a.z.i for Varakov to feel remotely comfortable around him. SS-the perfect physical specimen, the blond-haired superman-only this one was a Marxist rather than a National Socialist. "And what is your first order of business, Colonel?"

"Two matters are pressing, Comrade General. Perhaps not of the greatest importance, but something which must be accomplished. We do not know."

"I thought the KGB knew everything." Varako smiled, starting to walk around the figures of the mastodons, stil] inspecting them as if they were his troops.

Rozhdestvenskiy smiled when Varakov glanced at him "Hardly, Comrade General-but to know everything is our goal. No-this is a rather esoteric matter, perhaps; one with which you are conversant, I am sure. It is the matter of the mysterious Eden Project and what ii actually was or is.

Shortly before leaving our headquar ters in Moscow, I learned of the efforts of a heroic Soviel agent. He had stolen some information regarding th Eden Project and information regarding other matters as well, things which were held at the highest security levels in what was the United States. Because of the sensitive nature of the information, he was bringing it to Moscow personally. When the war broke out-"

"Yes-do you recall? I believe it was Napoleon, wasn'i it? A messenger reportedly came to him. Napoleon reac the message and proclaimed something to the effect: rM) G.o.d, peace has broken out!' It was something like that.'

"Yes, something like that, Comrade General." Rozh-destvenskiy nodded.

"This agent-what word did he bring you?" Varakov felt himself smile.

"Surely not that peace had broken out.

"He brought word of precisely where duplicate files on the Eden Project were hidden, in addition to the first .copy files which were destroyed during the bombing oi the Johnson s.p.a.ce Center in Texas. There is now renewed hope that-"

"You hope for that then. I have more pressing matters than some American defense project so obscure that-"

"I know what you hope." Rozhdestvenskiy nodded. "As the wife of my lifelong friend Colonel Karamatsov, the life of Major Tiemerovna is my concern as well. Surely in all the troop movements from the East Coast of the continent there has been some word-"

"Nothing," Varakov answered sincerely. "She was last seen helping in the evacuation of Florida at an airfield, only moments before the major earthquake struck and a high-alt.i.tude observation plane photographed the beginning of the Florida peninsula's collapse into the ocean."

"She was with the American agent, Rourke, was she not, Comrade General?"

Rozhdestvenskiy asked. Is he trying to sound innocent, Varakov asked himself, realizing that for an instant the charming, handsome, blond officer had penetrated his defenses, made him feel there was something of a genuine concern for Natalia's welfare.

"I believe so-but that is only from a-" he began defensively.

Rozhdestvenskiy cut him off. "A reliable report, I believe, Comrade General? This other matter to which I hope to attend-I confess both a personal and professional interest in the safe return of your niece. The major may be able to aid me in locating the war criminal Rourke-"

"War criminal?" Varakov repeated, without really thinking.

"Surely, the a.s.sa.s.sination of the head of the American KGB by this Rourke is a war crime, Comrade General. I understand he was a physician before going into the employ of the American Central Intelligence Agency."

Varakov picked his words-carefully-for the first time realizing what kind of man he truly dealt with. "It is my understanding that this Dr. Rourke had left the CIA sometime before the war. I do not really concern myself with him. I belive his major preoccupation is searching for his wife and children who may have survived the war; I do not know. If you capture him, I should be interested in meeting him. But that is your affair."

"Yes, Comrade General. That is my affair." Rozhdest-venskiy dropped his cigarette to the marble floor and started to grind it out beneath the heel of his boot.

"But this is my headquarters building, Colonel; pick up that cigarette."

"Bat surely, a prisoner used for janitorial service can-"

"That is not the point; pick it up."

The boyish smile was gone from Rozhdestvenskiy's face. He hesitated a moment, then stooped over and picked up the cigarette b.u.t.t, holding it between two manicured fingernails. "Will there be anything else, Comrade General?"

"No-I think not." Varakov turned and started back across the main hall toward his office without walls.

Thousands of troops were moving inland to escape the raging storm fronts a.s.saulting the eastern coast of what had been the United States-regrouping and searching, he hoped. That Natalia would be safe as long as she was with John Rourke, Varakov took as a fact. It was after that-with this Rozhdestvenskiy--that Varakov worried about her safety.

"Catherine!" He called out the name before he remembered he had told her to go and rest. He shrugged, deciding he would do the same thing himself.

There might not be time for it in the future.

His hands stabbed into his pockets as he walked away from his office and he stopped once, glancing back over his right shoulder. The offensive SS-Hke KGB officer was gone from view. Varakov smiled, remembering the ego satisfaction he had given himself in making Rozhdestvenskiy pick up the cigarette. He realized as he glanced once more at the mastodons that he would likely pay for it, too, and perhaps so would Natalia.

Rourke's knuckles were white, Ms fists bunched on the yoke now as the twin-engine cargo plane skimmed low over over the icy roadway, his starboard engine hopelessly iced. His mind went back to the only other time in his life he had crash-landed a plane-the in the New Mexico desert on the Night of the War. He remembered Mrs. Richards, her husband gone in the destruction of the West Coast, her compa.s.sion in caring for the dying captain, her tireless help that long night while they had fought to keep airborne-then her death when the had-Rourke wrenched back on the controls, trying to keep the nose up. The brakes held, but the plane started to skid as it hit the ice- and snow-covered road. "Get your heads down!" Rourke shouted to Paul, strapped in near the midsection, and to Natalia in the copilot's seat beside him.

"John!"

Rourke didn't look at her; he was feeling the tendons in his neck distending, his body suddenly cold, the air temperature finally getting to him. The plane was going out of control. He worked the flaps to decelerate, the brakes starting to slow him as well now. The straight- away stretched for perhaps another quarter-mile yet and if he slowed the craft too quickly the skid would become uncontrollable. The aircraft zigzagged under him, the tail of the craft whipping back and forth across the three-lane width of Kentucky highway. The straightaway was rapidly running out. Eyes squinted against the glare of the plane's lights on the snow, he could see ahead of him where the road seem to end, to curve in a sharp S-bend, running to his left. The plane coasted right across the icy road, toward the drop-off on the far end of the S-bend, a meager metal guardrail there and beyond it, from what Rourke could see, a drop.

Two hundred yards, perhaps less. Rourke controlled the plane with the flaps, the braking action worsening the skid. Rourke reached across to Natalia, punching the release b.u.t.ton on the seat harness, grabbing her by the left shoulder, shouting back along the fuselage, "Paul- we're bailing out-get the cargo door and jump for it- jump as far out as you canl"

Rourke didn't wait to see that the younger man was complying, but grabbed Natalia, shoving her roughly ahead of him toward the fuselage door.

"John!" Rourke glanced to his left. Rubenstein was struggling with the seat belt, its buckling mechanism apparently jammed. "Save yourselves!"

Rourke glanced toward Natalia; the Russian woman was already working the handle on the cargo door with her left hand, in her right hand something metallic gleamed-a knife. She reached the b.u.t.t of it out to Rourke. Rourke s.n.a.t.c.hed it from her hand, wheeling, the aircraft's lurching and b.u.mping throwing him toward Rubenstein. Collapsing against the fuselage, Rourke reached the knife blade under the webbing strap across Paul's left shoulder, sliced it; then, as he started for the leg strap, he could feel the rush of arctic-feeling air, hear the slipstream. The fuselage door opened. Rourke's borrowed knife slashed apart the last of the restraints.

The knife still in his right hand, he s.n.a.t.c.hed at his CAR-, yelling to Paul, "Jump for it, Paul-go on!"

As Rourke was moving toward the door, the younger man was already on his feet, the Schmeisser in his right hand; Natalia was starting to jump.

Rourke, at the fuselage door, wheeled, reaching toward his strapped-down Harley, cast a glance at it because it would likely be the last, and s.n.a.t.c.hed his leather jacket. He turned and dove, the snow slamming up toward him as he rolled onto the road surface, his left shoulder taking it, aching as he hit, the rear stabilizers sawing through the air toward him as he flattened himself, .the tail of the fuselage pa.s.sing inches over his head.

He followed it with his eyes for an instant, then pushed himself to his feet, slipping on the ice, running, lurching forward. He could see Natalia, lying in the middle of the road, Paul running toward her. Rourke heard it, the wrenching and groaning of metal. He wheeled, skidding on the heels of his black combat boots across the ice, to watch as the plane crashed through the metal roadside barricade and disappeared over the side. He waited- there was no explosion. But there wasn't much hope either, he thought. Three people, one jacket, a rifle with no spare magazines and a submachine gun with no spare magazines. A few pistols. He looked into his hand-and a Bali-Song knife. He turned, starting back toward Natalia.

But like a little girl after taking a spill on an ice rink, she sat, legs wide apart, her right hand propping her up, her left hand brus.h.i.+ng the hair back from her face, hair already flecked with snow. Beside her Rubenstein crouched, as if waiting.

Rourke stopped walking, a yard or so from her still. He held up the knife.

"Never told me about the Bali-Song knife."

She only smiled. Rourke glanced back where the plane had disappeared; if anything could be salvaged, it would have to wait. The leather jacket was bunched in his left hand along with the CAR-. He approached Natalia, squatted down beside her, and draped the coat across her shoulders. She was already s.h.i.+vering, as was Paul Ruben-stein. And so was Rourke. . . .

"I had the Bali-Song for a long time. For some reason I didn't carry it when you found me in (he desert. I don't remember why- But I took it with me to Florida, just in case.

"Are you good with it?" Rourke asked her, s.h.i.+vering.

"Yes. If my hands weren't so cold-I could show-" She shook from the freezing air temperature; sub-freezing, perhaps close to zero, Rourke thought as he started down the side of the embankment, carefully, slowly, for the rocks that formed the purchases for his hands and feet were ice-coated. "Be careful, John."

"Once I get down there, I can snake up a rope; then you and Paul can join me and at least we'll have some shelter-unless it looks like it's going to blow or something."

"I can-" Rubenstein began.

"You stay with Natalia. If I break every bone in my body doing this, I want someone in one piece to take care of her." It was getting dark as Rourke started climbing again, the aircraft still some thirty feet below him, its portside wing broken in two, the starboard engine snagged in a clump of rocks some fifty feet farther below it and half-obscured now by snow.

Rourke's hands were numb as his fingers played along the glistening iced-over rocks, his shoulder still ached from where he'd hit the road surface, and one desire suddenly obsessed him-to urinate. Rourke's right foot edged down, then his left. The left slipped as loose shale under him, crusted over with ice, broke away from the dirt that had held it. His fingertips dug into the rock surface against which they pressed as his right foot braced against the coated rock against which only the toes now pressed.

"John-I'm coming down," Natalia shouted.

"No-I'll be-" Rourke swung his left leg out, finding a purchase against a gnarled stump of bush growing out of the dirt embankment. "I'm all right."

Rourke edged his right hand down onto a lower ledge of rock, then his left foot, then his left hand, then his right foot. Slowly, methodically, his kidneys screaming at him to let go, he kept moving.

His hands were numbed to the point where he could barely sense the rocks under his fingertips, and his feet were becoming chilled as well. A numbness was setting into his thighs. But the plane was nearer.

He glanced up once; Natalia and Paul, peered down at him, over the edge.

The thought crossed his mind that even if one of the bikes had remained serviceable, how would they ever get it up to the road surface? And the freak storm-when would it end?

The plane was a few yards away from him now, across a wide break in the ground and below the break, a drop of seventy-five feet or more. Rourke settled himself against the rocks, checking his footing, then awkwardly because of the narrowness of the ledge, swung his left leg around behind him, found a purchase for the left foot, then simultaneously swung his left arm out and around, twisting his body. He moved his feet slightly, firming the position he had, his back now against the rocks and dirt of the embankment. The snow, falling in larger, heavier flakes, covered his shoulders, lingered on his eyelashes-freezing him.

The jump to the opposite side of the break in the ground was only ten or eleven feet. But there was no running room. He would simply hurtle his body off the ledge and that would be it.

He sucked in his breath hard, glancing up one nfiore time; he couldn't see either Natalia or Paul cleariy because of the heaviness of the snowfall.

"Now!" he rasped, pus.h.i.+ng himself away from the embankment wilh his hands.

His knees slightly flexed as he half-jumped, half-fell forward, his fingers reaching out. His righl hand, then his left touched the opposite side of the open s.p.a.ce, his hands clawing at the dirt and loose rocks there. His hands slipped, his thighs slamming down hard against the surface of the ground, his body starting back down the incline, slipping.

He couldn't dig in his heels-his feet dangled in the air. As he started to slide backward, he spread-eagled his arms, his fingers clawing for a purchase on the ice-coated ground. A rock-he held it, then the rock dislodged and he was slipping again.

His left hand snaked behind him, s.n.a.t.c.hing for the A.G. Russell Black Chrome Sting IA he carried in the little inside waistband holster. His fingers closed stiffly around it as he slipped toward the edge, his left arm swinging around his body in a wide arc. The point of the Sting IA bit deep into the ground, penetrating the ice. His right hand grasped for the knife handle as well now, both fists bunched around it; his body below the breastbone dangled in midair.

He sucked in his breath, flexing his arm muscles as he tried pulling himself up. There wasn't time; the knife was already slipping from the soft dirt beneath the ice, and his cold-numbed fingers were slipping from the slick steel of the knife's handle.

"No!" Rourke heard the shout come from his lips and for the first time became conscious of it. Summoning all his strength, he drew himself up.

The knife slipped from the dirt; his body lurched forward, onto the ice and snow. He rolled, flattening himself, the knife still clutched in his left fist.

He couldn't see through the snow now to the road thirty feet above, but through the whiteness he heard a voice. "Answer me, John-John!" It was Natalia.

"I'm all right," Rourke shouted back, already starting to edge across the ice.

Two yards from the still intact fuselage, he stood up, slowly edging forward. He started into the plane, but stopped.

His stiff right thumb and first finger worked at his zipper; there was something more important than inspecting (he plane that instant. . . .

He stood inside, s.h.i.+vering with the cold, but at least out of the wind.

Natalia's borrowed motorcycle, a vintage BSA, had been the first of the three, farthest forward in (he fuselage; the other two bikes had hammered against it in the crash. It was twisted, as was the underside of the fuselage where apparently the craft had gouged against a large rock, or one of the supports for the steel guardrail.

But his own jet black Harley-Davidson Low Rider appeared undamaged, as was the bright blue Low Rider he had found for Paul Rubenstein after the younger man's motorcycle had been abandoned to lighten the plane during the Florida evacuation.

With effort, still s.h.i.+vering, he got Rubenstein's bike aside so he could get to his own. The Lowe Alpine Systems Loco Pack was still strapped in place behind the seat. Rourke got to it, opening one of the pockets. There was a red-and-silver Thermos s.p.a.ce Blanket, the kind larger than the original disposable models developed for the astronaut program. The silver reflective side toward him, he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, leaning heavily against one of the fuselage ribs. Rourke rammed his hands, palms inward, down inside the fr>nt of his trousers, warming them against his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es to reduce the numbness o( his fingers so he could move them well enough to work. He stood there, the blanket around him, his hands starting to get back feeling, his eyes flickering from one part of the fuselage to another- the damage.

The plane was a total loss, as he had realized it would be from the first moment he had decided to abandon it, when stopping it on the ice-slicked road surface had proven impossible. It would have been unlikely that the iced and stalled engine could have been successfully repaired in any event. It had been the single-engine landing that had caused the problem with stopping in the first place-not enough power. Aside from Natalia's motorcycle, everything that was important seemed relatively unscathed.

He could move his fingers more now, so he withdrew his hands from inside his pants, then quickly started going through his things and the packs of Natalia and of Paul Rubenstein.

A pair of vintage, heavy leather Kombi ski gloves on his hands, a seen-better-days gray woolen crew-neck sweater on over his s.h.i.+rt, Rourke fed out part of the climbing rope from his pack, a rock secured to the free end. "Stand back from the edge up there-got a chunk of rock on the end of this for weight."

"Understand," Paul Rubenstein's voice called back through the snow. Rourke still could not see sufficiently well through the heavily falling snow to view the road surface above him. He started swinging the free end of the rope, the end weighted with the rock, feeding out more and more of the line. He made the toss, then heard the sound of the rock slamming against something metallic-one of the supports for the guardrail? The rope slacked and he started reeling it back in. He would have to try again. . . .

On the fourth try, the weighted end of the rope didn't move. "Paul-look for it!"

For a moment, there was no answer, then Rubenstein's voice responded, "I've got it, John."

Rourke nodded to himself, then shouted, "Secure it to something really st.u.r.dy-have Natalia help you!" He waited then. Telling Paul to get Natalia's help was the tactfu! way of handling the fact that Rourke had no idea how well or how poorly the younger man could tie knots. And Rourke very well understood the sort of training Natalia had undergone to become a KGB field agent in the first place-rappelling would have been part of it and she'd make the knot secure if Rubenstein didn't.

"Jt's set, John," Natalia's voice called down.

"Haul up on the rope-hurry up," Rourke called up. On the near end of the rope, Rourke had Natalia's and Paul's winter jackets secured. The rope started snaking upward. . . .

As Rourke huddled by the fire a few yards from the aircraft fuselage, the water nearly boiling, he considered Rubenstein; the younger man had made it down the embankment quite well. Not as professionally as Natalia had let herself down, but well nonetheless.

The water in the pot was boiling and Rourke picked it up hy the handle, his left hand still gloved and insulating his fingers; then he stood up.

He hated to, but he had to-he kicked out the fire. The darkness around him was more real now as he started toward the glowing lightpf the Coleman lamp in the fuselage.

The s.p.a.ce Blanket was wrapped around Natalia now, her coat being rather light for the extreme cold of the night. Rourke was chilled still, despite the fact that he had added the leather bomber-style jacket over his sweater. Rubenstein looked positively frozen to the bone, Rourke thought.

"Paul-why don't you fish through the gear and find a bottle of whiskey? I think we could all use a drink." Rourke smiled, watching Rubenstein's face almost instantly brighten. The younger man was up and moving as Rourke crouched down beside Natalia near the Coleman lamp.

"Here-I'll do that," she said, her gloved hands reaching for the pot of no-longer-boiling water. "You hold the food packets."

"All right," Rourke murmured. There wasn't much of the Mountain House food left in his gear and he'd have to *+.