The Quisling Covenant Read online

  THE SURVIVALIST SAGA CONTINUES

  Well, seems like things aren’t looking any better for the Rourke clan. They’re up to their necks in aliens and clones and now, they have to deal with some new enemies from within. Michael is trying to be a good President and run the country in a responsible manner but when he’s not battling it out with his political opponents, he keeps getting involved in family matters like rescue operations to save his wife from “a fate worse than death” and then death, Paul’s battle injuries and a kidnapping attempt on his dad. Put all that together with a deceased, former enemy knocking on your front door bearing gifts and clones defrosting Mount Rushmore and you can see what I mean. Michael has his hands full.

  Change is coming and everyone has their own idea as to what that change will bring to the world. Some factions want “political correctness” which is nothing more than the giving up of personal freedom for the common good of all. Of course these freedoms would be given up only by the masses and not the elite who make the rules. Some factions want to enslave the inhabitants of Earth; some just want to destroy it all. Still, there are some who just want a democratic society with “freedom and justice for all.”

  JTR has had enough of politics and talk; he’s looking for action. Does this man ever get enough? Has he never heard of being careful what you wish for? John may have gotten himself in a very bad predicament this time. I don’t think he can get out of this alone. I don’t know if he can survive. He may have run out of plans. What do you think?

  Sharon

  Books in The Survivalist Series by Jerry Ahern

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  Books in The Survivalist Series by Jerry Ahern, Sharon Ahern & Bob Anderson

  #30: The Inheritors of the Earth

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  #32: The Quisling Covenant

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  The Rourke Chronicles by Jerry Ahern, Sharon Ahern & Bob Anderson

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  SPEAKING VOLUMES, LLC

  NAPLES, FLORIDA

  2014

  THE SURVIVALIST

  #32 THE QUISLING COVENANT

  Copyright © 2014 by Jerry Ahern, Sharon Ahern and Bob Anderson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  9781628152050

  The Warrior’s Last Stand by Vic Roseberry Copyright ©1980, permission to use. The alien design illustrated by Faith Maltese. The Milice francaise emblem obtained from www.Wikipedia.com. Dog Man sketch illustrated by Sarah Anderson.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  THE SURVIVALIST SAGA CONTINUES

  Books by

  Copyright Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  To

  Jerry and Sharon’s old friends

  Steve Fishman, Jerry Buergel and our readers.

  Remember to Plan Ahead!

  Author’s Note

  Quisling—the term “quisling” was coined by the British newspaper The Times in an editorial published on April 10, 1940, entitled “Quislings Everywhere.” The story was about a Norwegian named Vidkun Quisling, who assisted Nazi Germany as it conquered his own country so that he could rule the collaborationist Norwegian government himself. The Daily Mail picked up the term and the BBC then brought it into common use internationally.

  The Times’ editorial asserted: “To writers, the word Quisling is a gift from the gods. If they had been ordered to invent a new word for traitor... they could hardly have hit upon a more brilliant combination of letters. Aurally it contrives to suggest something at once slippery and tortuous.”

  The term was used by then British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, in an address to the U.S. Congress on Decemb
er 26, 1941. Churchill said, “Hope has returned to the hearts of scores of millions of men and women, and with that hope there burns the flame of anger against the brutal, corrupt invader. And still more fiercely burn the fires of hatred and contempt for the filthy Quislings...” Like the American Benedict Arnold, Vidkun Quisling became synonymous with the word traitor.

  Bob

  Prologue

  “Looks like you have the advantage on me, Miss,” Rourke said, without a smile.

  Holding the machine pistol firmly in her right hand, she reached with her left and unzipped Rourke’s brown leather bomber jacket. Reaching under his right arm she grasped the CombatMaster and with a slight jerk, opened the Alessi trigger guard retention snap and slid the .45 out. She stepped back and shoved the gun into her wide leather belt. Again, smiling sweetly she said, “Now, your knife. I believe you like to carry it on your right hip.” She felt along the beltline, found the Sting 1A and jerked it and its sheath out. Stepping back, she secured it also in her belt. “Now, the .45 under your left arm.”

  As she reached forward for a scant instant, Rourke had an equally scant chance. He moved. With his right hand, he grabbed her left and spun her hard, whipping her in a circle. Almost as if they were dancing, he pulled her in front of his own body and pivoted both of them toward the man with the shotgun. Rourke’s left hand went behind his back and snatched the Fighting Bowie from its horizontal sheath in a reverse grip as the shotgunner scrambled quickly toward them, trying to get a clear shot.

  Rourke threw the woman forward into his male opponent, hoping if the man shot, the bulk of the projectiles would get her. Stepping forward to follow her body, Rourke slashed upward with the long, sharpened, serrated clip point. He was almost too far off, a half-inch more and he would have missed the man all together. A quarter-inch of the blade sliced through the man’s right knuckles; the impact of the woman’s body further sweeping the deadly bore of the shotgun further out of alignment with Rourke’s head.

  Chapter One

  Göbekli Tepe, Turkey:

  The attack came just before dawn; it was both brutal and effective. Within moments the security overwatch had been eliminated as the riders had descended on the camp from all directions. From a sound sleep, Natalia was awakened by shouts, gunfire, and screams of the dying. Clad only in treated silk underwear designed to wick moisture away from her body, she grabbed her Walther and charged outside the tent, only to be slammed by a charging horse. The impact threw her twenty feet through the air; she slammed into the ground landing on the back of her shoulders. Her head bounced twice and she was unconscious.

  The initial shots had come at once as if on signal; the camp defenders were caught by surprise and with no clear target. Then the riders came and they had come from all sides on stocky horses with short but strong legs and large heads. Their mane and tails were very long. The riders fired automatic weapons and sprayed the camp indiscriminately. Bodies dropped and those trying to respond were cut down.

  Dismounting, the riders drew swords and knives to finish off their victims, the attack lasting under ten minutes. When Natalia awoke, her head hurt. Crusted blood covered the left side of her face. She awoke to a scene from hell. Next to the camp fire was a stack of bodies and three poles which had been driven into the ground; three decapitated heads had been stuck on them. She recognized the archaeological team leader, Dr. Franklin, and the head of her security team, Special Agent Withers. But the third had been beaten so badly the features of the face had been destroyed. The smell of roasting meat rose in her senses and she saw her captors slicing pieces from corpses and eating them.

  Her hands were tied behind her; her ankles lashed together, both with what appeared to be horse hair ropes. She was naked; naked, unarmed and a prisoner. By the fire, one of the attackers noticed her and stood. He wiped the blood and grease from his hands on his pants and approached. He was short and stocky; a heavy-set fellow with a large round head and a broad face featuring a wide flat nose, prominent cheekbones, and dark almond-shaped eyes. The constant exposure to the sun, wind and frost, gave his skin a swarthy, almost leathery appearance, even though his face was covered with a protective coating of grease.

  He wore a bushy mustache and when he removed his leather and brass helmet she saw his head was shaved, except for the straight black hair on the sides of his head which he braided and looped up behind his ears. He wore a tunic which was open from top to bottom, folded over the breast, and fastened on the right side. It appeared to be made from a coarse cotton or hemp cloth and stiffened with a glue-like substance to hold its form. His stench was suffocating; his clothes appearing to have never been washed. The smell of burned meat, grease, blood, and body odor overwhelmed her.

  He wore his trousers tucked into his boots; they appeared to be made of a stubby felt or leather. She noticed several of the others had strapped their trousers at the ankles instead of tucking them into their boots. He knelt in front of her, surveyed her nakedness, and grinned a horrible grin. There was no humor in his gap-toothed leer or his hard dark eyes. No humor at all.

  Chapter Two

  The funky, dark green pickup truck was dirty, dented and dark smoke bulged from the exhaust pipe. It was hardly the expected vehicle of one of Hawaii’s most prominent political figures. Dressed in old jeans and a misshapen floppy hat that ensured a “prominent political figure” would go unseen and unrecognized on the streets of Honolulu on this night.

  For once, Phillip Greene wasn’t in the mode of pandering to the cameras. His advisor, Captain Dodd, had requested a covert meeting at a specified and discreet location. Chugging down Diamond Head Road, he passed the old volcano and continued straight on Kahala Avenue through a residential section of nice houses. Dodd had given him specific and detailed instructions on this meeting and, while this was certainly not the quickest or shortest route, it was the most discreet.

  Greene hated many people and disliked even more; Dodd however, he feared. While so far Dodd had been polite and almost courteous, there was a coldness about his nature that caused a grip of fear to permeate Greene whenever they met. Dodd exuded a coldness and sense of purpose that indicated he would have “no truck” with anything shorter than complete compliance with his wishes and directions. Greene felt no ambition to test Dodd’s limits.

  After several switch back turns and false leads as to his direction, Greene eventually came to a stoplight and made a left on Pupukea Road. He drove up the hill and parked off to the side where the road to the Heiau started. He walked about half a block back down Pupukea Road; he had a great view of some of the beaches. He waited there several minutes scanning the road behind him to ensure he wasn’t being followed—this was one of several places Dodd had insisted on such a procedure. He walked back to the truck and drove about a mile to the end of the road to the Heiau and parked in the Pu’u o Mahuka Heiau State Monument parking area. Exiting the pickup, he walked about a block on a red dirt trail straight ahead toward the ocean for a nice view of Waimea Bay.

  Pu’u o Mahuka Heiau, the largest Heiau or temple complex on the island, covered two acres, its name meaning “Hill of Escape.” Legend says it was from this point that Pele, the volcano Goddess, leaped from Oahu to the next island, Molokai. From these commanding heights, sentries could once monitor much of the northern shoreline of Oahu and even spot signal fires from the Wailua complex of Heiaus on the neighboring island of Kauai.

  When King Kamehameha conquered Oahu in 1795, his high priest led religious ceremonies there and the Heiau remained in use until the traditional kapu system was abolished in 1819. Kapu was the ancient Code of Conduct; the laws and regulations governed lifestyle, gender roles, politics, religion, etc. The Hawaiian word kapu is usually translated to English as “forbidden,” though it also carries the meanings of “sacred,” “consecrated,” or “holy.”

  Greene, however, was far too sophisticated and urbane to have any relevant feelings for “superstitious crap” such as the kapu. He was there to define his
role in the new order, a new order that would place him in permanent power—forever. Greene stood in place for over twenty minutes; he knew he was not alone.

  Dodd finally came out of the darkness, “Hello, Mr. Greene. Did you follow my instructions?”

  Greene swallowed sharply, the taste of nervous bile building in his throat, “Yes, Captain Dodd, to the letter.”

  “Excellent,” Dodd said. “I am ready to receive your report then.” Greene began, starting with the activities of the past weeks.

  “I’m pleased to say that my operatives have positioned themselves securely in Michael Rourke’s administration and all is going as planned,” Greene gushed. “Data is coming in on a daily basis and we have an excellent picture of Rourke’s activities.”

  “What about his father’s activities?” Dodd said, with a hint of irony in the question. “Michael Rourke is of little consequence to my plan. John Rourke, however, is another story.”

  “John Rourke and his Jew partner Rubenstein are on the Kamchatka Peninsula in an attempt to find Michael’s bitch wife, Natalia,” Greene said. “Her bogus archeological expedition was intercepted and appears to have been destroyed. I forecast they will find nothing, probably not even her body.”

  “Excellent,” Dodd said. “That will obviously occupy their thoughts and actions for some time, reducing the amount of influence they will have on my plans.” Suddenly, a voice came out of the darkness on the other side of the clearing.

  “Hello Gentlemen, may I j oin you?”

  Dodd’s hand flew to the pistol in his left arm pit; his eyes locked on Greene with a killing stare. “Obviously, Mr. Greene, you did not follow my instruction to the letter.”

  “Actually, Captain Dodd,” the voice said, “Mr. Greene did comply exactly with your instructions.” The man appeared as a shadow among shadows; removing the black balaclava from his head as he spoke again, “My name is Peter Vale.”