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  Michael took his mother from his father’s arms into his own, saying, “She’ll be all right, Dad.”

  John Thomas Rourke addressed all present, his voice little more than a whisper. “I think we have our work cut out for us, ladies and gentlemen.” And, they did …

  Climbing the cliff-face to the summit where the Nazi commando force held its fortified position was madness, in and of itself, the granite surface dangerous in the extreme. But, with enemy personnel above who might fire down at any second, the enterprise bordered on suicidal, Rourke realized. Yet, John Rourke had planned ahead.

  Their greatest danger, both from the mountain itself and the armed men above lay in the final six hundred feet or so, where the angle as the summit was approached was too steep to be navigated on anything but all fours with climbing ropes to assist, yet level enough that it would be impossible to avoid detection by anyone who cared to look.

  At that juncture, if they reached the approach to the summit alive, Natalia would utilize the captured Nazi helicopter gunship, and the remote video probes aboard the craft would be launched, the nonessential video apparatus removed, high explosives substituted in their place. With any luck, the Nazi defenders would not realize what they were shooting at until they’d already shot, and the explosives would detonate. While this was going on, the distraction it would hopefully provide might mask the final stage of the ascent to the summit.

  There was no proper climbing gear available, no crampons, nor even pitons to assist them, and their options among field expedients were limited. As Commander Washington’s numerically superior force worked its way systematically through the structure, daring only to take the elevators to a command post established within two floors of the enemy base at the summit, a full machine shop was discovered. One of the men with Washington’s command, Seaman First Class Clarence W. Wolverton, had had some experience as a machinist in civilian life and was immediately drafted into preparations needed for the climb.

  Wolverton was relieved of his other duties. John Rourke took the fellow aside. “Wolverton, here’s what I need.”

  “Aye, sir,” Wolverton responded, pulling off his black balaclava, his grey eyes focusing intently on Rourke’s own.

  “I’ll get as many men relieved to your detail as you require, Wolverton.” The installation was being secured and the vaccine against the effects of encephalitis lethargica, which Rourke had used as a bioweapon in order to originally gain access to the facility, was being administered. With the exception of the two upper stories, just below the fortified Nazi position at the summit, the facility was almost completely stabilized. “The type of metal I’ll need for the pitons should be a high grade of tool steel, resilient yet with enough surface hardness so that it can be hammered into rock. Bolts used in association with the elevator housings might be a good place to start. Those would have to be strong in order to handle the equipment-load weight-limits that are posted. Can you do it? And, fast? I know the equipment available to you may not be right for the job.”

  “Being perfectly honest, sir, I don’t know. I’ll sure try my damnedest.”

  “That’s all I can ask, son,” Rourke told the young sailor. “Get whatever men and gear you need; you have my full authority if anybody questions you.”

  “Aye, sir,” and Wolverton snapped to. Rourke gave him a nod and Wolverton was off at a trot.

  Rourke checked the black-faced Rolex on his left wrist. He had no idea how much time the preparations would consume, nor how much time he had left. He grabbed his parka and started for the doors leading to the outside and the helicopter where Natalia, resident explosives expert, was rigging the remote video probes.

  Latest word from the field camp where Sarah had been taken for safety was that her condition was rapidly improving. Once the upper levels and the position on the summit were secured, Sarah could be brought back in relative safety. Wolfgang Mann’s condition was improving rapidly, as well. In a few hours, although New Germany’s premier generaloberst wouldn’t be up and ready to fight, Mann should be able to offer military advice for the defense of the overrun Nazi headquarters complex. That assumption was predicated, of course, on the further assumption that this Wolfgang Mann was the genuine Wolfgang Mann.

  As Rourke ventured into the open, a bitterly cold wind cut into him and he pulled his parka closed around him, throwing up its hood as well. Rourke could not help but be reminded of how that wind would feel as they made their way along the face of the mountain.

  With heatlamps to warm the position, Commander Washington’s senior radioman was attending his equipment, trying to raise anything he could find on a Trans-Global Alliance frequency in search of information and air support.

  Rourke nodded as he passed the man. “Any luck?”

  “Nothing yet, sir, except a hell of a lot of static.”

  “Carry on.”

  What about Emma Shaw? Rourke bit his lower lip. There was a significant likelihood that she was somehow involved in the nuclear incident; therefore, there was an equally substantial chance that she had been killed. “Damn it,” Rourke rasped.

  He kept walking, quickening his pace as he neared the captured Nazi helicopter where Natalia was preparing the explosives. As Rourke reached it, he hammered his fist on the portside fuselage door, then waited. The door slid open, one of the SEAL Team personnel behind it. “Good evening, sir.”

  “Yes, good evening.”

  Rourke stepped up and inside, the SEAL sliding the door closed behind him, then passing him, rejoining Natalia and one of the German Long Range Mountain Patrol commandos aft. Two of the remote video probes were partially disemboweled on the deck before them and surrounding these were coils of multicolored wire and bricks of plastique. “How’s it going, Natalia?”

  Without turning around to look at him, she said, “This is not all that difficult, really, just time-consuming, John. The same electronics which allow manipulation of the video can be utilized to trigger the explosives, should that be necessary. Or, at least in theory they can be.”

  There was too much “theory” to this entire operation, Rourke thought. “Fine, let me know, then.”

  “Right. Any word on Sarah?”

  “She’s coming along nicely.”

  “Good.”

  “How’s the leg?”

  “It only hurts when I laugh,” she told him bravely.

  “Fortunate we don’t have much to laugh about, then, isn’t it?”

  Her wounded leg was outstretched and, only to someone who knew Natalia as well as John Rourke did, it was clear that she was in at least moderate pain. Switching over to Russian, which neither of the two men with her could be expected to understand, she said, “Michael asked me to be his wife, John.”

  Answering her in Russian, Rourke told her, “That is wonderful for both of you.”

  “It is insane, John. Michael and I love each other and what we have is something I have never known before. Yet, I will be your daughter-in-law, and I cannot forget the feelings we shared before any of this happened. Am I doing the right thing? I think that I am.”

  “I know that you are.” Rourke told her, smiling. “You and Paul are the best friends I have ever had, could ever have. Paul is my son-in-law, you will be my daughter-in-law. And no man could ask for better.”

  “I will always love you, Ivan, you know that.”

  “And I will always love you, Natalia Anastasia,” John Rourke told her. Then, taking a cigar from beneath his once-again open parka, he said in English, “One of you gentlemen close up after me, please,” and John Rourke threw aside the door, the cigar clamped tight in his teeth. He stepped out into the night after pausing for an instant to roll the striking-wheel of his battered Zippo windlighter beneath his thumb, then plunge the cigar’s tip into its blue-yellow flame.

  The wind seemed colder.

  That was to be expected.

  Chapter Two

  The aircraft was well into its reserve tanks, and Emma Shaw had practiced all th
e fuel-economy measures that she could think of. The hand-operated semaphores were long since replaced by what appeared to be a battery-operated electrical unit. She was certain that no power was available on the base as yet. Radio, except between the aircraft themselves, was still out.

  As she swept a lazy circle—mostly glide—around the main runway, mentally scoring her chances for a deadstick landing and finding them less than satisfactory, she spied another aircraft identical to her own and those of her squadron. It was taking off into the wind. As it did so, her radio began to crackle. “This is Communicator One calling Bulldog Leader. Do you copy? Over.”

  “This is Bulldog Leader, Communicator One. Reading you loud and clear. Over.”

  “Bulldog Leader, this is Communicator One. All ground-based electrical systems are still out. Do you copy that? Over.”

  “Affirmative, Communicator One.”

  “Am switching to LRF Nine, Bulldog Leader. Will continue on that frequency. Stand by. Over.”

  “Bulldog Leader standing by, Communicator One. Reading Lima Romeo Foxtrot Niner. Over.”

  Emma Shaw switched her ship-to-ship onto Limited Range Frequency Nine. Communicator One’s voice was harder to understand, the signal weak, but that was by design. The LRF frequencies were used only when there was significant danger of ship-to-ship communications security being compromised. But why had Communicator One said that all base electrical systems were still out? This was valuable data to an enemy considering attack. “Bulldog Leader, negative all base electrical systems are out. I say again, negative. All systems, including long-range scanning, approximately eighty-five percent operational. All additional fighter aircraft have been ordered away to regroup. Cargo lifters more than ninety-five percent incapacitated. Impossible to evacuate base at this time. Do you copy, Bulldog Leader? Over.”

  “Roger that, Communicator One. Both squadrons under my command are flying on vapor only. Do you copy, Communicator One? Over.”

  “Affirmative, Bulldog Leader. Your fuel-consumption rates have been calculated. Aerial refueling impossible under impending combat conditions. Minimum thirty-six bogeys visible on long-range scanning, ETA seven minutes forty-three seconds. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Roger, Communicator One. We do not have enough fuel to engage or flee. Over.”

  “Roger that, Bulldog Leader. You are instructed to order down Bulldog Pups lowest on reserve fuel tanks while balance of your two squadrons maintain defensive posture. As soon as refueling is accomplished, the remainder of your squadrons are to land and refuel. Any problems with that, Commander Shaw? Over.”

  “Wilco, Communicator One. Beginning compliance now. Bulldog Leader Out.”

  “Good luck, Commander. Communicator One, Out.”

  Emma Shaw switched away from LRF Nine to regular ship-to-ship. “Bulldog Pups, this is Bulldog Leader.” She ordered down to hard deck for refueling those aircraft within her squadrons which were lowest on reserve fuel, assigning the remaining aircraft to stay on her wings in modified defense formation, then designating priorities for those aircraft to refuel in turn. “Any questions? Over.”

  “This is Bulldog Pup One to Bulldog Leader. Wilco that, Bulldog Leader. I’ll be taking a coffee break myself. Bulldog Pup One Out.”

  “This is Bulldog Pup Two, Bulldog Leader. Wilco your instructions. I’ll stay with you so that we can grab some java together and see what happens next. Do you copy, Bulldog Leader? Over.”

  Lieutenant Tom Larabee, one of the most happily married men she’d ever met, was always pretending to flirt. Half laughing, despite their rather dire circumstances, Emma Shaw told him, “This is Bulldog Leader. I’m getting wet just thinking about being with you, Bulldog Pup Two. Out.”

  There would not be time enough for all aircraft in her two squadrons to refuel and get airborne again before the arrival of the enemy fighter aircraft; Emma Shaw knew that. Six minutes and forty-five seconds remained before the thirty-six bogeys would be in combat range. Their longer-range weapons could already have been fired against ground-based targets, would soon be in range to acquire preliminary fixes on airborne targets. Emma Shaw estimated that fewer than two minutes of aerial combat would drain her tanks dry and, if she were lucky, she’d drop like a stone and die in the crash as opposed to getting blown out of the sky.

  That was the kind of luck that she did not need.

  Chapter Three

  Paul Rubenstein was not given to doodling, but as he stood before the imposing shape of the mountain summit, he drew in the snow, with the toe of his boot, the mushroom-shaped cloud characteristic of a thermonuclear detonation.

  Mankind was, he was now firmly convinced, incapable of learning from past mistakes. The best scientific minds in both the Trans-Global Alliance and the enemy camp—Eden and her Nazi allies—freely admitted that even one nuclear blast might bring about the destruction of the atmosphere, obliterating all human and animal life as was almost the case six hundred and twenty-five years ago when this all began.

  He was an accidental survivor. That was how Paul Rubenstein had always viewed himself. Although he was born and raised an Air Force brat, he never had any martial training of any sort until after falling in with John Rourke in the aftermath of the Night of the War. He’d volunteered to march across the desert with this strangely commanding man he’d met among the complement of passengers, stayed with him, learned from him, became very proficient at the ways of warfare simply out of the demands of survival.

  As a child, it was somehow implicit that all super-heroes—outside of men like Moses and Joshua—were Christian, but that had never bothered him, because he had no aspirations to go about the world righting wrongs with anything more violent than a passion for right and contempt for prejudice. Nor did Paul Rubenstein consider himself at all heroic now. Albeit that he fit the mold not at all—he was tall enough, but never more than slightly built, and from childhood up until his awakening from the Sleep that first time he had aways needed glasses—he merely did what he had to do, in order to keep himself on good terms with his conscience and to keep himself and his friends alive.

  John, on the other hand, was the hero through and through. Unlike many so-called heroes, however, John’s heroism was intrinsic to John’s being. John Rourke could be nothing else, and herosim became him well.

  After all the fighting, all the killing, all the struggles, mankind was once again brought to the brink of total annihilation by stupidity and greed.

  John liked to look at the stars. Paul Rubenstein felt that if anyone looked at the stars right now, it would be likely the stars could be seen laughing back at the suicidal folly below …

  Michael Rourke had nothing to do but clean and check his weapons, which he did, field-stripping the last of the two Beretta 92F 9 mm’s which he carried. Removing the magazine, then clearing the chamber, he let the slide move forward, depressing the disassembly latch, swinging it downward, then pulling slide and barrel forward off the frame.

  He set to work on the interior diameter of the bore with a soaked patch. Now that he had asked Natalia to marry him and Natalia had accepted—his question and her response were implicit between them for some time—he had to consider the future, if there was one.

  Either one of two things would occur as a result of two distinct chains of events, neither of which he could predict. Human life would either be obliterated or there would be peace, at least of a sort.

  In the case of the former possibility, there would be no future about which to worry. If, however, the nuclear detonation which had already occurred did not, in and of itself, signal man’s doom nor precipitate increased nuclear combat which would, this war at least would eventually end. Michael Rourke doubted not for a moment that, if the war ended, the side of the angels would somehow come out victorious. The Trans-Global Alliance, if for no other reason than the fact that it stood opposed to neo-Nazism, was definitely the side of the angels. As his father, John Rourke, had once said, “The good guy always wins. It may seem as t
hough evil is victorious at times, but in the end, evil will always fail and right will eventually prevail. Such a victory might take longer to be achieved than any of us will ever live to see, than any of us might even imagine; but, in the final analysis, there can be no other way.”

  A bit optimistic, perhaps, but without such optimism there would be no reason beyond sheer stubbornness to do anything other than give up. Aside from the war itself, there was the nagging issue of Doctor Thorn Rolvaag’s discoveries concerning the suboceanic rift. The planet might already be doomed by a volcanic anomaly.

  So, if mankind were not wiped clean from the face of the Earth, there would be details to which he must attend: making a home, supporting his wife, finding something productive to do with his life, making the world a better place for the children whom he and Natalia would bring into that world together.

  Somehow, the thought of normalcy was unnerving to him. He had never lived in a time of peace. Even Before the Night of the War, there was the constant sabre-rattling of the two superpowers, something about which not even a small child—as he had been—could remain wholly ignorant. Barely to the age of understanding, his sister two years younger still, the Night of the War came and, in the morning of its aftermath, he killed for the first time, plunging a boning knife into the kidney of a man who was about to sexually assault his mother. Not long after that, he’d killed again in defense of what was right. It was not, thank God, exactly habit, but it was something to which he had become at least somewhat accustomed.

  Michael Rourke supposed that he was fortunate, born without the sort of liberal excuse for a conscience which would have totally traumatized him. His conscience was not an excuse, but the real thing. From what he’d seen in videos, read in books, heard related by his father and faintly recalled from his own memories of the time Before the Night of the War, it was fashionable in some quarters to believe that violence of any sort, even in defense of human life, was somehow intrinsically evil.