The Survivalist #1 Read online

  The cigarette, burnt down to a tiny, glowing butt, became the focus of his attention. Staring at it, he said to his men, his voice cold like his feet, his hands, his back, "Who goes with me to fight?"

  Ahmed stared into their faces. One by one, each nodded or gestured with a hand. Already, some of them were looking to their weapons.

  "Come then," he said.

  "Wait!" It was the young private who had spoken when Ahmed had first returned to the cave. "We should pray before we die."

  Ahmed nodded, and the young private began. Ahmed's eyes flickered from one face to the other as each made his own peace. And then the prayer was over. Saying nothing, Ahmed started from the cave. The others followed him back into the swirling snow, the darkness, the wind and the cold.

  They moved along the rim of the gorge. In less than an hour of numbing temperature and chill wind, exhaustion and total silence, they cut the road and reached a low rock ledge. Following it down, toward the roadside, Ahmed guessed that they were ten minutes ahead of the lead Soviet truck and the motorcycles just in front of it.

  As they reached the road surface, Ahmed smiled—there were no tracks in the snow. The snow—he looked above him toward the clouded sky, watching the swirling mass of white coming down—was a blessing from Allah. The Russians could not use their helicopters or fighter planes this night.

  He stopped by the side of the road and called his men to a halt. "We must go down the road along the side here. In that way, they will not see our tracks. Come." In single file, at some times climbing back up into the rocks, they walked along the roadside, going for perhaps a mile, before they halted once more.

  "You four," he said, gesturing with his numbing left hand, "will stay here. The rest of us will move further down, then cross the road and retrace our steps along the opposite side. When the Russians come, open fire on the motorcycles with your submachine guns. Each grenadier will open fire on the nearest truck. The grenadier with me will use his last rounds on the outcroppings of rock above us here. If we can block the road with a rock slide, we will delay the Russians even more. You are good men," Ahmed said finally, then turned and started along the edge of the road. With his three-man unit, he moved on several hundred yards, then hurriedly crossed the road. Doubling back took longer than he had planned; there was little ground between the road and the yawning chasms below. At times he and his men were forced to crawl on their hands and knees through the snow to avoid slipping and failing to their deaths.

  They finally stopped, parallel to the other four men, and just opposite them on the protected side of the road. Ahmed checked his watch. As if to confirm that the watch was keeping accurate time, he heard the rumbling of the trucks. Ahmed directed his men to conceal themselves on the edge of the road, behind the slight protection of a small spit of rock jutting out over the void.

  Except for the rumbling of the trucks, all else was silence. The snowfall heightened the noise of the trucks. Perhaps the convoy was not so near, he thought. Ahmed glanced over the rock behind which he hid. He could see the headlamps of the slow-moving motorcycles, snow swirling in the probing fingers of light as they wove through the darkness. Ahmed had ridden a motorcycle many times, and for an instant was touched with compassion for the Russians aboard them. The road was icy now, and uneven to begin with. Maneuvering the cycles on such a night, mere inches at times from a thousand-foot drop, would be constant terror.

  Ahmed could see the first of the motorcycles clearly now. One man riding, one man in the sidecar, their clothes covered with snow. He watched as the lead cyclist momentarily freed his heavily gloved fingers from the handlebars of the machine and brushed at the goggles covering his eyes.

  Ahmed, bracing the H-K submachine gun against his shoulder, screamed, "Open fire!"

  With his first burst, he shot the man riding in the sidecar rather than the cyclist.

  The H-K 69's were already belching their 40mm high-explosive charges. The first truck was less than a hundred yards away. As the grenade hit, the truck gushed into flame. Soviet troops, their uniforms afire, poured from the back of the vehicle. They fired at the flame-covered troops from each side of the road, gunning them down.

  Another truck exploded a moment later, flames from the fireball licking out in the high wind, catching the tarp covering of the center truck. It, too, burst into flames.

  Ahmed threw down his submachine gun, the weapon empty, his last magazine shot out. He snatched at the 9-mm pistol on his belt, shot out the first magazine, then re-loaded and picked off more of the Russians as they scattered from their burning vehicles.

  The ground below him shook, and Ahmed fell back, the pistol, only half empty, flying from his hands. Looking up—his right eye was blurred—he saw the Soviet tank pushing the burning trucks out of its way as it thundered down the road. He started shouting to the grenadier—but the man had already fired. The grenade bounced against the tank's armor and exploded. The Soviet giant was unaffected. "Russian armor," he muttered to himself. "The rocks"' he shouted to his grenadier.

  As the grenadier started firing at the rock outcropping on the opposite side of the road, Ahmed reached into his left pocket, his frostbitten fingers touching the butt of the flare pistol which Rourke, had given him. Stiffly, he crammed a cartridge into the chamber and set it to fire.

  The rocks across the road were already crumbling under the impact of the grenades. Huge boulders crashed down and blocked the road bed.

  The ground shook again, and Ahmed's ears rang. He bounced skyward and came down hard against the road surface. He twisted his head to see with his good eye—the pain almost made him pass out. The grenadier was gone—nowhere to be seen. Ahmed started to cough; thoughts of his wife and daughter merged with the terror of death that was sweeping over him. He looked up. A Soviet soldier was standing above him, a submachine gun in his raw, bare hands.

  Ahmed raised Rourke's flare pistol and pulled the trigger just as the first of the Soviet trooper's bullets cut through him.

  Ahmed wanted to die with his eyes closed, but he stared sightlessly up at the failing snow.

  Chapter Three

  "Mr. Ambassador, wake up sir, please!"

  Stromberg rolled over. The weak-bulbed bedside lamp was on. He closed his eyes against the dim light. "What the hell are you doing here at—" Stromberg glanced at the watch on his nightstand—"at three in the morning? My God, man! Where's Mrs. Stromberg?"

  "I knocked and she let me in, sir. When I sort of told her what was going on, she said to wake you myself—she was going to make some coffee for you. I said I could get someone from the staff, but—"

  "Never mind that, Hensley! What the hell are you waking me up for, to begin with? You know I've got that trade conference tomorrow morning at nine—this morning!" Stromberg yawned, found his glasses and put them on, at the same time running his spatulate fingers through his thinning gray hair.

  "Sir, it's an eyes-only message. You're going to have to decode it. It's direct from the president, not the secretary. But it's signed by him too, sir."

  "Oh, hell," Stromberg groaned. "Probably forgot to send somebody an anniversary card or something."

  "But, sir," the young cipher clerk insisted, "the code is Maximum Priority. You've got to read it now."

  "Hensley," Stromberg said, trying to roll over between his blankets, then pushing himself into a sitting position. "You've got to learn one thing, young man. Nothing in the State Department ever happens that won't wait until morning. Well, I shouldn't say that," he added as he started to come awake. "There's only one reason they'd send a message like that, and that's imposs—" He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed a cigarette from a small jade box. Hensley lurched forward and lit it. "There's only one thing, as I said that—" He stared at the message. "Good God! Hensley, get my robe!"

  Stromberg was halfway to the door before Hensley could intercept him, helping him on with his robe as the amba
ssador fumbled with the doorknob, then threw open the door to his private office.

  Inside, Stromberg took the Andrew Wyeth painting from the wall behind his desk, then felt along the joint of the wall paneling. A piece of the paneling slid away, revealing a small wall safe.

  "Sir," Hensley said. Then, clearing his throat, repeated himself, "Sir!"

  "What is it, man?"

  "I shouldn't be here when you go into that safe, sir—that's against security—"

  "The hell with security, Hensley," Stromberg said.

  There was a knock at the door.

  "Come in!" Stromberg half-shouted.

  "Coffee, darling—hot." Mrs. Stromberg was young—Stromberg couldn't help but be reminded of that as she entered the room. Hensley stared at her. Her robe was more revealing than Stromberg would have liked.

  She started to leave the room, and Stromberg said, "No. Wait here."

  He had the safe open, then sat down at his desk. Looking at Hensley, he said, "Let's see that message again."

  "Here, sir," Hensley said. "Should I go now?"

  "No—wait. Let's see what this sucker—sorry dear," he said absently to his wife, then, "Let's see what this is all about."

  Stromberg's wife stood beside him, lighting another cigarette, then putting it between his lips as he worked at the tiny, gray canvas-bound code book. Stromberg could taste her lipstick on the cigarette filter.

  He stopped halfway through the message. "Hensley, get the embassy security chief up here, pronto. You come back, too. On the way, go down to the code room and get Washington to retransmit this, to be sure. Verify that they haven't changed Sigma 9, RB 18 since the last time my book was updated."

  "Should I say that, sir, I mean en clair?"

  "Yes, Hensley. They can always change the code later." And as Hensley left the room, Stromberg muttered, "If there is a later—"

  After several minutes he looked up from his desk, stared across the room and saw his wife sitting in the chair opposite his desk, smoking one of his cigarettes. She only smoked his cigarettes, never bought any of her own because she smoked so seldom. He had often wished he could control smoking the way she did—half a pack or a pack one day, nothing for several weeks, then a single cigarette. She had will power.

  Stromberg looked across the message in his hands, saying, "I'll read this to you, Jane. If it's an error, it doesn't make any difference. We'll know that in a minute. If it's true—" he shrugged— "doesn't make much difference, either."

  "Security will be miffed with you, George," she warned, smiling.

  "Piss on security," he grunted. "Here—listen. 'Instruct you to advise Soviet Premier, formally, in person, following. Ongoing Soviet invasion of Pakistan begun zero eight forty-five Washington time must be halted immediately. Troops must be withdrawn to Afghani border. United States views Soviet aggression in Pakistan as gross violation of Geneva Accords and threat to United States security. STOP. Severe international repercussions will result. The possibility of United States and other NATO power armed intervention not ruled out. Word it tactfully but strongly, George. End it.'"

  "My God," the woman whispered.

  "It's signed by the president, Jane."

  "Do you want me to pretend to be a secretary and call the premier for you?"

  "What?" Stromberg said. "Oh, yeah—please. Good idea."

  He stood and walked to the window, staring out onto the embassy grounds below. "This could mean a world war, Jane," he whispered. His breath clouded the window pane.

  "I know, George." He heard her answer over the clicking of the telephone dial.

  "No—wait," he said suddenly. "Hensley hasn't verified the Sigma 9, RB 18 code yet." But he knew the wait was a waste of time. The message was correct.

  Chapter Four

  The tiny alcove in the antechambers of the premier's office was oppressive Its cold, almost sterile stone seemed to close in on George Stromberg as he waited, pacing and smoking, looking for an ashtray.

  He turned, hearing the premier's young male secretary re-enter the room.

  "The premier will see you now, Ambassador Stromberg."

  "Thank you." Stromberg followed the secretary down the hallway, past the premier's formal office, then into another carpeted hall. They stopped before a small dark wooden door. The secretary knocked, then, without waiting for a reply opened the door and stepped aside for Stromberg to enter.

  Stromberg waited until the secretary had gone to say anything—the premier rarely advertised the fact that he spoke excellent English.

  "Mr. Stromberg, what an unexpected pleasure." Behind the desk, its green blotter bleached in yellow-tinged light, sat the premier.

  "Good evening, sir," Stromberg said perfunctorily, then approached the desk. He could see only the bottom half of the premier's face, the stubble showing that the man had not bothered shaving for Stromberg's unexpected visit.

  But was it unexpected, Stromberg wondered? If he had learned anything in three years of representing U.S. interests in Moscow, it was that every Russian politician was a consummate actor, and the premier was perhaps the best of all. "Sit down, please, Mr. Stromberg. You must be tired."

  "I am, sir," Stromberg said, sitting in the worn leather chair opposite the desk.

  The yellow circle of light from the old gooseneck lamp on the premier's desk left the man's eyes in shadow. Stromberg was unable to read his face

  "And why have you come, Mr. Stromberg? An urgent message from your government?"

  "I see no reason why we should mince words, sir," Stromberg said.

  The premier, Stromberg decided, knew him well.

  The long, bony fingers of his left hand pushed a small glass ashtray into the pool of light and toward Stromberg. "Feel free to smoke, if you choose. "

  "Thank you, sir," Stromberg said, then fumbled out his cigarettes and the Dunhill lighter which Jane had given him on his last birthday. Suddenly, Stromberg felt afraid. Had it been his last birthday, hers, everyone's?

  "Mr. Stromberg, since we are speaking plainly, I assume your president wishes to convey some message about our recent decision to protect the internal security of the people of Pakistan. And how is your president, by the way? I was, in all honesty, expecting a call from him directly. But...I see this is not the case. Would that we could talk person-to-person as people think we do." He chuckled. Stromberg watched the premier's mouth in the light. The lips set into a tight half-smile.

  "A formal note signed by the president will arrive by courier later in the morning. However, the president wishes me to convey his best personal wishes, and that he is troubled by what he can only interpret as an act of aggression—not only against the autonomous government of the people of Pakistan, but against our mutual interest of world peace. "

  "It depends, Mr. Stromberg," the premier said. A match flashed in the darkness near his heavy brow, then a cloud of cigar smoke filtered into the light of the gooseneck lamp. "It depends upon how one interprets things. We are preserving peace."

  "Mr. Premier," Stromberg said, clearing his throat, "you said we were speaking frankly. May I?"

  "Certainly, Stromberg. We are old friendly adversaries. I sent your daughter a fur ski jacket for her eleventh birthday, remember?"

  "Yes, sir—she still wears it often. In fact, she wanted me to thank you personally for the porcelain doll you sent."

  "I mean no harm to you," the premier whispered, "nor to your wife and daughter, Stromberg. So tell me—the truth."

  "Sir," Stromberg said, leaning forward in his chair, desperately trying to glimpse the premier's eyes. "My president's message was that if Soviet forces are not withdrawn from Pakistan to beyond the border with Afghanistan, there could be severe international repercussions, possible military intervention in Pakistan by U.S. and NATO forces."

  "And you feel, Stromberg," the premier said, his voice tired-sounding, "that your president is talking about what
you would call World War Three, no?"

  "Sir, the president's message said nothing of global war."

  "But total war was between the lines, was it not?"

  Stromberg said nothing, and the premier went on. "I will speak frankly with you. It is hard, your not being Russian to understand us. We think in two different languages. In two different ways. You cannot think in the manner that we do, and we cannot think as you do. I appreciate your trying to learn our language. We see our movement into Pakistan as the only way to make our posture in Afghanistan tenable."

  "As you, sir, must believe me," Stromberg said, lighting another cigarette, "when I tell you that a military response is our only tenable reply to your move."

  "I know this, and for this reason I am sitting here with you at an unholy hour! I do not want a war with the United States. I have never wished this. But you must believe what I am about to tell you. In some ways it is highly secret, but you must know it if you are to prevent a war."

  "The American press," the premier went on, "has called Afghanistan a Soviet Viet Nam. It is. But we cannot afford to withdraw from Afghanistan. The United States does not border Viet Nam—it is oceans and thousands of kilometers away. We do border Afghanistan. Some of our most important research facilities are near it. Today, the Moslem populations of our own territories grow restless. Were something the likes of which your government allowed to transpire in Iran to have taken place in Afghanistan, it could have spread into our borders. Guns and propaganda and fighting men are entering Afghanistan through Pakistan. This must stop. No one else in the world has decided to stop it, so we must."

  "But, sir, the entry into Afghanistan is still the subject—"

  "Of much debate, yes I know. I am tired of debate. Russian soldiers are dying in Afghanistan. Debate does not bring them back to life! If we were to pull out of Afghanistan, the Moslem peoples in the Soviet Union would view this as a sign of weakness and we might well have open revolt. For a variety of reasons, this could not be tolerated. You know this. It is common knowledge that our primary particle beam weapon research facilities are in an area close to Afghanistan and peopled largely by Moslems. We are advanced—vastly. No—the word is superior. We are superior to you in this field. We are—and you must believe this—at the stage where our particle beam weapons can be deployed terrestrially. I am not talking about laser-equipped hunter-killer satellites at thirty thousand meters overhead or some such. I am talking about cannon-like particle beam weapons which can destroy any American missiles or bombs before they can deliver their weapons and warheads. We are militarily superior."