“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 trig-ger of the assault rifle in his left hand as he ran.
It too ran dry. He left both rifles fall to his sides on their black webbed slings. His right hand moved to his trouser band—the Metalifed Colt Government Model. He jacked back the slide, stabbing it toward the KGB position, firing, knowing that at the range it was virtually useless.
The mouth of the corridor was now fifteen yards. He ran, Natalia only a few paces ahead of him—the one article of clothing she had changed was footgear—the uniform boots she had worn with her attempted disguise had been vastly too large for her and stuffed with rags and paper. But she moved fleet footedly now, changed to her own boots.
The M-16 in her left hand was shot out now, but the one in her right still spit fire.
Ten yards, Reed’s men laying down a solid field of fire toward the KGB position, Rourke leaning into the run, his lungs burning with it, the .45 empty in his right fist.
Natalia reached the mouth of the corridor, Rourke skid-ding on his heels behind her—his borrowed uniform boots weren’t the greatest fit either, he realized, his left heel ach-ing. Rourke dropped to his knees, swinging the CAR-15 forward from behind his back, the Colt .45 stabbed into his trouser band, the slide stop downed. He telescoped the stock, pulling free the scope covers, stuffing them into his shirt pocket, putting the CAR-15 to his shoulder, firing. Semi-automatic only, with the Colt three power scope he picked his targets—a KGB lieutenant, a shot into the right side of the forehead; an enlisted man and a shot into the neck as he raised up to shoot; another enlisted man in the right forearm; another man—he couldn’t tell the rank—in the mouth as it opened—it never closed.