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  Ahern, Jerry – Survivalist 05 - The Web

  Prologue

  John Rourke stood in the rain. He'd landed the Beech-craft because the

  plane had been almost out of fuel. As best he'd been able to judge from

  the maps, the plane was about twenty-five miles from Chambers and U.S. II

  headquarters.

  Paul was sitting in the plane, talking to his parents; the pilot had gone

  to find some kind of transportation. The radio wasn't working well, too

  much static.

  Beside Rourke stood Maj. Natalia Tiemerovna. "The truce will be over soon,

  John; it is over now, I think."

  "At least it showed we're still human beings, didn't it?" Rourke said

  quietly, his left hand cupped over his dark tobacco cigar, his right arm

  around Natalia.

  "You will go on looking?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "Where do you plan to go?"

  "The Carolinas, maybe Georgia by Savannah. She was likely headed that

  way."

  "I hope you find her—and the children."

  Rourke looked at the Russian woman. Rain water streamed down her face—and

  his. ''Thank you, Natalia."

  The woman smiled, then lowered her eyes. She stood beside Rourke in the

  pouring rain.

  Chapter one

  "I just damned well can't order my men to fire on Americans to save a

  Russian agent, Rourke—no matter how much she's helped us!"

  Rourke glanced at Reed, then snatched aMossberg ATPP riot pump from

  one of Reed's men. "Nobody has to order me," he whispered, squinting hard

  against the sunshine as he tromboned the shotgun and shouldered it.

  "Rourke!"

  "Leave it!" Rourke ordered, not looking at Reed as the Army Intelligence

  captain spoke.

  The crowd of men and women-—civilians, mostly— was advancing, rifles,

  shotguns, clubs, and knives of every description in their hands. A woman

  screamed from the crowd, "Give us that Commie bitch—now!"

  Rourke snapped the muzzle of the riot shotgun down fast, firing, pumping,

  then firing again, skipping the pellets of double- buck across the tarred

  surface of the runway-access road, the pellets at most ricocheting upward

  against the shins of the lead ranks of the mob. The mob fell back a few

  yards. Rourke worked the tang-mounted safety after tromboning another

  round into the chamber, then handed the shotgun to Reed. "That's

  called riot control—ever hear of it?"

  Rourke didn't wait for an answer, extending his hand; Reed took it. "You

  didn't get weather from the tower."

  "That's all right—couldn't be hotter up there than it is here." Rourke

  nodded toward the mob. They were advancing again. Reed shouldered the pump

  and worked the safety, then fired into the runway surface, the roughly

  thirty-caliber pellets skipping toward the rioters. "See—works just great.

  About two more times, and the braver ones are gonna figure you're trying

  too hard not to kill 'em—then they're going to rush you. Let 'em past;

  we'll be airborne."

  "Rourke?"

  "Yeah—I know. Good luck." Rourke nodded fast, then took off in a dead run

  behind the dozen or so armed U.S. II troopers and toward the pickup truck.

  "He's gonna make a break for it with the Russian girl!" an angry voice

  shouted from the crowd behind him. Rourke hoped the anonymous voice was

  right.

  He reached the truck, jumping aboard, the door not closed as he worked the

  key. The ignition fired; his right fist locked on the floor-mounted

  gearshift. His left foot popped the clutch; the dark tobacco cigar moved

  across the clenched tight teeth and settled in the left corner of his

  mouth as the truck lurched ahead. The truck door slammed itself, the

  mirror vibrating as Rourke studied it. The mob had closed with Reed's men,

  closed with them sooner than Rourke had expected, and had passed them.

  There was sporadic gunfire, and behind the truck now, Rourke could see the

  first ragged ranks of the mob— running after him toward the airfield.

  Far ahead, through the cracked glass of the Ford's windshield, he could

  see the light cargo plane, the twin

  props still not whirring. Rourke hammered his left fist down hard on the

  vintage truck's horn button, again and again.

  He could see a figure—Rubenstein?—running from the starboard wing around

  the nose of the aircraft. Natalia would be at the controls. "Shit!"

  Rourke stomped the clutch down hard, working the gas pedal as well,

  double-clutching as he upshifted, the truck's gears grinding. The vehicle

  bumped, then lurched ahead.

  He glanced to his left—something, a sixth sense, making him do it. Hearing

  anything aver the roar of his truck's engine, the gunfire, and the shouts

  of the mob from behind was impossible. From his left were coming two

  pickup trucks, armed men in the hacks of each vehicle—rifles, shotguns,

  handguns, axes—and blood in their collective eye.

  He shook his head, almost in disbelief. Three days earlier, Natalia had

  been rescuing their wives and babies, putting them aboard the planes of

  the evacuation fleet in Florida. But now—none of that mattered. She was

  Russian, and the Russians had started World War III, destroyed much of the

  United States, invaded American shores. Natalia was Russian. It didn't

  matter who she was, just what. Rourke felt the corners of his mouth

  downturning. "Ignorant bastards!" Rourke snarled as he glanced again at

  the two pickup trucks. They were closing fast, gunfire now being leveled

  at him from the beds of the trucks. The West Coast mirror on the

  right-hand side of the vintage Ford pickup he drove shattered under the

  impact of a slug.

  Rourke reached under his left armpit, snatching at one of the twin

  Detonics stainless .s he carried in the

  double Alessi shoulder rig. He aimed the pistol as his thumb cocked the

  hammer, then turned his face away from the passenger-side window, firing,

  as the shattering outward of the passenger-side glass and the roar of the

  -grain JHP in the confined space all came together to make his ears

  ring. He looked toward the passenger side; the nearest of the two trucks

  swung away. He fired the Detonics again; this time, the glass of his

  borrowed truck not partially deflecting the bullet, his bullet hammered

  into the front windshield of the nearest of the pursuers.

  Rourke glanced to his left, seeing behind him through the driverVside

  window the pursuing mob. The mob split, a wing of it running diagonally

  from the access road toward the field, to cut him off or to reach the

  airplane ahead of him—he couldn't be sure which.

  Rourke glanced to his right. A wooden fence was all that separated him

  from the grassy area leading toward the field. He cut the wheel hard

  right, the cocked and locked Detonics secured under his right thigh as he

  aimed the pickup truck toward the fence. One of the pursuing trucks, the

  one with the shot-out windshield, was coming for him broadside. Rourke

/>   grabbed up the Detonics again, firing. The pursuing truck swerved hard

  right through the wooden fence, almost in perfect simul­taneity with the

  truck Rourke drove.

  Behind him now, Rourke could see the second truck, coming up fast as it

  punched through the fence. Some of the fence slats, caught up in its front

  bumper, broke away as the truck, a Chevy, bounced and jarred across the

  uneven ground. Rourke upped the safety on his Detonics again, hammering

  down the gas pedal and shifting down into third, releasing the pedal and

  stomping the accelera­tor as he made the change. The Ford slowed, but took

  the

  bumps better. There were perhaps a thousand yards to go toward the

  airfield tarmac itself.

  The pickup with the shot-out windshield was com­ing—fast, too fast for

  control. The riflemen and shot-gunners, bouncing visibly in the bed as the

  truck slowed, fired. Rifle bullets and shotgun slugs pinged uselessly off

  the body of Rourke's truck.

  Rourke fired the Detonics . again, really at nothing, since aimed fire

  was useless with the truck he drove bouncing and jarring as it did. But

  this time the pickup truck, a Dodge, didn't fall back.

  "Hell," Rourke rasped, stomping the clutch, running the gas pedal hard

  down as he upshifted, easing the gas pressure, then increasing it again.

  The Ford lurched ahead.

  In the rear-view mirror, Rourke could see the Chevy— almost even with the

  rear end of his truck now, a man leaning out of its passenger-side door,

  jumping. Rourke tried swerving away in time, but was boxed in.

  The man, a pistol in his right hand now, was unsteadily standing in the

  bed of Rourke's pickup. Rourke tried cutting the wheel hard right, to

  throw the man off, but the Dodge with the shattered windshield was

  flanking him, fenders touching, boxing him in again. Rourke cut the wheel

  hard left, but the second pickup, the Chevy, had blocked him there as welL

  The man standing shakily behind him was raising his pistol, to fire

  through the rear window. "Try this," Rourke snapped, stomping hard on the

  brakes. The pickup truck lurched to a ragged halt; the man's pistol

  discharged, the man himself sailing forward, disappearing from Rourke's

  view over the cab of the pickup and reappearing crashing onto the hood.

  Rourke threw the stick into reverse, the truck's gearbox

  grinding. Rourke's right foot hammered down on the gas pedal. The Chevy

  was already twenty yards ahead of him; the Dodge, customized and massive,

  locked beside him. There was a tearing sound, metal against metal. The

  right side of Rourke's truck locked into the left rear wheel well of the

  Dodge with the shot-out windshield. Rourke stomped the clutch again,

  throwing into first, then hammering down the gas pedal. There were more

  tearing sounds; then his truck lurched ahead. The Ford's bumper twisted

  upward suddenly, protruding aver the hood as Rourke stomped the clutch

  again, into second with the gearbox, his foot barely leaving the gas

  pedal.

  The Chevy was wheeling a sharp right, trying to cut Rourke off. The man

  from the bed of Rourke's pickup, who had been thrown to the ground an

  instant earlier, got unsteadily to his feet. Rourke cut his wheel sharp to

  the left, barely missing him, then hard to the right. The Chevy still

  trying to cut him off.

  The first truck, its windshield all but gone now, was right behind him.

  Rourke stomped his brake pedal, wrenching the stick back into reverse.

  There was a massive hitchbali on the rear end of the Ford and Rourke aimed

  it blindly now toward the grillwork of the Dodge behind him. There was a

  crashing, crunching sound, and Rourke braced himself against the wheel as

  the Ford impacted. Rourke stomped the clutch, then worked the stick into

  first and gave the Ford the gas. There was a groaning sound. His truck

  stalled a little, then ripped free. Behind him, in the rear-view, as he

  upshifted to second, he could see the front bumper and part of the Dodge's

  grill—twisted and wrecked.

  The Chevy was alongside him again. Rourke cut his wheel sharp right,

  impacting the right fender against the

  left fender of the other truck, then cutting back away, keeping the wheel

  in a sharp left, circling back over the ground they had just traversed,

  the Chevy still coming.

  Gunfire—an assault rifle, the burst long, too long. The rear windshield of

  the truck Rourke drove shattered, the rear-view mirror was shot out, too,

  as bullets passed through the opening in the glass behind him and

  ham­mered against the front windshield from the inside.

  Rourke ducked his head down. Under the impact of more slugs, the gas gauge

  shattered, the steering wheel chipped—too near his fingers.

  "Hell," he rasped, cutting the wheel into a hard left, then a hard right,

  then a hard left again, zigzagging as the Chevy kept coming and the

  assault-rifle fire as well. He cut the wheel sharp right and worked the

  emergency-brake, locking the rear wheels. The truck skidded into a flick

  turn, almost overending.

  He was aimed the right way now, his left hand snatch­ing for the second

  Detonics pistol as he released the emergency brake. He rammed the

  transmission into first, into second, then into third, his feet working as

  if they rode a balance beam, his right hand stirring the transmis­sion.

  The Chevy was coming at him—dead-on.

  "Play chicken with me!" he snarled. Ramming the Detonics pistol out the

  driver's-side window, his thumb jerked the hammer back, his first finger

  started the squeeze.

  One round, then a second—the enemy truck's wind­shield gone with two hits.

  Two more shots—one headlight and maybe a puncture to the radiator. The

  truck was still coming.

  One round—the driver's-side West Coast mirror. The truck wasn't swerving,

  coming at Rourke like a rival

  knight in a tournament. The gap between them was less than twenty yards.

  Rourke fired the last round from the pistol. The driver of the Chevy threw

  his hands up to his face; the pickup swerved left and right. Rourke

  stomped down on the Ford's clutch, wrenching the stick into second as he

  double-clutched, working the emergency brake again, cutting the wheel in a

  sharp left, then releasing the brake and stomping the gas. The Ford

  fish-tailed under him, bounced up, and drove over a hummock of ground,

  airborne for a split second. He could feel the suspension of gravity in

  the instant that it happened, feel it in the pit of his stomach. The truck

  hit hard, Rourke fighting the wheel to control it. He stomped the clutch,

  wrenching the stick into third, revving his way out of the fishtail,

  accelerating, the engine moaning in front of him, the cab vibrating,

  shards of glass tinkling to the floor of the cab as the air of the truck's

  slipstream pressured his bullet-shattered windshield.

  The twin-engine light cargo plane was just ahead of him again, this time

  barely a hundred yards away.

  Rourke upshifted into fourth as he hit the runway tarmac. The truck

  skidded—the treads of the tires would be packed with clay and dirt, he
<
br />   knew. The Ford fish-tailed again, then straightened out as Rourke started

  downshifting, braking at the same time. The toes of his right foot worked

  the gas pedal, his heel worked the brake, his ieft foot worked the clutch.

  The truck was skidding, and Rourke cut the wheel hard right, riding into

  the skid as he braked. The truck lurched once, then stopped.

  Rourke wrenched open the driver's-side door; shards of windshield glass

  showered down on him from the dash­board.

  Natalia's face—her brilliantly blue eyes framed in the bell of her almost

  black, past-shoulder-length hair—was visible through the pilot's-side

  storm window. Ruben-stein, framed in the open cargo bay, pushed his

  glasses back off the bridge of his nose as he shouted, "John— what the

  hell—"

  Rourke cut the younger man off "Paul—get every­thing nailed down fast, if

  it isn'f already " Without another word, Rourke ran toward the wing stem

  and jumped for it, the pilot's-side door opening under his right hand

  Natalia was seated behind the controls.

  "Move over," Rourke ordered her.

  Her blue eyes were wide—not terror, but recognition, he thought;

  recognition, perhaps, of the insanity of what wab happening "They want

  me—don't they, John? To kilt me "

  "They'd try killing the Virgin Mother right now if she were a Russian.

  Move over I said." She slipped out of the pilot's seat as Rourke slid down

  behind the controls.

  He checked the parking brake "You through pre-fhghting"

  "Yes," she answered, sounding lifeless "Every­thing's fine—ready "

  He didn't say anything Through the pilot's-side storm window, he could see

  at least three dozen armed men running across the field; and one of the

  trucks—the Chevy—was rolling again "Damn it," he rasped to him­self, then

  he shouted, "Paul' Get that cargo hold buttoned up Then get up here with a

  gun!"

  "You can't ask him to shoot those people—for me," Natalia almost whispered

  Not looking at her as he spoke, Rourke ran a visual check of the avionics.

  "You listen to me—and good Rus-