Survivalist - 12 - The Rebellion Read Free Page B

thought. It had been necessary. John Rourke extended his right hand. “The name’s John, Colonel.”
    The colonel took his hand—the grip was firm, like a man’s grip should be, Rourke thought absently. “I am Wolfgang—I am called Wolf by some.”
    “Wolf,” Rourke said quietly.
    They released each others hands.
    Rourke smiled at the man. “Don’t forget your pals— they could get awfully lonely out here while we’re talking. Or, if some of Dodd’s security people—”
    “Dodd?”
    “The Commander of Eden One and the overall Eden Project commander. But if some of his people should decide to stray out past the perimeter, well, somebody could get awfully dead too, I suppose.”
    Wolfgang Mann’s face beamed with a smile as he called out in German, “Wait for me at the edge of our perime
    ter—hurry!”
    “P-38’s a good gun, you know,” Rourke began, walking beside the colonel toward the perimeter of the encampment which had clustered around the two returned Eden Project shuttles. “There’s this woman with me—you’ll have to meet her. But we were in this place recently—in fact it was called The Place. And of all the guns stored there, she picked only one additional handgun. A P-38. I was never much of a 9mm man myself—but somewhere back at The Retreat—that’s where I live, you know—well, I’ve got a Walther P-38K. Hell of a good gun, despite the caliber. And in the old days, of course, before The Night of The War, sometimes when I was in the field I couldn’t always get a .45. You know how that can be,” Rourke said quietly. “And so a couple of times, I used a Walther P-5—ever see one of those?”
    “No.”
    “Shame,” Rourke murmured. “I bet you would’ve liked it.” He stopped walking a moment. “Oh, I’m not trying to be presumptuous. But someone who speaks of freedom and peace—well. Don’t go calling yourself a Nazi anymore. You’re a German.”
    Wolfgang Mann didn’t answer.

Chapter Two
    The helicopter had barely landed. Despite his injurec left arm and the field dressing which was soaked througl with blood, Karamatsov jumped through the fuselage door way to the sandy west Texas earth. He ducked his head but too late, the wind of the rotor blades snatching awa his cap. He dismissed the event, walking on. One of hi subordinates would pick up the cap and bring it to him Antonovitch was beside him in an instant, the cap in hi hands—Karamatsov did not take back the cap immed ately, shouting over the whir of the rotor blades an squinting against the storm of sand which they generate and blew at him, “There is no time to lose, Nicolai. Yo will carry out the following orders.”
    “Yes, Comrade Colonel Karamatsov!”
    Vladmir Karamatsov altered his course slightly, towar the prefabricated shelter which had been erected as h headquarters. Aircraft landed along the runway his persoi nel had nearly completed carving from the sand in h absence—they would carry men, supplies, synthetic fue “I am abandoning plans for the destruction of the Ede Project at this time. I have never told you,” Karamatsc said, slightly breathless—it was the change in humidi which affected his breathing, he knew. Part of his left lur had been cut away. He began again. “I have never to; you, Nicolai—but I have an agent among the complemei
    of the Eden Project—”
    “An agent, Comrade Colonel?”
    “Yes—placed there five centuries ago in the event that the Eden Project proved to be the insurance against doomsday which I had always suspected. And I was right of course.”
    “But, Comrade Colonel?” Maj. Nicolai Antonovitch began. “When you ordered the destruction of the six Eden Project shuttle craft, your agent was aboard—”
    “My agent knew the risks. But we shall see what my agent is able to precipitate that may hasten the Eden Project’s destruction. I wish activities of the Eden Project monitored by high-altitude observation craft—see that this is begun, and