Survivalist - 23 - Call To Battle Read Free Page A

at Mid-Wake, Lydveldid Island, New Germany and at the Chinese First City, the creatures subsequendy released to the wild. This was, at first, done under controlled conditions. Such controls had long since vanished. Although the diversity of species was vasdy reduced, the numbers among those species extant were growing steadily. Rourke found that wonderfully encouraging.
    Far in the distance, the normal naval traffic could be observed, but veering off from the coast of Molokai here and toward Oahu. Much of this was military, the majority originating in an American port, but there were some Chinese and Australian vessels as well; and, of course, Russian freighters. The Russians, although they had only paramilitary police units for domestic security, and a Coast Guard, were very active in merchant shipping. Eden vessels rarely came nearer to the Hawaiian Islands than just close enough to engage in electronic espionage, a role the Soviet Union had always played with much gusto in the days Before The Night of The War.
    The Tac Team personnel worked so much with the SEALs that they were able to identify each vessel by profile. The Tac Team personnel were, as was usually the case with such units, on the
    young side. The oldest among them was Ed Shaw, somewhere in his middle thirties, Rourke guessed, and Shaw was their commander in field operations such as this.
    There were other personnel that belonged to the Honolulu Tac Team, Tim Shaw, who was Ed’s father and Emma Shaw’s father, too, among them. Many of these men, as Rourke was able to ascertain, were older, but not all of them. The Tac Team worked as a street unit and for SWAT and HRU applications. Depending on the gravity of a particular situation, both elements functioned together or separately. These younger men, in snatches of conversation Rourke overheard, would joke about the older guys (their most polite way of referring to them), but Rourke noted a distinct hint of respect, as well.
    There were periodic low-frequency radio checks with Lieutenant Commander Washington’s SEAL Team personnel. The same story came from their observation post: Nothing.
    To relieve the monotony, Rourke took one of the spare bootlaces from his musette bag and showed the Tac Team personnel how to make one of the old OSS string holsters, a trick he’d learned years ago, Before The Night of The War, from one of his best friends. One merely tied the ends of the shoelace together-a bootlace was a little long for the thing but he wasn’t about to cut it-and formed a circle, this made into a double loop. Then, one slipped the pistol-Rourke used a .45 volunteered by one of the Tac Team men-within the loops, inside the trouser band. Loosen the knot, then tighten it to fit and trim away the excess. That was all there was to it. The loops kept the pistol from sliding down inside the pants when the string holster was cinched up properly. In an emergency, the holster could be discarded and no one would give it a second look.
    This demonstrated, they returned to the boredom of waiting. Rourke lit a cigarette, in the confined space of the rock niche preferring it over a cigar because so many of the Tac Team personnel were nonsmokers, a self-discipline Rourke commended.
    An hour and a half was gone, still nothing in sight on the ocean’s surface. A squall line was forming to the north, blue-black thunderheads rolling in rather quickly, low over the water.
    Ed Shaw suddenly said, “Maybe we got it wrong, or somehow the SS found out we hit the estate and they cancelled the insertion or-“
    “Think again, Ed,” Paul almost whispered. Paul was looking through the electronic imaging telescopic sight of a counter-sniper rifle one of the Tac Team personnel carried. “Try about two o’clock on the surface, maybe two hundred yards out.”
    John Rourke dropped into a prone position beside Paul, his elbows set on the rock, the German field glasses to his eyes. Around them were the sounds of field glasses being