Ahern, Jerry - The Quest

“You’ve been around,” Rourke rasped, slipping down from the edge of the culvert, leaning back against the steeply sloping cement behind him. “This whole deal smells. We’re not going in the rest of the way through the storm drain; we’re cutting across this lot and into the buildings. There’s a trap out there. Only thing we can do is try and work around it.” “Fulsom’s not gonna like that,” Reed cautioned.

“Yeah, well—that’s too damned bad,” Rourke said. “I’ll let him lead the war when he lets me sell hardware. Come on.” Slipping back toward the mouth of the storm drain, Rourke put his left hand on Fulsom’s shoulder and drew the man aside, telling him, “There’s some kind of trap in the wind. I can feel it. We’re going through the parking area, to the buildings. Couple of us go up on the roofs after sentries, then everybody piles after us. If it looks possible, some of us can go into the complex through the roof.” “But why not the drain, the way we had—”

“You want to go that route, count me out,” Rourke rasped.

Fulsom, the corners of his mouth set down hard, nodded—grim-looking, Rourke thought.

“All right, you keep a handle on things here,” Rourke said. “I’ll take Reed and his two Army Intelligence guys with me.” Edging back toward the lip of the culvert up the V-shaped channel, he waved toward Reed, the Intelligence captain moving diagonally along the rough concrete surface toward him.

“Get your two boys, then stay with me,” Rourke told him emotionlessly. “First shot or anything from us or them, get the hell out. Pass that back along to Fulsom.” Rourke snatched the Bushnell Armored binoculars from their case and scanned the parking area, then the roof tops. He assumed there would naturally be sentries though he saw none. Shaking his head as he replaced the glasses, he zipped his jacket against the night air, but the cold feeling in his stomach wouldn’t go.

Chapter 31

“These are the complete details of your architectural survey, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” the ruddy cheeked young man said, still standing at attention beside the open door leading to the back seat of Colonel Korcinski’s staff car.

“Excellent. This storm drain, it appears here.” He showed the page of the plans through the open door. The lieutenant bent over formally, studying them by the beam from the flashlight Korcinski held in his gloved left hand.

“Yes, Comrade Colonel?”

“You will be commander for this portion of the operation. Do not fail. Take a platoon of men to the outlet of this storm drain, approach with caution, apprehend any persons near or inside the outlet of the drain, then proceed up the drain pipe toward the parking square. Any questions?” “All is clear, Comrade Colonel!”

“Excellent. Get moving,” Korcinski snapped, tempering his tone of authority with one he thought of encouragement.

Korcinski turned to the captain, who had been standing beside the young lieutenant. “I understand this man Rourke that we seek is highly experienced. He will no doubt become alarmed that there is no visible presence in the parking square or on the roof tops. I doubt he will proceed along the storm drain past this point.” The captain bent toward the page of the survey Korcinski held under the flashlight. “This is some sort of opening. You will position men at the far boundary of the parking square in case Rourke and these others decide to withdraw. Otherwise, if you make contact, keep them under direct observation, but do nothing. Maintain radio silence in the event they are tuned to our usual frequencies. The jaws of the trap will close when they enter the complex or if they try to escape. Remember, Captain. Take this one Rourke alive. Preserve his weapons. He is not to be harmed.” “Comrade Colonel?” the captain asked.

Anticipating the captain, Korcinski said,” I cannot confide this reasoning to you. It is at the highest levels of security.” As the captain started to go, Korcinski added, “Has the plane arrived yet from Chicago?” “Yes, Comrade Colonel, moments ago.”

“Very good. The young woman aboard is to be brought here and kept safely away from any of the fighting; she is not to be questioned.” “Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

Lazily—a studied movement—Korcinski returned the salute. He could not tell the captain why this man Rourke was to be taken unharmed, his weapons kept. He had not been told himself. He studied his reflection in the glass as his driver closed the open rear passenger door and the light from one of the motorcycles in the escort hit the tinted glass just right.

Chapter 32

Rourke pushed himself up and raced from the lip of the culvert and across the parking lot toward the grassy knoll some two hundred yards away, the CAR-15 in his right fist, the safety off, the freshness of the air exhilarating to his lungs, his hair blowing across his face and then back from his forehead in the cool night wind. He hit the grassy knoll and threw himself to the ground, hugging the green as he waited for Reed, then the two men after him. Sighting through the Colt’s three-power scope, he tried spotting the roof line. Again he saw nothing, then edged along the grass closer toward the building, Reed was nearly across the parking area now, one of the other men already starting out from the culvert.

Rourke stopped, rolling onto his back on the grass, catching his breath, staring up at the night sky and the stars. The haze was still around the moon and it wasn’t the moon, Rourke knew, but something in the atmosphere. He snatched a tuft of grass from beside him—it was green and healthy—he could feel a mist starting to fall. Was the rain radioactive yet? he wondered. There was so little time for him to find Sarah and the children, if there were any time at all. There was safety in the retreat. He stared up as the stars began fading above a thin layer of clouds. What then, he asked himself, what after he found Sarah, Michael, Ann? Life in the retreat forever, go outside specially suited-up because the air was foul? What if radiation seeped through the ground into the water source for the retreat somewhere hundreds of miles away? He monitored and tested the water periodically—but what if? The ifs were gnawing at him; he had no choice but to find his family, and after that somehow keep them all alive. And what if between the time from when he had found the tracks and now they had died? What if they thought he were dead?

Doubt, he thought, doubt . . .

“See anything?”

He glanced to his left, a part of his consciousness noticing Reed edging up along side him.

“No—nothing,” Rourke muttered, watching across the parking area as the last man began his headlong lunge across the open area—a target, but Rourke doubted anyone would shoot. He was convinced now that the Communists were setting a trap, and what drew him on, he supposed, was the reason behind it. If they wanted the attackers in the commando team dead, they would have opened up already, sealed the storm drain, potshotted them through the other side or gassed them; there were an infinite number of ways to kill.

Whatever the trap, it was important enough to risk the supply depot and the helicopter landing field on the other side of the shopping center. Whatever the trap, the mass death of the commando team was not its objective. Rourke’s stomach turned and his palms began to sweat under the gloves he wore.

The last of Reed’s two men hit the grassy area and Rourke waited a moment for the corporal to catch his breath, then signaled Reed and the two men to move out, edging along the ground on his hands and knees toward the rise at the top of the knoll, keeping his head below it and peering beyond. There was more of the parking area, where he finally saw some signs of life—but not enough, he told himself. There were two fixed-wing aircraft of the single-engine variety, apparently used for observation flights, and with a short enough takeoff that they could use the lot. Trucks were parked alongside the buildings and there were lights from inside through what had once been the windows of the stores when it had still been a shopping center.