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and hammering at his face with his fists until the Mongol’s eyes closed.
And then the back of Michael’s head felt like it was exploding.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
John Rourke had planned ahead.
After their initial success, he had ordered several more beyond the original four built, the Germans gladly complying. The original colors had been white for the prototype left for the German engineers to play with, a dark, almost British racing green one for Natalia, a medium blue colored one for Paul Rubenstein and his own, colored like his Harley, jet black. All four of these, plus one more were waiting as the J-7V touched down and Rourke looked to the far edge of the landing field.
The German Specials. But why were there five of them rather than three. About the size of his jet black Harley Low Rider, they combined the best features of twentieth century motorcycles and the modern materials and design genius of the same corps of German engineers which had designed the versatile and reliable all terrain mini-tanks. Their value had been proven against the murderous combination of elements which had all but conspired to thwart their efforts to stop the Soviet commandeered train and its cargo of Chinese missiles, eventually resulting in the derailment of the train, the loss of the stolen pre-War Chinese missiles and the death of Ivan Krakovski, then Karamatsov’s effective second-in-command. Capable of cranking up to 160 mph on level, dry terrain, they were, like the mini-tanks,
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capable as well of maneuvering over the most rugged terrain, taking whatever nature might offer as a challenge, deep snow, loose mud, sand. He had requested that they be readied and they were.
Built to run on synth fuel and more fuel efficient than any motorcycle, regardless of power rating, had ever been in the past, a Special would virtually go anywhere.
And, to get the rider there and back again, each Special featured a precisely contoured armored fairing to protect the lower body, a high-rising windshield over this, fitted with defogger coils.
Built into the fairing on either side were twelve-inch barreled machineguns, like submachineguns in their diminutive size, firing the German major caliber caseless service round. Firing mechanisms were concealed within the handlebars. There was capacity for gear storage behind and on both sides of the saddle and, to a lesser extent, built into the fairing. Implaced just aft of the rear storage compartments were weapons pods, launching high explosive mini-grenades from the left pod, smoke or gas grenades from the right pod.
The fifth Special was gunmetal gray.
Despite his and Paul’s vehement protests, Annie had insisted that she be allowed to-accompany them, that she could ride a motorcycle as well as any of them. The argument consumed two minutes or less as the aircraft shut down and unbuttoned and, as Rourke, Annie and Paul exited the V-stol, he noticed that the machines had been joined by four figures, three of them unmistakably women, the fourth in traditional Chinese male attire with a heavy parka
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over it.
John Rourke started walking across the runway, the wind blowing hard and cold, Chinese soldiers of the First City already beginning to unload the gear as he glanced back, noticing them for the first time, his attention focused elsewhere. One of the women was his wife, Sarah, and standing beside her, Natalia and, beside Natalia, Maria Leuden. The man was the Chairman of the First Chinese City.
Rourke reached the four who stood beside the five Specials and took Sarah into his arms, embracing her, kissing her hard on the mouth. “What’s happened to Michael?”
“Annie felt —felt him getting injured. That’s all I know. But it’s enough.” And he looked to Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna. “Natalia —should you be — ”
“My doctor says that healthy diversion is just the thing. Bjorn Rolvaag sends his compliments, by the way. He’s recovering splendidly and more rapidly than anyone would have thought possible. I tried arguing them into bringing his dog up to see him, but no luck. Perhaps you could ask the Chairman.”
John Rourke embraced her, kissing her lightly on the cheek, then took Maria Leuden into his arms. “He’ll be fine, Maria. I know he will.” She sniffed back a tear, smiled, kissed the cheek. He addressed the Chairman. “Sir, I am honored that you would come to meet us here. Who are the other two cycles for?”
Sarah Rourke cleared her throat. “I know I can’t go. I was never that much for motorcycles anyway”
“I’m going, and Maria it turns out rode motorcycles in New Germany.”
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“Uh-huh,” Rourke nodded. “The last place I want either of you is — ”
“I’m going, John, with you or without you. And Maria —well —she can decide.”
“If Michael’s in danger, then I’m going so I can help get him out of it.”
“Good for you, Maria,” he heard his daughter saying as she hugged her mother, Paul leaning over and kissing Sarah Rourke on the cheek.
John Rourke looked at Annie Rourke Rubenstein. “We’re going we don’t quite know where against we don’t quite know whom. It’s not the ideal circumstances for a learning experience, hmm?”
“I’m going,” Maria Leuden said, and Natalia started to laugh . . .
John Rourke stood beside the jet black Special, buckling on his gear. With the death of his Python, until he could get it restored, there had been only one logical choice in substitute armament. The hydrostatic shock value of the .357 Magnum fired from a six-inch barrel was something he relied on, despite his preference for his little Detonics .45s and his strong liking for the twin Scoremasters. But his only other Python was factory standard and he liked a revolver to be action-tuned for buttery smooth even double action and he liked a big bore revolver Mag-na-Ported. He could work the spare Python’s action, with time, to the sort of trigger that he liked, but time was a luxury he could not afford now.
He elected instead to utilize one of the .44 Magnum revolvers, greater hydrostatic shock value and, if
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one knew how, nearly as controllable. John Rourke
knew how.
The gun was a six-inch Smith & Wesson Model 629, not unlike the four-incher Michael carried. But, like his Python, it was action-tuned before the Night of The War by Metalife Industries and then the barrel slotted via the Mag-na-Port process for reduced perception of felt recoil and reduced muzzle climb. Fitted with the large size Pachmayr rubber grips, it felt essentially the same as the Python in the hand. Among the ammunition he had gotten the Germans to custom fabricate for him had been a considerable amount of the 180-grain jacketed hollow point duplicated after the Federal cartridge loading from five centuries before. His original intent had been that it would be for Michael’s use. But now, that had changed.
He had taken Safariland speed-loaders from the accessories cache, the ones Michael hadn’t taken already, using four principally, carrying the rest of his spare ammo for the weapon boxed in MTM fifty cases.
The belt he’d selected was a single billeted one with a wide, double sided solid brass buckle, the holster one he had painstakingly preserved from the days before the Night of The War, hand-made, one of a kind, by Milt Sparks Leather. It was made entirely to his specifications to afford maximum protection in the field, the black full-flapped leather envelope riding the gun low in the leather, the flap completely protecting it like no commercially available holster could have done.
He buckled the belt at his waist over the arctic
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parka now, the Grain LS X transferred from his trouser belt to the gunbelt for easier accessibility.
John Rourke straddled the machine, Sarah standing beside him. He kissed her hard. “I’ll bring him back, Sarah.”
“I know you will, I love you very much,” and she threw her arms around his neck and Rourke held her tightly, her abdomen with the life it carried pressed close against him. “I know you will, but you come back, too, John.”
“You’ve got a deal,” John Rourke whispered, kissing his wife and holding her tight a moment longer. “And I love you.” He looked to Paul and Annie, Annie’s holsters buckled over her coat, Paul with the Schmiesser and an M-16 slung cross body on either side. Natalia, her double L-Frame Smith rig buckled over her coat, Maria Leuden with a Beretta 92F and an M-16. “God help us,” he almost verbalized. He pulled on his helmet, the helmet’s systems powered by electro-chemical energy from the body. He looked at the three women, Annie and Maria for a moment seeming ridiculous with their hair well below the. levels of the helmets they wore, Natalia’s hair shorter and stuffed up inside, he supposed. The microphone in the chin visor. He spoke into it. The system was multi-band, enabling two speakers to be heard at once. “Everyone on?”