Survivalist - 14 - The Terror by Ahern Jerry

Author:Ahern, Jerry [Ahern, Jerry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

John Rourke lost his balance, regained it and jumped, keeping the Steyr, the scope covers back in place, high, protecting it against impact as he hit the snow, rolled, skidded and stopped. The M-16 across his back impacted his spine. “Shit,” he snarled.

Ahead, he could see the snowshoe tracks of Natalia, the bark shoe prints of Jea.

To his feet—he started running again, more of the mechanical noises behind him now—soon helicopters would be airborne. Soon.

He looked behind him—nothing.

He ran, the loping, awkward run that snowshoes imposed, like a bizarre shuffle.

His mind raced faster than his legs. Why would Karamatsov—“Damn,” he hissed. There was only one reason he could fathom, and it fit Karamatsov’s personality, fit the whole idea of the construction of the Womb which Karamatsov had initiated and Rozhdestvensky, Karamatsov’s successor in KGB when it had been thought Vladmir Karamatsov was dead, had continued.

Rourke quickened his pace. A mechanical noise, suddenly loud, growling almost directly behind him.

He looked back—an armored snow tractor, but the armor would be light to prevent its getting bogged

down in drifts.

He scanned to right and left—rocks to the left. He veered off at an oblique angle, starting for them, the snow tractor almost on top of him, machinegun fire from a turret atop the vehicle, the snow rising up in waves around him. But there was no sense shooting back.

The rocks—less than fifty yards remained. John Rourke reached to his right exterior pocket. He had planned ahead.

One of the German high explosive grenades from his backpack.

He detested the habit, but had only one free hand, baring his teeth and biting down hard on the ring for the pin, ripping it free, his left fist holding the rifle, his right fist holding the grenade’s spoon tight against the body. He jumped and wheeled, lobbing the grenade more like a bowling ball than a baseball which would have better matched its size.

The left tread of the snow tractor started to veer right.

The grenade—Rourke hurtled himself to the snow, the concussion dislodging mounds of snow along the rock face near him, his body instantly showered with it, his ears ringing a little as he pushed himself to his feet.

The snow tractor was overturned.

He slung the SSG across his back, no time to grab for the M-16, his left hand working the fasteners at the front of his parka, his right hand to his mouth, biting away the overglove he had replaced after firing the Steyr counter-sniper rifle. His right hand flashed under his jacket to the little Detonics .45 under his left armpit, his left hand between his knees, tearing away the other glove. As the little stainless .45 broke from the leather, he shifted the pistol into his left

hand, his right fist popping the closure for the flap holster at his right hip, finding the butt of the Python where subconscious memory told him it almost always was.

He had it, his left thumb flicking back the .45’s hammer, his right fist closing on the Pachmayr gripped butt of the Metalifed and Mag-Na-Ported Python as it cleared leather.

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