Survivalist - 15 - Overlord Read Online Free Page A

of commandos from New Germany in Argentina, “signal the gunships that we’re going up into those mountains.” It would have helped, Michael Rourke mused, if he had known what he was looking for.
    He looked into the eyes of Fraulein Doctor Maria Leuden, archeologist. What he saw in her eyes—love for him —was not what he was looking for at all. Not now …
    Bjorn Rolvaag stroked Hrothgar behind the ears and the massive animal seemed almost to purr, although purring was
    not something a dog could really do.
    He sat in the back of the vehicle, watching, slightly nervous as he always was in one of these modern contrivances, but less so in this one which bumped and josded over the rocky ground than in those which flew like great ugly birds in the sky. There were birds in Hekla, in aviaries. He understood that they had once flown freely in the skies of the entire earth. A pleasant thing to see, he thought.
    He watched the young man who successfully ignored him, the young man an identical duplicate of his father, the great John Rourke, who seemed at once to ignore everything yet notice everything. The boy and the man —both men, though Rolvaag understood not at all truly how father and son could be well less than a decade apart in ages —were as alike as snowflakes falling from the gray winter sky when viewed at great distance. But he wondered, if like snowflakes when viewed very closely, would differences emerge.
    Bjorn Rolvaag watched Maria Leuden as well. The German was very beautiful, though he considered the trousers she wore, trousers like a man might wear only tighter fitting, to be immodest. And it was evident, when she looked at Michael Rourke, that she loved him. Bjorn Rolvaag somehow felt pity for her because of that. She spoke to him — Rolvaag— in dulcet tones, the words something of which he could understand precious lhtle. But she seemed kind, and her voice was like the sound of melting ice welling up as cool water and breaking free in the spring. She would stroke his dog, Hrothgar, beneath the chin, behind the ears, the careless attention of her fingers something the animal seemed to adore. There was great love in her.
    And for this, he felt all the more the sorry for her. Bjorn Rolvaag closed his eyes, sleeping something that would be required when soon this contraption would no longer be able to go on and they would walk as men were meant to do …
    Maria Leuden huddled inside the coat, but the cold came from within her. She glanced beside her as her gloveless left hand stroked the fur of the mighty animal, wolf-like but so much like a child, eager for affection. Hrothgar showed no sign of sleeping, though his master was apparendy of a different mind. The green clad man of Iceland’s lids masked his eyes and his breathing was regular, even. Despite the jerky movements of the vehicle over the roadless rockstrewn terrain, he seemingly slept. She wished she could.
    Her eyes drifted forward, settling for a moment on Captain Otto Hammerschmidt, his massive shoulders, his gloved hands smothering the steering wheel. But her gaze shifted. Michael Rourke. His head was obscured by the hood of his parka. His shoulders were equally as massive as those of Hammerschmidt, both men together seeming to be dwarfed by the massiveness of Bjorn Rolvaag who, along with his dog, occupied the rear seat. But unlike Rolvaag, Michael showed no signs of being asleep. And unlike Hammerschmidt, there was a tenseness which seemed to radiate from him even when he sat unmoving, an energy waiting to change from its kinetic state at the slightest provocation.
    She had not said to him, “Michael — please make love to me.” But she had let him know in other ways that she wished that he would, would beg that he would if she thought that her entreaties would make him do so. And she felt terribly brazen for this, and at once terribly embarrassed. She had never been what some of the older novels in English which she had read—underground