The Savage Horde s-6 Page 12

  Natalia shivered again, waiting.

  Chapter 42

  Rourke walked backward, pumping short bursts from the M-toward the advancing horde of wildmen—they were firing back, perhaps galvanized by the loss of life their ranks had suffered, galvanized to fight as a unit and the gunfire was having some effect. One of Gundersen's landing party was down, dead, the body being carried slung in a fireman's carry by one of the other sailors, still another wounded in the left arm, but firing an M-with his right.

  Gundersen was running, back toward Rourke as Rourke turned to see how close they were to the far side of the ridgeline. "I'm already getting my men down with those two crucified men—got three more helping them, then to get the inflatable ready and into the surf."

  "They're gonna pick us off as we climb down the rocks on the far side," Rourke told Gundersen matter-of-factly. "Unless we break up—Paul can take three men and so can I—fire and maneuver elements to cover the rest of you getting down."

  "Where the hell is Cole anyway?"

  "Don't know," Rourke shrugged. He didn't care either. As long as the man wasn't guarding his back.

  "All right—do like you suggested—pick your own men."

  "Paul," Rourke shouted, the younger man firing a burst toward the wildmen, the wildmen moving in the !ow rocks on the top of the ridge, firing, advancing, firing.

  "Paul!"

  "Yeah!"

  "Pick three men—fire and maneuver—take 'em as close to the edge there as you can, cover me until I get my men back twenty-five yards, then we'll lay down fire and you move back."

  "Gotchya," Rubenstein called back.

  As Rourke grabbed one of the sailors by the arm, then gestured to two more, Gundersen, already running ahead to get the rest of the men down, shouted, "Good luck!"

  Rourke looked after him, but said nothing.

  Chapter 43

  Rubenstein rammed a fresh stick into his liberated M-, the rifle coming up to his shoulder, one of his three man squad to his left, the other two behind and slightly above him.

  He looked to his right—the edge of the ridge was perhaps a foot and one-half away, perhaps less, the rocks below jagged, dark, unremitting, he thought.

  To fall into them—

  "All right," he shouted to his men. "When I open up, hold it to three round burst—maximum—pick specific targets or we'll run out of ammunition before we hit the beach and we'll need plenty to keep them off our backs while we load the boats. Everybody ready!"

  It was a command, not a question—he smiled, amused at himself. He had never served in any army, but since the Night of The War considered himself objectively a veteran, of much combat.

  These three sailors—they looked to him, though all his own age, certainly little younger. They looked to him.

  Leadership.

  He settled the butt of the M-into the hollow in his right shoulder, his right elbow slightly elevated.

  A man moved among the rocks, then another and another behind him. Gunfire was starting again. He squeezed the trigger of the M-, letting it go forward almost instantly.

  A perfect three round burst. He made another, then another, bodies falling behind his front sight. He found

  himself laughing as he fired—insanity? He had no time to consider that, he realized.

  "Trigger control!" He shouted at the man next to him who'd let off seven shots in a burst. As he fired again, he laughed again, murmuring it to himself as well. "Trigger control—trigger control—trigger—"

  Chapter 44

  Rourke pushed himself up, firing, Rubenstein's fire team under heavy assault rifle fire from the rocks above, on the last leg of the fight toward the beach—a fight it appeared they might lose, Rourke realized. There would be enough firepower to hold the wildmen back until they reached the surf, but unless a fireteam remained behind to cover the withdrawal, it would be hopeless—the boats would be shot out of the water.

  Rourke pumped the Ms trigger, even three-round bursts nailing anonymous figures in the darkness, snow still falling in heavy flakes, the skin of his bare hands on the M-'s pistol grip cold.

  "Come on, Paul!"

  Rubenstein's three men hit the beach, Rubenstein still in the rocks, firing.

  - Rourke ordered his own men. "Those three—join 'em and set up a firebase to cover loading the boats," and Rourke started to run, back into the rocks, Rubenstein pinned down now.

  As he reached the edge of the rock field, he looked up—the wildmen were coming, seemingly uncaring of their own lives, coming. Rubenstein's rifle was blazing a hundred yards up in the rocks, glints of ricocheting bullets striking sparks in the night on the rocks around him.

  Suddenly, Rubenstein's rifle stopped.

  "Changing sticks," Rourke rasped, upping his pace, clambering over the rocks.

  There was still no fire from Paul's position.

  "Paul!"

  Rourke screamed the name.

  "Paul!"

  "Go back, John—I'm outa ammo!"

  Rourke quickened his pace still more, running across the flat rock surfaces, jumping from one to the next, then climbing again, narrowing the distance to fifty yards. He began firing, at targets of opportunity, shadows among the rocks, running as he fired, to draw the enemy fire and give Paul the chance to run for it.

  "Paul!"

  The younger man—Rourke could see him, up, running, one of the wildmen hurtling himself from the rocks. Rourke wingshot him with a three round burst, the body missing its landing, its purchase, falling, tumbling across the rocks, a scream echoing as the body soared past him.

  Paul had his rifle inverted, the buttstock forward, swinging it, two more of the wildmen coming for him. Rourke watched as Rubenstein swatted one of the men away, then fired as the second man made to shoot, the body sprawling back.

  "Paul!"

  "Save yourself," Rubenstein shouted as he jumped, missed his footing and skidded.

  Rourke couldn't see his friend for an instant, then the younger man was up again, running, the rifle gone somehow.

  Rourke made to fire, one of the wildmen leapfrogging to the rocks less than three yards behind Paul, a machete in his upraised right hand.

  The M-sputtered once and it was empty.

  "Shit!" Rourke rasped—it had been his last loaded magazine.

  He started up into the rocks, still brandishing the rifle, but the rifle all but useless.

  Heavy fire—too heavy, was coming from the beach below, up into the night toward the ridgeline.

  "Fools," he snapped—they would burn up the last of their ammo.

  He glanced behind him once, into the surf—one of the boats was already away.

  "Paul! Hurry it up!"

  "I'm trying, damnit!" Rubenstein stopped on the flat slab of rock, Rourke watching as the younger man wheeled, his hands reaching out, shoving at the chest of the machete wielding wildman, throwing him back, off balance, the man falling.

  Rourke had scrounged all the ammo from partially expended magazines—he had nine rounds left, all in the Detonics pistols, six in one, three in the other.

  He reached for the Hghest loaded gun now, dropping the M-into the rocks, hearing as it skidded away and fell. He thumbed back the hammer with his left hand, aiming the Detonics as one of the wildmen came up on Paul, Rubenstein less than ten yards away, the wildman holding an assault rifle. Rourke fired, the man going down.

  "Get his gun! Get his gun, Paul!"

  Rourke started edging back, covering the younger man as he disappeared among the rocks a moment, then returned with an M-and two magazines, jumping from the nearest rock, now less than three yards from Rourke.

  The younger man started to shoulder the rifle, Rourke shouting, "Save it—we'll need it later!" Rourke started to run, retracing his steps along the recks, slippery under foot as the snow continued to fall.

  Two boats were away now—Rourke
could see them battling the rolls and swells trying to get off the beach.

  He stared out to sea—the dark silhouette of the submarine was visible, perhaps two hundred yards from shore—a good rifleman or a leader with good men under him could lay down a field of fire into the rocks covering the withdrawal from the beach—perhaps O'Neal would get to the decks in time, or Gundersen. At the distance, accuracy would be nil, but heavy concentrations of fire aimed high enough to provide against bullet drop—it might work. He jumped the last rock, half sprawling into the sand as a burst of assault rifle from above powdered the rock beside him.

  Rubenstein was firing, a three round burst, then another, a scream coming from the darkness as Rourke pitched himself to his feet and started to run to join the fire teams.

  He looked behind him once—the wildmen were filling the rocks—coming, inexorably coming.

  Chapter 45

  It had been coming on toward sunrise for some time, the darkness turning to grayness, and in the grayness, she could see the wildmen—wildmen the prisoners had looked like, the returning men had described. She could see them swarming down through the rocks perhaps two hundred yards away.

  "Sailor—I'm sorry," she smiled, her right hand snapping out in a knife edge, the heel hammering against the man's throat with calculated force—disorient him, perhaps knock him out—not to kill. His body stumbled, slipped, her-left hand catching at the M-, her right hand snaking toward his neck, easing his fall, her abdomen aching badly where the incision was as she stooped to ease him down.

  She stood, her breath coming in short gasps with the pain. She shrugged, the blanket falling from her head and shoulders completely now, only the arctic parka and the robe to keep her against the cold.

  She'winked a snowflake from her left eyelash, then eared back the bolt on the M-, letting it fly forward. The nearest of the rubber boats was still more than fifty yards from the submarine.

  She stepped to the rail, pointing the M-skyward, firing a short three-round burst, her selector set to full auto.

  Faces—the sailors on the deck, turned toward her.

  ' Those men in the boats—the ones still on the beach—they'll never make it if we don't do something. We can fire into the rocks, fire high so we won't hit our own

  men—lay down heavy fire. Three round bursts—keep it pouring in there—please!"

  The faces were blank, or at best puzzled.

  "Like this," and she snapped the rifle to her shoulder, firing over the railing toward the rocks beyond the beach.

  She returned the muzzle to the rail, resting it there. "Like this—we can do it."

  "Orders, ma'am," one voice called up to her. "We ain't sposed t'fire."

  "Sailor," she almost whispered. "I'll kill the first man who doesn't—those are your comrades out there—only you can save them."

  Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna shouldered the M-again, her abdomen hurting badly from the unaccustomed exertion.

  She pointed the flash deflectored muzzle at the sailor who had spoken.

  He looked at her for an instant longer. "Where's Harriman, ma'am?"

  "I knocked him out so I could steal his gun."

  "Yes, ma'am," and then the sailor—she couldn't tell the rank, turned to the men who stared at her from a missile deck. "You heard the lady—if we're gonna disobey orders, may's well do a fucking good job of it!" And he looked up at Natalia.

  "Scuse the language, ma'am."

  "Think nothing of it, sailor," she smiled.

  "Yes, ma'am," and he shouted again then. "Four of us up in the bow—two more up there with the lady, the rest on the starboard side—shoot high!" The sailor started to sprint across the missile deck, then suddenly all the men were moving.

  Natalia, her abdomen still paining her, but warmth filling her suddenly, threw the rifle to her shoulder.

  She could see no targets, but she could see the last defenders on the beach from their muzzle flashes. She aimed high, firing into the gray swirling snow.

  Chapter 46

  Rourke looked over his shoulder, out toward the submarine's silhouette in the grayness and the swirling snow. There had been rifle fire—starting moments earlier. And now there was the fire of a deck gun, heavy sounding in caliber, silhouetted figures in the rocks above falling.

  He glanced to Rubenstein, then to the six men around him.

  "Let's catch those last two boats—come on!" He pushed himself up, starting to run across the sand, some of the wildmen now down from the rocks, pursuing him as he looked back, Rubenstein firing out the liberated M-, nailing two of the men, then ramming the muzzle of the empty weapon into a third man's chest, leaving the man and the empty rifle lying in the sand.

  Rourke splashed into the surf, the one man who'd remained with the boats hunkered down, his M-ready, the salt spray and foam washing over him. "Doctor Rourke!"

  "Get in," Rourke snarled, taking the sailor's M-, shouldering it and firing into the pursuing wildmen, covering for Rubenstein and the others.

  "I only got the one clip, doctor!"

  "Shit,*' Rourke snarled, firing another three round burst. He judged he had fifteen rounds remaining.

  Rubenstein and the six sailors were coming, running into the surf, Rourke's legs freezing as the water soaked through his jeans, his boots. He fired again, switched to semiautomatic on the selector, pumping a single round into a wildman firing a riot shotgun. The man's body flopped backward into the surf.

  Rubenstein ran for the body, snatching up the riot shotgun, firing point blank into the chest of another of the wildmen, then running for the rubber boats.

  Rourke rolled himself over the fabric side and over the gunwales, prone now in the prow, firing the M-single shot. "Cast her off somebody,** Rourke shouted, one of the six sailors hacking the rope with a jackknife, the rubber boat rolling up on a breaker, Rourke steadying his aim, nailing another of the wildmen.

  Rubenstein's boat was casting off as well, the ends of the ropes that had secured the rubber boats to the shoreline floating on the foam near the rocks to which they were secured.

  There was a boom, Rubenstein firing the riot shotgun, wildmen pursuing into the surf, Rourke firing the M-, heavy gunfire from the submarine and the roaring of the surf all but deafening Rourke as he pushed himself up to his knees, spray lashing at his face, the icy cold of it making him shiver. He fought to control his hands, firing again, killing another of the wildmen.

  He heard the shout—"John!"

  Rubenstein's boat—the waves flooded over it, Rubenstein and the others rolling out, the boat upended. Rourke pumped the M-, killing the man near the upended boat, the man giant-sized, his right hand hacking down with a machete as he stood in the surf, the compressed air of the rubber boat exploding out of the water, Rourke pumping the trigger of the M-, once, then once again, then once more, the wildman's body slapping forward across the torn hulk of the rubber boat.

  Rubenstein—Rourke could barely see his head bobbing in the waves, then suddenly Rubenstein was up, standing, the water chest high, a wave slapping him down—gone again, Rourke stripped his bomber jacket away and the shoulder rig for the twin Detonics pistols, his left hand

  freeing the belt holster with the Python as he dove into the water, his, body going flat to avoid hitting bottom, the breakers fighting him as he started toward his friend.

  He pushed up, the salt spray pelting his face, his body racked with shivers from the chill of the water. More of the wildmen, on the beach, running into the surf. Rourke grabbed for the A.G. Russell knife inside his waistband, the little Sting IA black chrome coming into his palm as the nearest of the wildmen—spear in hand—lunged, Rourke's right fist feigned as he got to his feet in the water, his left snaking out in a straight arm thrust, the spear pointed knife, its steel shimmering in the water, biting deep into the wildman's throat.

  The water ran blood red as the body flopped down. Rourke searched the
surface—no Rubenstein. He ducked down, diving below the surface, his free right hand reaching to the bottom. Though it was nearly sunrise, the gray lightening above the surface, below the surface of the water, the swirling waves above him, tearing at him, it was dark.

  A shape—darker thari the rest. He started toward it, a machete breaking the water, the blade arcing past his face, inches away. He pushed himself up, two of the wildmen, one stabbing into the water with a spear, the second with the machete. Rourke lunged for the man with the machete, the long bladed knife slicing air past his throat, Rourke pulling back.

  Gunfire, the man with the machete going down. Rourke looked to his right, toward the beach.

  "Cole!"

  He shouted the word, half a blessing, half a curse. Cole was running across the beach, his assault rifle spitting tongues of orange flame into the wildmen there.

  The second wildman in the water—the one with the spear —turned toward Rourke, feining with the spear, then suddenly toppling back.

  Rubenstein—the younger man, the right side of his temple dripping blood, stumbled forward into the water.

  Rourke reached for him, the spearman thrusting again, Rourke wrenching the battered High Power from the holster across Rubenstein's chest, the gun empty he knew. The wildman took a step back, made to throw the spear, Rourke underhanded the knife from his left hand, the knife traveling the six feet separating them, imbedding to the base of the blade into the wildman's chest. Rourke dove toward the man, the High Power inverted in his right hand, the butt hammering down across the bridge of the wildman's nose, the skull there seeming to split.

  Rourke fell back into the water, the knife's handle in his left hand as he wrenched the blade free.

  He stood, a breaker crashing against him, knocking him back. He saw Rubenstein just as he went under, twisting his body against the force of the water, half throwing himself toward his friend. The bloodied pistol in his belt, his right hand free he reached—a short collar—the harness of the shoulder rig—he had Rubenstein.