"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-16, 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-16, 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-16 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
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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-16 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.
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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-16, 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-16 ready, the salt spray and foam washing over him. "Doctor
Rourke!"
"Get in," Rourke snarled, taking the sailor's M-16, 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
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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-16 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-16, 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-16, 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-16, 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
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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.
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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.
Rourke pushed his feet under him, dragging the younger man up.
"Paul! Paul!"
"I'm—all—aww, shit—all right," he coughed, doubling over with the spasm.
Blood pumped from the head wound at his right temple.
Gunfire near him. Rourke wheeled, still supporting Rubenstein but nearly losing
his balance, the knife in his left fist going forward.
It was Cole. "Come on, Rourke—give ya a hand with Rubenstein there!"
Rourke looked at Cole, his left fist bunching on the knife—"All right," Rourke
snapped. "Where the hell were you when—"
"Trapped in the rocks—tell ya later!" And Cole grabbed at Rubenstein, slinging
Rubenstein's left arm across his shoulders, starting toward the remaining rubber
boat, the boat already visibly overloaded with the survivors of the destroyed
craft as Rourke started after them.
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Bullets—strays, the distance too great for aimed fire from the lower elevation
of the beach—pinged against the hull of the submarine, Rourke taking Gundersen's
right hand in his, letting Gundersen help him up from the rubber boat.
He had been the last man, his arms sore, numbed with cold from the paddling of
the rubber boat, helping to fight against the breakers and reach the submarine,
the boat so low in the water that the packed survivors had scooped water with
their hands as each wave broke, swamping them.
"Doctor Rourke—I see why the president wanted you for this thing with the
warheads—-you should have been a field commander."
"War is stupid—fighting's necessary," Rourke answered, his voice a monotone—he
was exhausted and knew it.
He shivered, crouching on the missile deck from the sporadic fire as the rubber
boat was hauled up.
Gunderson, in cover behind the base of the sail, shouted, "Who the hell gave the
order to open fire on the beach there—should court martial him—or give him a
medal!"
The voice was quiet and Rourke looked up to the top of the sail. She held an
M-16 in her hands, a half unconscious looking sailor standing beside her,
leaning on the rail.
"I did, commander."
Rourke watched Gundersen's eyes. "If your doctor says it's okay, I'll buy you a
drink, Major Tiemerovna—soon as we get this boat under the surface." Then
Gundersen
165
Rourke stood up, getting to the cover of the sail, surprised that he could still
move.
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Chapter 48
The "drink" had devolved to a glass of orange juice; Natalia sitting in her
borrowed bathrobe beside Rourke in the officers' mess, Rourke feeling the
pressure of her left hand on his right thigh through the blanket he had wrapped
around him over his wet clothes. He sipped at his coffee—it was hot, almost
scaldingly so—good to feel in his throat and stomach.
Gundersen walked in, sitting down, removing his cap and setting it on the table.
"Doctor Milton says Paul Rubenstein is going to be fine—Rubenstein remembers
trying to grapple with that wildman who overturned the boat—the butt of the
man's machete took care of him. Milton doesn't think there's anything serious
but he's keeping Rubenstein confined to bed for the next twenty-four hours just
in case of mild concussion. Said you could check, but there really wasn't the
need."
"He need any help with—"
"The wounded—Pharmacists Mate Kelly is patching up the lesser wounds, and Milton
seems to feel he has the more serious cases under control. Those two survivors
of the crucifixions—lots of cuts, bruises, lacerations—the only serious wound
was Cole's man who got it in the knee—that knee's gonna keep him out of action
for a long time, but should heal satisfactorily—at least that's Milton's
preliminary diagnosis."
"Good," Rourke nodded.
Rourke looked across the table, at the far end to his left—Cole sat there,
smoking, nursing a cup of coffee.
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Rourke said nothing to him.
"Gentlemen—and major," Gundersen began. "We're going to have to find another
area to try another penetration. The boat's ammo stores are seriously depleted,
and more importantly the manpower. We lost six dead, have fourteen wounded in
all."
"What about the wildmen we took prisoner?"
"Disassembled their cot springs, used them to slash their wrists—Milton nearly
saved one of them, but the blood loss was too great." Gundersen sighed hard.
"Suicide—what kind of people are these with such total disregard for their own
lives—those attacks—they were suicide charges—I heard about them from the men in
Korea years ago."
Rourke lit one of his dark tobacco cigars, his lighter too wet still to use,
using a match instead. "Did Milton check the bodies for abnormal radiation
levels?"
Gundersen nodded, then, "He thought of that too—maybe a death wish because th
ey
figured they were dying anyway. He autopsied one of the men while the battle was
going on out there—aside from bizarre diet—nuts, berries, things like that, the
man was perfectly normal. Physically," Gundersen added.
Cole, his voice odd, detached sounding, interjected, "We've still gotta get to
those warheads—the hell with those wildmen or whatever they are—"
"Barbarism," Rourke interrupted. "Civilized men sunk to barbarism—so short a
time. Some religion—has to be. They kept shouting, 'Kill the heathens.' Kept
shouting it over and over. Half civilized, half savage—that business with the
crosses, then burning people. My guess there's some leader who organized these
people—survivors of the Night of The War, maybe a religious cult before then."
"There were many crazy religious cults in California—warrior religions and
things like that," Natalia murmured. "Before the Night of The War—in KGB, there
were plans to infiltrate some of the cults, perhaps use them to start civil
unrest—Vladmir—"
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"Vladmir?" Gundersen asked.
"My husband—he is dead. He—he, ahh—he believed that if the people of the United