Ahern, Jerry - The Savage Horde

"Used to be a beautiful part of the world," Rourke nodded.

"Used to be—not now. It's a bloodbath ovei there—and a lot of radiation, I understand. You know, being a submarine commander and having a nuclear war—I feel like that guy in the book."

"But this isn't Australia," Rourke smiled.

"No—but I wonder. The icepack advancing— understand the weather up above," and he jerked his thumb upward., "has been pretty screwy. End of the world?"

"Maybe," Rourke shrugged.

"You said that awful casually," Gundersen said, lighting a cigarette.

"Yeah—maybe I did. If it is, I can't stop it. Just try to survive it after I find my family."

"Wife and two children, right?"

"Right," Rourke answered. "What are Cole's orders?"

"Pretty much like I imagine he told you. Find this air base if it is still there—supposed to be. We get you in as close as we can, then shanks mare all the way and Cole uses whatever available transportation there is to get the warheads out and back to the submarine. Then we deliver them to U.S. II Headquarters or wherever—that last part hasn't been spelled out yet. I guess it will be."

"What do you do after that?"

"I don't know. Keep going. We can run for a long time yet—a long time.

Provisions should hold up for a long time as well. Then I guess we'll die like everybody else if the world ends. I don't know. Can't plan too far in advance these days."

"What do you think about Cole?"

"He's a prick—but he's got the President's signature on his written orders. I can't argue with that."

"Do you trust him?"

"No—but he's got orders and I'm supposed to help him carry them out. I disarmed you and your Mr. Rubenstein simply to keep the peace. We get topside, regardless of what Cole says, I'll re-arm you both. Can't have you guys shooting holes in my submarine, though—my engineer complains like an old lady about it. See," and Gundersen jerked his thumb upward again, smiling, "the roof leaks."

"Ohh," Rourke nodded. "Wouldn't have suspected that."

Gundersen laughed, leaning forward, gesturing with his cigarette. "To answer your question before you ask—I've got no plans at all for Major Tiemerovna.

She's a pretty woman—I think the guys giving blood and everything to keep her alive pretty much caused my crew to look at her that way, not as a Communist agent. She minds her manners once she's up and around and as far as I'm concerned, she's free as a bird. I understand she was pretty heroic herself when—the Florida thing. Jesus—" and Gundersen inhaled hard on the cigarette, the tip glowing brightly near the flesh of his yellowed first finger and thumb.

"Yeah—she was. Saved a lot of American lives. Saved a lot of lives period."

"I'm not planning to rearm Major Tiemerovna, though—I realize she's a loyal Russian and I guess that's just as it should be. And I'm not inviting her unescorted onto the bridge, into the torpedo rooms, the reactor room—anywhere sensitive. Couldn't risk her opening a torpedo tube on us and sending us to the bottom. Not that I'm saying necessarily that she would."

"She would if she had to," Rourke smiled.

"Exactly—but beyond that, I don't care what Cole wants. She stays on my ship, my word's-lhe law here, not his."

"Thank you," Rourke nodded.

"I got a present for you—figured you might use it—I can't anymore."

Gundersen got up, walked across his room to his desk and sat down behind it.

Rourke stood up, following him, stopping then in front of the desk. From a large locked drawer, Gundersen produced a black leather pouch, snapped closed with a brass fitting. He opened the pouch—inside it were six Detonics stainless magazines, the

magazines empty as Rourke looked more closely, the magazines ranked side by side, floorplates up.

"I've seen these," Rourke commented, shifting the cigar along his teeth into the left corner of his mouth.

"It's called a 'Six Pack'—Milt Sparks made 'em before the Night of The War.

Mostly for Government Models, but I had him make one for my Detonics. But then I lost the gun—it fell out of my belt and went overboard. Without the gun, the magazines are useless. So, unless I can trade you out of one of yours, you may as well have it."

"Thank you," Rourke nodded, turning the heavy black leather Six Pack over in his hands. "You can't trade me out of one of my Detonics pistols."

"Sort of figured that—use it in good health—ha," and Gundersen laughed.

Rourke got the joke.

Chapter 19

John Rourke sat quietly, listening. What he listened to was the regular sound of Natalia's breathing. She was still sleeping. He had sat beside the bed for nearly an hour, ever since leaving Gundersen. Paul was being shown about the submarine—Rourke had postponed the grand tour until later. He had wanted to think, and the quiet of Natalia's room in sick bay had been the best place, he'd thought.

What would happen when he found Sarah and the children?

He had not thought of an answer—for over the weeks since the Night of The War and his meeting with Natalia he had formed new bonds, in some ways stronger bonds than he had ever had. There was Paul Rubenstein—once a man who could do nothing for himself, now a man who could do most things—and most things well.

There was Natalia herself—Rourke looked at her, her eyelids fluttering. She was awakening.

He stood up, walked to beside her bed and touched her, reaching out his left hand to her left shoulder.

Her eyes opened, the brilliance of the blue somehow deeper in the gray light of the room.

A smile tracked on her lips, her voice odd sounding. She whispered, "I love you," then closed her eyes.

John Rourke stood beside the bed for a time, watching her as she slept.

Chapter 20

Sarah Rourke rammed the fresh thirty-round magazine into the M-—for one of the thousands of times since she'd acquired the gun, she was grateful the previous owner (a brigand) had somehow gotten hold of the selective fire weapon. She pumped the trigger, making a professional three-round-burst—she was a professional by now, she realized. The nearest brigand biker fell back. But there were more coming.

The first attack in the early morning had waned quickly, and since then there had been sporadic gunfire from the other side of the field, but the distance too great. Then had come the second attack—a dead-on assault across the field. Her own weapon firing, Mary Mulliner firing the AR-and the hired hand—old Tim Beachwood—firing his own rifle—they had repelled the attack.

Beachwood was in the front of the house now, his rifle booming and audible over the roar of gunfire. "Michael!" Sarah shouted. "Go up and see if Tim needs anything—hurry but stay low."

"Right," the boy called out, then—as she looked back—he was gone. Annie, just six, sat under the heavy kitchen table, chairs stacked between the open wall side and herself just visible as Sarah looked for her. She was loading magazines for the Colt rifles. Her counting wasn't perfect yet, and as Sarah had fired through some of the

magazines counting her shots with the bursts, she'd found magazines with thirty rounds, twenty-seven rounds, twenty-eight and even one that somehow the child had forced an extra round into—thirty-one, Sarah pumped another burst, missing the brigand firing from the back of a fast moving pickup truck. "Annie—keep those magazines coming," Sarah called out.

"I'm hurrying, Mommie!"

"Good girl," Sarah called back. She was the unofficial leader—she realized that.

Old Tim Beachwood had said it right after the shooting started. "I never fought no war," he'd said. "Too old for the last one—way too old for this one. But I hunted all my life—you point me the right winder and I'll start a killin'!"