Ahern, Jerry - The Savage Horde

"Yes, Comrade colonel," Revnik beamed. Rozhdestvenskiy disliked too much enthusiasm. "And the same with the pistols, Comrade colonel?"

' 'Yes—but only the . automatics—the Smith & Wesson revolvers will not be inventoried since there is no need to house . Special ammunition as well as .. One standard pistol will suit our needs more than adequately. And of course each officer will have his own individual weapon." He patted the Colt Single Action Army under his uniform tunic.

"There must be adequate supplies for all needs, but most especially for the weapons—the individual weapons. For the five thousand M-s we will need there must be

five million rounds of .mm military ball ammo—loaded in the eight hundred round steel containers will be best. These can then be sealed with wax as I've outlined in the master plans for the Womb. One million rounds of the . ACP

ammunition for the one thousand pistols-This can be packed in greater bulk and likewise sealed. I'd suggest metal oil drums perhaps and the original boxes—again, all military ball ammunition,"

"Yes, Comrade colonel."

Rozhdestvenskiy nodded, stepping away from the wall where the rifles leaned and towara the catwalk. He looked below him—men moving equipment—portable generators, arc lights. More men—crates being unloaded from large trucks onto smaller trucks which could be rolled directly aboard the waiting C-s on the airfield two miles away.

"Work goes apace," he commented, leaning on the catwalk railing, swinging his body weight back and forth, feeling what he saw, feeling the power surging up in his blood. "But the pace must be quickened. If all the items are not secured in the Womb in a very, very short period of time, captain—all will have been for naught."

"Yes, Comrade colonel—Comrade?"

"Yes, captain?"

"May I ask, Comrade colonel—why is this being—"

Rozhdestvenskiy felt his smile fade. "The survival of the race, Comrade—the survival of the race."

Rozhdestvenskiy said no more.

Chapter 25

Rourke, Paul Rubenstein and Natalia sat, their eyes transfixed as were the eyes of the submarine's complement not on duty—to the television monitors in the crew mess. It had been the same with San Francisco when they had passed the ruins—watching a city where once people lived now an underwater tomb. With this city it was doubly difficult—a young seaman first class had been born there, lived there—his mother, father, two sisters and wife and son had died there.

But he had insisted on watching—and now he wept.

Not one of the men touched him; Rourke, feeling perhaps like the rest of them, not knowing what to say, to do.

Natalia—wearing a robe borrowed from the captain, moving slowly, her left hand holding at her abdomen where Rourke had made the incisions—stood. Rourke started up after her, but she shook her head, murmuring, "No, John," then walked. She supported herself against the long, spotlessly clean tables, moving to alongside the weeping man.

"I am sorry—for your family—and for you," she whispered, Rourke watching her, watching all the others watching her.

The young man looked up. "Why'd you and your people wanna kill us—we coulda talked it out—or somethin'?"

"I don't know, sailor—I don't know," she whispered.

He looked at her, just shaking his head.

She moved her hands, touching them lightly to his shoulders. He looked down, his neck bent, his shoulders slumping. Natalia took a step toward him, leaning against him to help herself stand, her arms folding around his neck, his head coming to rest against her abdomen.

She closed her eyes as he wept.

Rourke breathed.

Chapter 26

Rourke stood in the sail, the snowflakes thick and large, the temperature barely cold enough for them, he thought. They melted as they reached the backs of his hands on the rail, the knit cuffs of his brown leather bomber jacket, occasionally one of the larger flakes landing on his eyelashes—he would close his eyes for an instant and they would melt.

The flakes melted down from his hair, the melted snow running in tiny rivulets down his forehead and his cheeks—he could feel them.

Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna shivered beside him and he folded his arm around her to give her warmth.

The submarine was moving—through the fjord-like cut in the land and toward the new coastline—it was north central California and beneath the wake the sub's prow cut were the bodies of the dead and cities they had lived in.

' Rourke thought of this—he could not avoid thinking of it ...

There was a bay that had been carved at the far end of the inlet, Commander Gundersen on the sail beside Rourke, Rubenstein and Natalia, in constant radio contact with his bridge for depth soundings of the fjord—it had been created by the megaquakes that had destroyed California beyond the San Andreas faultline on the Night of The War. There were no charts.

'I'm running even at eighteen feet below the waterline—shit,'' and Gundersen looked away from Rourke, snapping into the handset, "Wilkins—this is it—we get ourselves hung up—bad enough we can't dive. All stop, then give me the most accurate soundings you can all through the bay—wanna channel I can stay over where I can dive if I have to. Once you've got that, feed in the coordinates and back her up—you got the con."

"Aye, captain," the voice rattled back.

Gundersen put down the set. "You've been avoiding Captain Cole."

Rourke nodded, saying, "You didn't want a fight on board ship."

"Well—the time has come, hasn't it—let's all get below and talk this out so we know what the hell we're doing, huh?" Gundersen didn't wait for an answer, but retrieved the handset, depressing the push-to-taik button. "Wilkins—Gundersen.

Get that Captain Cole sent over to my cabin in about three minutes."

"He was just up here looking for you, skipper."

"Terrific—well—tell him I'm looking for him."

Gundersen started below, cautioning. "Watch your step, miss," to Natalia. She nodded, starting down the hatchway after him.

Rubenstein caught at Rourke's arm. "We really gonna go through with this?"

"Cole wants those warheads—whether it's just carrying out his orders or for some other reason. Only way we can know is to be there with him when he gets them."

"I was afraid you were gonna say that."

Rourke felt himself smile. "Come on—watch your step. Slippery."

Rubenstein nodded as Rourke looked away—there was more to watch your step about than ice on the sail, Rourke thought.

Chapter 27

The weather had turned cold again—spring was gone. She wondered if it were forever.

The refugee camp a short distance away had been eight days away. She stood now on a low rise, seeing it in the distance. Eight days—large Soviet forces moving into factory towns along the way, brigand concentrations— days of waiting in caves and in the woods—days of rain, of cold.

She shivered, reaching her hands up to tug at the bandanna that covered her hair, to pull it lower over her ears. She folded her arms around herself, hugging herself—but the cold would not go away.

"We can rest here," the gruff-voiced resistance leader announced. Gruff-voiced, she thought, but a warm man, a good man. Pete Critchfield, Bill Mulliner's father's second in command and now the leader by default. But he seemed a good leader, she thought.

She looked behind her—Annie and Millie Jenkins rode the mule, Michael walked beside^

"Stop for a while," she breathed—"the camp's in sight, but a little distance yet."

They were in a field of jagged, carelessly arranged rocks on the rise, mists covering much of the valley, the fine mist coming down on them as well on the rise.