Ahern, Jerry - The Savage Horde

She looked at the M-the young man held, not to guard her but to guard the sail, to secure the submarine from possible boarders. There were nearly a dozen more men on the deck, bundled in peacoats, white sailors caps tucked down on their heads, M-rifles in their hands.

"Sailor—what did Commander Gundersen instruct you to do if the shore party couldn't get back?"

"He told the exec to pull out, ma'am—least that's what I hear, ma'am."

"What if the shore party is coming back, but under fire?"

"We're to guard the deck, ma'am—that's it."

"Not return fire to cover them."

"Against orders, ma'am," and he smiled.

She smiled at him, too, judging his height, his weight—if he fell, how could she best keep his head from cracking against the rail or on the steel plating of the sail's deck?

She edged slightly closer to him, her eyes watching the rocks, flashes of gunfire visible there in the darkness and flashes of—she couldn't tell what.

There was a dull sounding roar, like the waves against the beach, but more indistinct—like a human chant.

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.