Ahern, Jerry - The Savage Horde

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.

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.

Chapter 47

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-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

shouted. "Secure the deck gun— prepare to dive!"

Rourke stood up, getting to the cover of the sail, surprised that he could still move.

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.

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?"