The Savage Horde

by neetha Napew

Her own children—Michael and Annie—played with Millie, the daughter of the

  ill-fated Jenkins couple. She smiled at the word—what did "Ill-fated?" mean? Was

  she ill-fated? The children played with the Mulliner dog, they laughed and ran.

  Ill-fated.

  John—

  She squeezed her thighs tight together, feeling self-conscious suddenly sitting

  there on the porch steps, smoothing the borrowed blue skirt over her knees and

  then hugging her knees up against her chest, almost but not quite resting her

  chin on them.

  She studied her hands—the nails were short, shorter than she'd ever kept them.

  But cycling the slide of a .45—she seemed to remember cycling was the correct

  word—was hard on the nails. Hers had all but broken and she had filed them down.

  But at least underneath the nails she was clean—it had been a long time before

  she'd been able to keep them clean.

  She heard the humming of a song, realizing almost absently that she herself was

  humming it—a song she had danced to with John. At their wedding. The photo was

  waterstained, bent, almost unrecognizable. But it was smoothed now inside a

  Bible in Mary Mulliner's house, in the bedroom Sarah used. And Sarah opened the

  Bible

  36

  frequently—not for the words there which Mary Mulliner had told her would

  comfort her, but for the picture being pressed there. John in his tuxedo,

  herself in her wedding dress. She smiled—trying to remember how many yards of

  material had been in the skirt.

  She hugged her knees again. It was still early enough in the day—perhaps Mary's

  son would return with news of successfully contacting U.S. II and finding her

  husband. How many days had she told herself that? '

  Again, she contemplated the word "ill-fated"—she had thought of it a great deal.

  37

  Chapter 8

  Varakov stood beyond the abandoned astronomy museum, on the spot of land, the

  rocks beyond it separating him from Lake Michigan. For once it was not too cold,

  though he had yet to find himself able to describe the lake wind as warm.

  "Comrade general?"

  General Ishmael Varakov recognized the voice—warm, athletic, resonating—somehow

  just the thought of Colonel Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy made his feet hurt all the

  more.

  "Yes, colonel." He still did not turn around.

  "Have there been any private communiques from your niece, Major Tiemerovna,

  Comrade general?"

  "No—she is involved in an operation of the most delicate nature even as we

  speak."

  "The Eden Project, Comrade general? For this is the prerogative of the KGB and a

  KGB agent involved in research on this matter should be under my direct control

  rather than that of the Army—"

  "I have put her on detached duty to my specific command, colonel—she is

  responsible only to me. As is the nature of her sensitive mission."

  "Infiltrating the American resistance perhaps?"

  "Colonel—you can make as many lateral references as you wish—but I will divulge

  no further information at this time. Suffice it to say, her mission is on behalf

  of the

  38

  welfare of all."

  "Comrade general—though such an action would grieve me greatly, if no news of

  the major's activities is forthcoming, I shall be left with no other choice than

  to contact Moscow."

  "I am sure you have already contacted Moscow, colonel—were I in your position,

  that is exactly what I should do. If Moscow becomes sufficiently worried, I will

  be contacted regarding the matter. In the meantime—"

  "Yes, Comrade general?"

  "I come here for a few moments of solitude, colonel—" Varakov began to walk, the

  wind, he reasoned, drowning out the click of the heels from Rozhdestvenskiy's

  spit-shined boots.

  Varakov repeated the words he had used to describe Natalia's mission—but this

  time to the wind rather than the commander of the North American KGB—"She is

  involved in an operation of the most delicate nature." He smiled, his feet

  hurting though to the point where he was ready to sit down. "Delicate operation

  indeed."

  39

  Chapter 9

  Whole blood—and while hers was being typed, Rourke had coordinated with the

  ship's doctor, Rourke already working with transfusions for the injured trooper

  who, like Natalia, but less in real danger, had lost too much blood.

  He looked at the name tag on the pharmacist mate's white jacket. "Kelly—get the

  blood pressure cuff inflated to one hundred millimeters of mercury so I can

  distend and locate the vessels."

  Rourke began the same procedure with the soldier—there had been no time to

  change the man, Rourke for the first time read his name from the sewn tag on the

  fatigues. "Henderson—if you can hear me, you son of a bitch, we're gonna save

  your life now." Rourke secured the velcro closures on the blood pressure cuff,

  then started pumping air. He ran his hand along the inside of the forearm,

  selecting a likely looking vein. He pumped up a little more so he wouldn't lose

  it.

  "You ready, Kelly?"

  "Yes, Doctor," the pharmacist's mate answered. "I never did a direct transfusion

  before."

  "You'll get the hang of it," Rourke nodded. "Got the tube in?" He looked but

  didn't wait for an answer. "Secure that with some adhesive tape," then he looked

  at the donor. An ordinary seaman—his name was White. "Mr. White, I'd be lying if

  I said this won't hurt at

  40

  all—kind of a numbing sensation. We're just gonna get a pint or so from you.

  Afterward, in case I forget—go He down, get some orange juice into you. And

  thanks for volunteering."

  "Yes, sir," the seaman nodded, not looking at the tube now extending from his

  arm.

  Rourke cranked down the table on which the injured man—Henderson—was lying, to

  get a better flow. He made the veinapuncture on Henderson's forearm, readying

  the tube—it was already filling, nearing the end. As it did, Rourke attached the

  tubing to the needle, his left hand already starting to deflate the blood

  pressure cuff on Henderson's arm.

  "Losing a little pressure in White's blood pressure cuff, Doctor," Kelly

  murmured.

  "Mr. Kelly—then get it back up—I need pressure until we're completed. Sing out

  and have that next donor ready."

  Rourke heard a door opening behind him, glanced over his shoulder—it was the

  ship's doctor—He tried to remember the name. Milton, he thought.

  "Doctor Rourke—we typed her at 0 positive—lucky for her it wasn't a negative RH

  factor. I'm getting as many five hundred millih'ter size transfusion bags made

  up as I can."

  "You've got filters for clot removal?" Rourke asked automatically.

  "Yes—we're getting the tubing ready now as soon as we wheel her in."

  Kelly again. "Doctor—Doctor Rourke I mean—we're at twenty drops per minute—"

  "Hold the rate of transfusion there for ten minutes." There was more noise

  behind him, then he noticed Doctor Milton was gone.

  Rourke glanced at the clock on the wall—he gave Natalia another fifteen minutes

  at best. "Doctor Mil
ton,"

  41

  he shouted- "She ready yet?"

  He heard the door open behind him into the smalter~of-the two surgery rooms.

  "Yes—just now, Doctor Rourke."

  "Why don't you finish up this man—Kelly's set for the next donor." Rourke moved

  aside, letting Milton take over for him, walking toward the swinging door,

  another pharmacist's mate there, scrubbed, helping Rourke as he degloved, then

  regtoved.

  "I'm getting started stitching this man's lips," Milton called out.

  "I'll begin work then," Rourke nodded, not looking. He stepped into the second

  and larger surgery. Two men with medical training attended the table, neither of

  them a surgical nurse, neither really a pharmacist's mate either. "Get that

  pharmacist's mate—Kelly—get him in here quick," Rourke called out, again not

  looking—his eyes were riveted on Natalia. He knew it was anesthesia working on

  her now—that she wasn't dead—not yet.

  He approached the operating table, hearing the door swing to behind him.

  "It's Kelly, Doctor."

  Rourke nodded. "Let's start those transfusion bags." He glanced at the chart

  Milton had begun, then at Natalia's blood pressure—it was falling too fast.

  42

  Chapter 10

  "What's the name of this boat anyway?"

  "Well, Mr. Rubenstein—you've got the terminology right. We call her a boat. I

  guess calling her a "her" is kinda dumb—but it's tradition. She's the U.S.S.

  John Paul Jones."

  "How'd you know my name?" Rubenstein asked the older man sitting across from him

  at the officer's mess table. Rubenstein looked at the radiation badge he'd been

  given as soon as he'd come aboard. No name appeared on it.

  "My business to know everything that goes on aboard this boat—" The man smiled,

  extending his hand. "I'm Bob Gundersen—Commander Gundersen, sort of an

  affectionate title the men use with me. Sometimes they just call me Captain,

  though."

  Rubenstein took the hand—it was warm, dry—solid.

  "My friends call me Paul, Commander."

  "Paul it is then—"

  Rubenstein wished again he'd not given up smoking years earlier. "If you know

  everything that goes on on this ship, then tell me how Natalia's doing?"

  "Major Tiemerovna?" He glanced at his watch—Rubenstein noticed it was a Rolex

  like Rourke wore. "Dr. Rourke started transfusing blood into her about ten

  minutes ago. He may be operating by now—I don't know that."

  43

  "I wish John weren't—"

  "Doctor Rourke?"

  "Yeah—John. I wish he weren't. I remember reading something once that doctors

  aren't supposed to operate on family members—or people they're close to. Too

  much of a stress situation."

  "I asked Doctor Rourke the same thing myself," Gundersen nodded, sipping at his

  coffee. "He said he'd checked with our doctor—Harvey Milton. Doctor Milton told

  Rourke he'd never worked on a gunshot wound before. He hadn't. He's fresh out of

  medical school two years ago and before the Night of The War at least, we didn't

  have many gunshot wounds in the Navy. Now, of course, we don't really have a

  Navy at all. All the surface ships are gone or at least gone out of contact. Not

  many of us in the pigboat fleet left either."

  "Pigboats?"

  "Old submariner's term—real old. But I'm an old submariner," Gundersen smiled.

  "Guess that's why it doesn't bother me to use it. Naw, but—ahh—anyway, Dr.

  Milton never had worked on gunshot wounds before and your friend Doctor Rourke

  said he had. Guess there wasn't much choice. Bumped into Milton outside the sick

  bay just before Rourke began transfusing Major Tiemer-ovna—Milton seemed to

  think Rourke was good. Only hope Harvey was right."

  "Harvey?"

  "Doctor Milton's first name—"

  "Ohh—oh, yeah," Rubenstein nodded.

  "Brought this along—figured you might be needing it. Sometimes the waiting gets

  harder than the doing." From the seat beside him Gundersen produced a small

  slab-sided bottle. "Medicinal liquor—I've drunk smoother. But there's more where

  it comes from," and Gundersen handed Rubenstein the bottle. Rubenstein downed

  his coffee, twisted open the bottle and poured two fingers

  44

  into the cup. He offered the bottle to Gundersen. "Never touch the stuff when

  we're underway."

  "What's that mean?"

  "We've been underwater and heading north for—" he looked at his wristwatch.

  "Fifty-eight minutes. They don't really need me up there until we get near the

  icepack—and that'll be a while yet. Should be tricky—imagine there's been a lot

  of shifting in the pack since the Night of The War."

  "Ice pack?" Rubenstein coughed—the medicinal liquor was strong, burning as he

  felt it in the pit of his stomach.

  "As to the running of the submarine here and the welfare of my crew, I give the

  orders. But for the actual operation it's Captain Cole's say so. He ordered us

  underway before they put him out to take out the two slugs in his left arm."

  "Ohh, shit," Rubenstein muttered, taking another swallow of the liquor. It

  burned less this time.

  45

  Chapter 11

  A long mid-line incision was made in order to expose the internal organs. Rourke

  began exploring the stomach.

  Dr. Milton's voice sounded nearly as labored as the respirator. "Why are you

  going through the gastrocolic omentum, Doctor Rourke?"

  Mechanically, his mind on his hands and not his words, Rourke answered. "To open

  the lesser sac of the stomach." The membrane was a loose fold. "Suction" he

  called, Milton himself assisting. The greater omentum covered the anterior

  stomach surface and intestines like a drape, Rourke stopping, noting a hematoma

  at the mesenteric attachment. "We have to evacuate this hematoma." Evacuating,

  Rourke inspected the stomach wall between the leaves of the greater and lesser

  omentum. There was damage, a whole bullet, not a fragment, partially severing

  the connection to the rear wall of the abdomen. "Gotta get that sucker out,"

  Rourke remarked, exhaling hard, feeling ready to collapse. As each bullet or

  fragment was removed, Rourke carefully repaired the organ damage with continuous

  locking chromic sutures.

  According to the clock on the surgery wall—he supposed bulkhead would be more

  appropriate since they were on a naval vessel and—likely—already underway, he

  had spent more than an hour and a half sorting through the mess that was

  Natalia's stomach, finding bullet fragments and piecing them meticulously

  together—if he

  46

  left even the smallest fragment, the complications could be legion—could be

  mortal.

  "Do you have your closing sutures available?"

  "You're ready to close her?" Dr. Milton asked.

  "No—just thinking ahead—you have what I need?"

  "Yes."

  "Fine."

  "Are you sure there were seven bullets?"

  "Yes," Rourke nodded. "Somebody gimme a wipe, huh?"

  A hand reached out—he didn't see who it belonged to, his eyes bothering him with

  the light as well, the glare—he needed a smoke, needed sleep—but Natalia needed

&nb
sp; life. "Damnit—" Rourke almost spat the word. In the fat of the greater omentum

  he found what he had not wanted to find. The sixth bullet had been intact—he had

  hoped that the seventh would be.

  It was not.

  He had the jacket, the gilding metal—but the core of the bullet—the core had

  separated and was still somewhere inside her.

  As Rourke held it up, trying to determine if anything other than the core itself

  were missing, Milton asked, "Is that it?"

  "Unless a bullet is made of lead alone, it usually has a whole or partial jacket

  surrounding it. These should be full metal jacketed if they were standard G.I.

  Ball—and all the others have been. Somehow the jacket peeled away from the lead

  core and the lead core is missing in there still—and you can see the way the

  jacket peeled back that it was ripped—a lot of force bearing on it. Looks like

  there are pinhead-sized fragments of the jacket missing as well. Pll need

  someone standing by with a microscope so we can piece this thing back together