The Savage Horde
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The wildmen—they were using their guns?
Another shot burst—M-I6 fire as best he could tell,
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bodies going down from the leading ranks of the wildmen storming toward them.
Now shot burst after shot burst, automatic weapons fire ringing deafeningly
across the rocky outcropping on which Rourke stood, Rubenstein beside him.
"John!"
Rourke glanced to his right, muzzle flashes coming from the rocks at the base of
the ridge which rose then fell toward the beach. There were men, running from
the rocks, M-16s in their hands, spitting tongues of fire in the night.
"Rourke! Doctor Rourke!" Rourke heard the shout but didn't look to find the
source, instead turning his freshly loaded pistols at the mob, none of them
advancing now, some screaming, fleeing, dropping their torches.
The pistol in his right fist—a shot into the head of a wildman still holding a
torch, the head seeming to explode, the torch falling against it, the hair
catching aflame. The pistol in his left—a woman, an assault rifle blazing in her
hands toward the shore party—her chest seeming to sink into her as the body
flipped back, spread eagling against a heavily bearded man who dropped his
torch.
The pistol in his right—the man with the heavy beard who held the woman, his
neck spouting a gusher of blood in the firelight.
The pistol in his left, the pistol in his right, his left, his right, his left,
right, left, right, left—the slides of both Detonics pistols, the stainless
steel gleaming dully in the torchlight of the burning faggots on the ground,
bodies writhing there, were locked open, the guns empty,
"Rourke!"
He turned his head now—Commander Gundersen, running, a .45 in his right fist,
two seamen flanking him, firing M-16s.
"John!" It was Rubenstein. "John!"
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Rubenstein's High Power was licking flame into the night, the pistol at full
extension in his locked fists, his body in a classic combat crouch, the 9mm
double column magazine Browning barely rocking in his hands.
"Rourke!"
Gundersen was beside them, the two seaman dropping to their knees, firing their
assault rifles as they spread prone on the ground, short, rapid bursts, spinning
more of the wildmen from the mob, the mob breaking up, running.
"I've only got fifteen men—all I could spare from the ship—we gotta get the hell
outa here."
"Wait a minute," Rourke rasped. He walked forward, staying clear of the field of
fire from the two seamen, noticing others of the landing party drawing back now,
consolidating on Gundersen.
Rourke found what he sought, wrestling an M-16 from the hands of a dead wildman,
searching bodies on the ground for loaded magazines, finding a half dozen
magazines, twenties and thirties and some of the non-Colt forties as he found a
second M-16.
He started back toward Paul and Commander Gundersen, the two injured men now
being helped away by the two seamen who had covered Gundersen's advance.
"We gotta get outa here, Rourke!"
"Right," Rourke nodded, handing Rubenstein an M-16, distributing the magazines
evenly between them, but keeping the thirties for himself—he liked them better.
He dumped the partially spent magazine in his newly acquired assault rifle,
ramming it into his open musette bag, the fresh magazines in his belt, his empty
Detonics pistols already holstered. He worked the bolt of the M-16, kicking out
the already chambered round, Rubenstein catching it, Rourke smiling as he did,
then Rourke letting the bolt fly forward.
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"Now we can travel," he whispered. Already, the mob of wildmen was reforming,
coming—and it was still a long way to the beach.
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Natalia shivered in the sail. She was cold, and the gunfire she now heard from
the height of the rocks above the darkened beach chilled her more—was Rourke
alive? Paul? There had been sporadic gunfire, then heavier gunfire—a firefight.
She felt—it was a man's word and she smiled at it—impotent. She could do nothing
trapped on the sail in her damned robe, the blanket around her like an Indian
squaw, her bones shivering, her teeth chattering.
She looked beside her—a young man, almost equally as cold, she guessed, his
cheeks and the edges of his ears red tinged in the wind that blew across them
both.
She looked at the M-16 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-16 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.
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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.
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Rourke walked backward, pumping short bursts from the M-16 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-16 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
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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 ge
t 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.
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Rubenstein rammed a fresh stick into his liberated M-16, 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-16 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-16, letting it go forward
almost instantly.
A perfect three round burst. He made another, then another, bodies falling
behind his front sight. He found
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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—"
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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 M-16*s 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-16'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.
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"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-16 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.
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"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.
Rourke had scrounged all the ammo from partially expended magazines—he had nine
rounds left, all in the Detonics pistols, six in one, three in the other.
He reached for the Hghest loaded gun now, dropping the M-16 into the rocks,
hearing as it skidded away and fell. He thumbed back the hammer with his left
hand, aiming the Detonics as one of the wildmen came up on Paul, Rubenstein less
than ten yards away, the wildman holding an assault rifle. Rourke fired, the man
going down.
"Get his gun! Get his gun, Paul!"
Rourke started edging back, covering the younger man as he disappeared among the
rocks a moment, then returned with an M-16 and two magazines, jumping from the
nearest rock, now less than three yards from Rourke.
The younger man started to shoulder the rifle, Rourke shouting, "Save it—we'll
need it later!" Rourke started to run, retracing his steps along the recks,
slippery under foot as the snow continued to fall.
Two boats were away now—Rourke could see them battling the rolls and swells
trying to get off the beach.
He stared out to sea—the dark silhouette of the submarine was visible, perhaps
two hundred yards from shore—a good rifleman or a leader with good men under him
could lay down a field of fire into the rocks covering the withdrawal from the
beach—perhaps O'Neal would get to the decks in time, or Gundersen. At the
distance, accuracy would be nil, but heavy concentrations of fire
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last rock, half sprawling into the sand as a burst of assault rifle from above
powdered the rock beside him.
Rubenstein was firing, a three round burst, then another, a scream coming from
the darkness as Rourke pitched himself to his feet and started to run to join
the fire teams.
He looked behind him once—the wildmen were filling the rocks—coming, inexorably
coming.
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It had been coming on toward sunrise for some time, the darkness turning to
grayness, and in the grayness, she could see the wildmen—wildmen the prisoners
had looked like, the returning men had described. She could see them swarming
down through the rocks perhaps two hundred yards away.