The Savage Horde

by neetha Napew

  "Comrade general," she began again, a long silence ending. "Comrade general—what

  is it—might I ask, Comrade general—what is it which seems to—to trouble you?"

  He did not look at her—she was pretty, however plain she made herself appear

  intentionally.

  "Catherine. More scientific data which greatly disturbs me, which shall

  profoundly influence us all. That is one report. And a second report. The KGB,

  which is stockpiling raw materials, equipment—everything you might imagine and

  many things, child, which you could not—one of their convoys was attacked by the

  American resistance near some city called Nashville. There is a resistance

  stronghold which Rozhdestvenskiy has committed Army forces to destroying

  —against my policies because there are women and children there. And without

  even asking my permission. He does not need it anymore, child."

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  He looked away from the mastodons, studying her face—the gentleness of her eyes.

  "Catherine—I have never before stared death so closely in the face. Go and

  prepare for me coffee, child."

  He started away from the railing, listening to the clicking of her heels, noting

  her skirt was still too long. He tried no! to look at the mastodons—there would

  be little but bones to look at soon enough.

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  Jacob Steel, she thought, was perhaps a talented minister. He was not so

  talented as a doctor.

  "Here—I'll tie that," she told him.

  Steel looked up from the dressing he had attempted twice to secure, his gray

  hair falling across his forehead, his glasses smudged on the lenses. He smiled.

  "You've realized I'm a klutz, Mrs. Rourke. The only reason I learned anything

  about medicine in the first place was because when I was drafted, I was a

  conscientious objector. Had to find something to do with me—I couldn't type. I

  was starting to worry about you. Most people who've worked as my nurse have

  discovered my ineptitudes far sooner."

  She felt herself smile as she secured the dressing. "I was just too polite, I

  guess, Reverend."

  "Hmm—but I see you can do that quite well. Your husband's a doctor, is he?"

  She looked up, but Steel hadn't waited for an answer. He had already moved to

  the next patient. She arranged the covers of the man on the ground by her feet,

  then stood, following Steel.

  "Yes," she answered belatedly.

  "Yes, what?"

  "He's a doctor," she said.

  Steel looked away, then back to the patient. The woman's burns were not healing.

  "Are those sheets sterile?"

  Steel looked up at her.

  She smiled. "That was a silly question, wasn't it?"

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  "Yes, Mrs. Rourke—it was a silly question. Nothing here is sterile. Except me—I

  caught the mumps from my daughter five years ago," and he laughed.

  "How old is she—" She caught herself.

  "Now? She's dead. My wife's dead. My two sons are dead. Our house is gone—wasn't

  really our house. Belonged to the church. Church is gone, too. I was away.

  Chattanooga was neutron bombed."

  "I know," she answered quietly.

  "Realize how many fires start in a given day—just your regular ordinary fires? I

  don't know how many myself, but I bet plenty. Fire started in the garage of the

  house across the street from the church—don't know why, but it looked like it

  started there. Spread across the street somehow—must've been the wind. Burned

  the church, the house. My wife and the children—woulda been dead by then

  anyway."

  "I'm—"

  "You're sorry," he interrupted. "I know you are. Pretty soon we're gonna run out

  of enough sorry to go around."

  Reverend Steel pulled the blanket up over the woman's face. "So much for sterile

  sheets, huh?"

  Sarah Rourke pulled the blanket down, closing the eyelids with her thumbs.

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  Rourke heard the knock, looked up as he called, "Come in."

  The door opened.

  "Mind if we talk, Doctor Rourke?" Gunderson asked.

  "Not a bit," Rourke told him. "You don't mind if I finished getting dressed?"

  Rourke stood up, walking stocking footed across the cabin, getting his combat

  boots and sitting down again, stuffing first his right foot, then his left foot

  into the leather. He began to lace the right one. "What do you want to talk

  about?"

  "Couple things. Major Tiemerovna for openers. She wants to go along."

  "She's too weak," Rourke told him, looking up. "Too dangerous anyway."

  "I'm letting her go—"

  "Bullshit," Rourke told him.

  "See, it doesn't matter to me that she's a Russian—she's not going to do

  anything to jeopardize you. So I can worry about her sense of duty to mother

  Russia after you find the warheads. She wouldn't take you on—she'd wait and take

  me on for them. You're going to need all the backup you can get."

  "Your Lieutenant O'Neal—pretty good man. I'll have Paul—Paul Rubenstein."

  "Yeah," Gundersen smiled. Rourke began tying his left boot. "But you'll also

  have Cole and three of his men. He wants to kill you as soon as you get to the

  missiles, maybe

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  before then. Everybody talks about you as a smart man—seems like it'd be kinda

  dumb for you to have missed that."

  "I haven't missed it," Rourke smiled, looking up, then looking back to his

  boots. He stuffed the ends of the bootlaces into the tops of his boots, then

  stood up.

  Rourke walked back to the bunk, taking a clean blue chambray shirt from where

  he'd set it earlier, pulling it on. "Rubenstein and Major Tiemerovna—been

  talking with both of them a lot. Seems like there's nobody better with a gun or

  knife or in any kinda fight than you—"

  "They exaggerate a lot," Rourke told him.

  "Understand the three of you fought a lot as a team."

  "We've done a few things," Rourke nodded.

  "She's going. So, you walk a little slower, put on a few less miles per day. The

  warheads have waited this long, they can wait a little longer. She's got every

  reason in the world to kill Cole—can't say I blame her. What started it between

  them?"

  "He told her he was going to put her under arrest. She told him to go to hell.

  He went to slap her—she flipped him. She could take on half your crew at once.

  She's one of the best martial arts people I've ever seen. Most women who are

  good in martial arts couldn't compete with a man nearly as good—the strength

  factor. She's the exception. She can move faster, think faster—"

  "And then one of Cole's men shot her?"

  "Yeah," Rourke said through his teeth.

  "I gave her her guns back—you don't want her to go, you try takin' 'em away from

  her. Funny thing," and Gundersen looked down at the floor a moment, then Rourke

  watched his eyes as he looked up. "That Captain Cole—got orders signed by

  President Chambers, and she's admittedly a KGB agent. We're at war with Russia.

  Thing that's funny—asked myself why I trust her more than him."

  "One of his men," Rourke began, his voice low. He

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  stood up, stuffing his shirt into his pants, then c
losing his pants and his

  belt. "Before he died." Rourke picked up the double Alessi rig, the holsters

  empty. He raised his arms, letting the shoulder holsters fall into place. He

  picked up one of the Detonics pistols, working the slide, chambering the top

  round off the magazine. Slowly, carefully, he lowered the hammer, beginning to

  insert the gun in the holster under his left armpit. "One of his men told me

  before he died—Cole isn't who he says he is, whatever the hell that means."

  Rourke repeated the ritual for the second pistol, bolstering it as well. "Could

  be those aren't presidential orders—looks like Sam Chambers' signature though."

  "Major Tiemerovna—she'd have told you if Cole were a Russian."

  "If she knew—since she started helping me, she's been coming under suspicion

  from her own people—nothing so much she's talked about, just what she hasn't

  talked about."

  "You saying Cole could be a Communist and she wouldn't know?"

  "She's KGB—there's still the GRU, lots of initialed organizations in Soviet

  Intelligence. And maybe it's something else. Can't see why the Russians would

  recruit a U.S. nuclear submarine to do this—why not land some troops?"

  "Maybe they want to fire the missiles—maybe at China—use this as a surprise

  base—so the Chinese won't pick them up on long range radar."

  "Four hundred and eighty megatons is enough to destroy a lot—maybe a really

  large city totally destroyed. Not enough to stop the Chinese though. Understand

  they're giving the Russians a hard time of it. But a plan like that'd be

  stupid."

  "I tried contacting U.S. II—electrical interference in the upper atmosphere must

  be too strong for my radio equipment. You say the word, I'll pull the plug on

  Captain Cole

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  and throw him in irons."

  Rourke laughed, securing the Sting IA in its sheath on the left side of his belt

  inside the band of his Levis.' 'You really still have irons on board ships?"

  "Well," Gundersen laughed. "Figure of speech. You get my drift, Rourke?"

  "Yeah," Rourke nodded. "No—" His teeth were clenched—he could feel them as he

  spoke. "No—Cole's a ringer, or a Communist—or maybe something else—I'm sure of

  that. But we'll never find out what's going on unless we let him play out his

  hand."

  "You play poker much, Doctor Rourke?"

  "Used to play a lot with my kids—they'd always win," Rourke answered.

  "Weil—heard this line in a western once—you're drawin' against an inside

  straight—with Cole, I mean. He knows what he's doing—enough to leave his own men

  strung out there while you and Rubenstein tried saving them, then show up just

  in time for the last rubber boat out. It's important that he gets to the

  warheads—"

  "And I'm the one Armand Teal will believe. He can't touch me until we reach

  Filmore Air Force Base and find out if Teal's still alive. I'm safe 'til then.

  All I gotta do is worry about those crazy-assed wildmen."

  Gundersen stood up. "That's why she's going with you—for after you reach

  Filmore."

  "I don't want her along—those stitches—"

  "You told me six hours ago her stitches were nearly healed. She was practically

  back to normal."

  Rourke licked his lips, buckling on the flap holster with the Python. He said

  nothing. Gundersen left.

  Rourke looked at himself in the mirror—three handguns, a knife. It wouldn't be

  enough.

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  John Rourke squinted across the water—the submarine-' was already pulling out to

  deeper water, then would dive to resurface near the original site of the battle

  with the wildmen. To draw them off, he and Gunderson hoped.

  Rourke reached under his brown leather bomber jacket, took the dark lensed

  aviator style sunglasses and put them on.

  He chewed down on the stump of cigar in his mouth.

  It was Cole. "You ready, Doctor Rourke?"

  Natalia—her eyes so incredibly blue, her skin more pale than it was always. She

  looked at him, and so did Ruben-stein. Rourke looking past them at Cole,

  answered, "Yeah."

  Rourke reached down to the gravel beside his feet, snatching up the Lowe Alpine

  Loco Pack. He shifted it onto his shoulders, reaching under his bomber jacket

  and rearranging the straps from the shoulder rig.

  "I take it due north a ways," Cole called out.

  Rourke looked at Cole, then started to walk, Natalia and Rubenstein flanking

  him.

  Her pack was light, but he knew that soon he or Paul would wind up carrying it.

  "Due north?" Cole called again.

  Rourke kept walking, through his teeth, the word barely audible, "Yeah."

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  David Balfry looked up from his desk, as though startled. She thought that was

  silly. He'd sent word he wanted to see her, she'd knocked before entering the

  room in the farmhouse, he'd told her, "Come in, Sarah."

  She stopped in front of his desk, suddenly feeling grubby. She pulled the blue

  and white bandanna from her hair, shook her head to relax her hair.

  "Sit down, Sarah," he told her smiling. "Got some news about your husband."

  She sank into the chair. "He's all right?"

  "I don't know—no reason to assume he isn't," and Balfry smiled, gesturing behind

  him out the window. "No more or less all right than anybody else these days."

  "What—what is—"

  "Close to three weeks ago—your husband left U.S. II headquarters before it moved

  off the Texas Louisiana border. He was with a younger man—a man named Paul

  Rubenstein. Seems they've been hanging around together ever since the Night of

  The War. And he was with someone else."

  "Who?"

  Why did she ask that, she asked herself. "Who was he with?"

  "A Russian woman—major in the KGB. Natalia—Natalia something," and Balfry looked

  through the papers on his littered desk. "Natalia Tiemerovna—middle name

  Anastasia. Her husband was the head of the KGB in America here—until your

  husband gunned him down on

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  the street—while ago in Athens, Georgia. Intelligence sources indicate the woman

  showed up in Chicago—that's Soviet Headquarters for the North American Army of

  Occupation—"

  "I know that," Sarah nodded.

  "Showed up in Chicago—without your husband or this Rubenstein character. Then

  she disappeared. Maybe to rejoin your husband."

  Sarah licked her lips. "Russian woman."

  Balfry threw down the paper in his hand—contemptuously, she thought absently.

  "Doctor Rourke might be dead—maybe—"

  "What?" she asked, not looking at Balfry.

  "Look, Sarah—you're a beautiful woman. Who the hell knows how much time any of

  us have left." She heard the sounds of his chair scraping across the wood of the

  floor. She heard his footsteps—he was coming around the desk.

  "Sarah," his voice purred to her. She looked up; David Balfry crouched in front

  of her chair, by her knees, his hands holding her hands against her thighs.

  "Sarah—he probably figures you and your children are dead. He's done what any

  normal man would do—taken up with somebody else. This Russian woman. He's not
>
  coming because he's not looking."

  Sarah looked into Balfry's eyes. "I—I have to get—to get out of here."

  She stood up, stepping past him as he stood, turning away from him, starting

  toward the door. She felt his hands, the fingers strong, pressing into her upper

  arms. She felt him turn her around.

  She looked at his chest, not his face.

  "Sarah—" He drew her close to him. She could feel his breath—his clothes smelled

  like his pipe tobacco.

  She felt his hands—they moved to her face, cradling her. She looked at his eyes.

  His mouth.

  It opened slightly as he bent his face toward her.

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  His lips—they were moist. There was strength in the way he crushed against her