The Savage Horde s-6

by Ahern, Jerry

  He heard Gundersen laugh. "First civilian I've ever met with the guts to say that—it does make you want to say that the first time. Crank her around back and forth a little and take a look at the world before we go under."

  Rourke only nodded, turning the periscope slowly. Massive blocks of ice floated everywhere in the open water leading in the distance to the edge of the icepack.

  Small waves—wind whipped Rourke judged—would momentarily splash the objective lens. Without looking away, he asked, "Has there been as much change in the icepack as you'd suppose?"

  "Another good remark, Dr. Rourke. Apparently a great deal of change."

  Rourke stepped back from the periscope, looking at Gundersen. "Spreading?"

  "Rapidly—I mean we can't really measure with any sophistication now because all the satellites are gone. But as best we can judge the icepack is advancing."

  "That's just marvelous," Rourke nodded. He leaned back on the side of an instrument console.

  "Down periscope," Gundersen ordered, flipping the

  handles up. "Ed—you've got the con. I'd say take her down a little more than we normally do and ride herd on the ice machine—split the shifts so the operators will keep on their toes."

  ' 'Prepare to blow,'' a man standing opposite Gundersen ordered. "Rig for full negative."

  "Aye, sir," a crewmen called back.

  Gundersen stepped up to Rourke. "Doctor—like to join me in my cabin—talk a bit?"

  "Fine," and Rourke followed Gundersen out. They walked the way Rourke and the lieutenant JG had come, turning off into a cabin with a wooden door, the lettering there reading, "Commander Robert Gundersen, Captain."

  "Got my name on the door and everything," Gundersen smiled, holding the door for Rourke. As Rourke entered the cabin he realized it was actually two cabins—Gundersen's office with a decent-sized desk comprised the main cabin and there was a door off to Rourke's left as he faced the desk—sleeping quarters?

  Rourke decided that they were.

  "Sit down, Doctor," Gundersen said, nodding toward a couch on the far interior wall.

  Rourke said nothing, but started toward the couch.

  "Coffee?" Gundersen asked, pouring into a large mug from a hotplate on the bookcase behind his desk.

  "Sure," Rourke answered. "Mind if I smoke?"

  "No—we can scrub the air. Go ahead."

  Rourke took one of his small, dark tobacco cigars from the pocket of his blue chambray shirt, found the Zippo in the pocket of his jeans and rolled the striking wheel under his thumb.

  "Where do you find lighter fluid?"

  "Gasoline, usually—lighter fluid currently."

  "Thought I recognized a survivor in you. Here," and Gundersen handed Rourke a truck-stop sized white mug,

  the coffee steaming hot and smelling good as Rourke sipped at it. "So,"

  Gundersen sighed, sitting down opposite Rourke in a small leather chair. "You're the mar everybody was so hot to find. Ex-CIA, I understand."

  "Yeah," Rourke nodded, inhaling on his cigar, ther exhaling a cloud of gray smoke. He watched as the ventilation system caught it, the smoke dissipating rapidly.

  "And the president needed you."

  "That's what Cole tells me," Rourke nodded.

  "That's what he tells me too."

  'Where'd you bump into Cole?" Rourke asked suddenly.

  "We'd been surfacing at nights, trying to make contacl with a U.S. base—stumbled onto the U.S. II frequenc} after threading our way through a lot of Russian, if you know what I mean. With the satellites gone, the laser communication network was out. Just luck I guess."

  "Did you talk with President Chambers?"

  "Spoke with a guy named Colonel Reed—all in code. Never really spoke at all. You know. But he was named on the communiques—all Reed under orders from Chambers.

  Said they were sending out a man named Cole and a smal] patrol for an urgent mission we could help with." Gundersen laughed. "Didn't have anything else to do, Fired all our missiles. All we had left were torpedoes—nc enemy submarines around to shoot 'em at. I think most ol the Soviet Fleet that wasn't destroyed is fighting in the Mediterranean."

  "Used to be a beautiful part of the world," Rourke nodded.

  "Used to be—not now. It's a bloodbath ovei there—and a lot of radiation, I understand. You know, being a submarine commander and having a nuclear war—I feel like that guy in the book."

  "But this isn't Australia," Rourke smiled.

  "No—but I wonder. The icepack advancing— understand the weather up above," and he jerked his thumb upward., "has been pretty screwy. End of the world?"

  "Maybe," Rourke shrugged.

  "You said that awful casually," Gundersen said, lighting a cigarette.

  "Yeah—maybe I did. If it is, I can't stop it. Just try to survive it after I find my family."

  "Wife and two children, right?"

  "Right," Rourke answered. "What are Cole's orders?"

  "Pretty much like I imagine he told you. Find this air base if it is still there—supposed to be. We get you in as close as we can, then shanks mare all the way and Cole uses whatever available transportation there is to get the warheads out and back to the submarine. Then we deliver them to U.S. II Headquarters or wherever—that last part hasn't been spelled out yet. I guess it will be."

  "What do you do after that?"

  "I don't know. Keep going. We can run for a long time yet—a long time.

  Provisions should hold up for a long time as well. Then I guess we'll die like everybody else if the world ends. I don't know. Can't plan too far in advance these days."

  "What do you think about Cole?"

  "He's a prick—but he's got the President's signature on his written orders. I can't argue with that."

  "Do you trust him?"

  "No—but he's got orders and I'm supposed to help him carry them out. I disarmed you and your Mr. Rubenstein simply to keep the peace. We get topside, regardless of what Cole says, I'll re-arm you both. Can't have you guys shooting holes in my submarine, though—my engineer complains like an old lady about it. See," and Gundersen jerked his thumb upward again, smiling, "the roof leaks."

  "Ohh," Rourke nodded. "Wouldn't have suspected that."

  Gundersen laughed, leaning forward, gesturing with his cigarette. "To answer your question before you ask—I've got no plans at all for Major Tiemerovna.

  She's a pretty woman—I think the guys giving blood and everything to keep her alive pretty much caused my crew to look at her that way, not as a Communist agent. She minds her manners once she's up and around and as far as I'm concerned, she's free as a bird. I understand she was pretty heroic herself when—the Florida thing. Jesus—" and Gundersen inhaled hard on the cigarette, the tip glowing brightly near the flesh of his yellowed first finger and thumb.

  "Yeah—she was. Saved a lot of American lives. Saved a lot of lives period."

  "I'm not planning to rearm Major Tiemerovna, though—I realize she's a loyal Russian and I guess that's just as it should be. And I'm not inviting her unescorted onto the bridge, into the torpedo rooms, the reactor room—anywhere sensitive. Couldn't risk her opening a torpedo tube on us and sending us to the bottom. Not that I'm saying necessarily that she would."

  "She would if she had to," Rourke smiled.

  "Exactly—but beyond that, I don't care what Cole wants. She stays on my ship, my word's-lhe law here, not his."

  "Thank you," Rourke nodded.

  "I got a present for you—figured you might use it—I can't anymore."

  Gundersen got up, walked across his room to his desk and sat down behind it.

  Rourke stood up, following him, stopping then in front of the desk. From a large locked drawer, Gundersen produced a black leather pouch, snapped closed with a brass fitting. He opened the pouch—inside it were six Detonics stainless magazines, the
>
  magazines empty as Rourke looked more closely, the magazines ranked side by side, floorplates up.

  "I've seen these," Rourke commented, shifting the cigar along his teeth into the left corner of his mouth.

  "It's called a 'Six Pack'—Milt Sparks made 'em before the Night of The War.

  Mostly for Government Models, but I had him make one for my Detonics. But then I lost the gun—it fell out of my belt and went overboard. Without the gun, the magazines are useless. So, unless I can trade you out of one of yours, you may as well have it."

  "Thank you," Rourke nodded, turning the heavy black leather Six Pack over in his hands. "You can't trade me out of one of my Detonics pistols."

  "Sort of figured that—use it in good health—ha," and Gundersen laughed.

  Rourke got the joke.

  Chapter 19

  John Rourke sat quietly, listening. What he listened to was the regular sound of Natalia's breathing. She was still sleeping. He had sat beside the bed for nearly an hour, ever since leaving Gundersen. Paul was being shown about the submarine—Rourke had postponed the grand tour until later. He had wanted to think, and the quiet of Natalia's room in sick bay had been the best place, he'd thought.

  What would happen when he found Sarah and the children?

  He had not thought of an answer—for over the weeks since the Night of The War and his meeting with Natalia he had formed new bonds, in some ways stronger bonds than he had ever had. There was Paul Rubenstein—once a man who could do nothing for himself, now a man who could do most things—and most things well.

  There was Natalia herself—Rourke looked at her, her eyelids fluttering. She was awakening.

  He stood up, walked to beside her bed and touched her, reaching out his left hand to her left shoulder.

  Her eyes opened, the brilliance of the blue somehow deeper in the gray light of the room.

  A smile tracked on her lips, her voice odd sounding. She whispered, "I love you," then closed her eyes.

  John Rourke stood beside the bed for a time, watching her as she slept.

  Chapter 20

  Sarah Rourke rammed the fresh thirty-round magazine into the M-—for one of the thousands of times since she'd acquired the gun, she was grateful the previous owner (a brigand) had somehow gotten hold of the selective fire weapon. She pumped the trigger, making a professional three-round-burst—she was a professional by now, she realized. The nearest brigand biker fell back. But there were more coming.

  The first attack in the early morning had waned quickly, and since then there had been sporadic gunfire from the other side of the field, but the distance too great. Then had come the second attack—a dead-on assault across the field. Her own weapon firing, Mary Mulliner firing the AR-and the hired hand—old Tim Beachwood—firing his own rifle—they had repelled the attack.

  Beachwood was in the front of the house now, his rifle booming and audible over the roar of gunfire. "Michael!" Sarah shouted. "Go up and see if Tim needs anything—hurry but stay low."

  "Right," the boy called out, then—as she looked back—he was gone. Annie, just six, sat under the heavy kitchen table, chairs stacked between the open wall side and herself just visible as Sarah looked for her. She was loading magazines for the Colt rifles. Her counting wasn't perfect yet, and as Sarah had fired through some of the

  magazines counting her shots with the bursts, she'd found magazines with thirty rounds, twenty-seven rounds, twenty-eight and even one that somehow the child had forced an extra round into—thirty-one, Sarah pumped another burst, missing the brigand firing from the back of a fast moving pickup truck. "Annie—keep those magazines coming," Sarah called out.

  "I'm hurrying, Mommie!"

  "Good girl," Sarah called back. She was the unofficial leader—she realized that.

  Old Tim Beachwood had said it right after the shooting started. "I never fought no war," he'd said. "Too old for the last one—way too old for this one. But I hunted all my life—you point me the right winder and I'll start a killin'!"

  She had shown him the right "winder" then. The gun—he had told her what it was—was something she'd already recognized. It was a lever action Winchester, the caliber .-. She had watched cowboy heroes using them in every Western film she'd ever seen.

  Another brigand truck—the truck cut a sharp curve through the back yard, across Mary MuUiner's vegetable garden, a man in the truck bed waving—it wasn't a rifle, but a torch. Sarah snapped off a three-round burst, the man's body crumpling, the torch falling from his hands and to the ground, the body doubling forward and rolling off the truck bed, bouncing once as it hit the ground. Sarah tucked down, a stream of automatic weapons fire hammering through the shot out windows and into the cupboards on the far wall. "Stay down, Annie," Sarah screamed. She could hear the cups shattering in the cabinets, the glasses breaking.

  "They mean to burn us," Mary Mulliner gasped, sucking in her breath audibly.

  "Yes—they mean to burn us," Sarah nodded.

  When this third attack had begun, Sarah had resigned

  herself to the fact that there was no hope of victory. She had told Mary to shoot as little as possible. There had been three hundred and seventy-nine rounds of . ammo available when the battle had begun. There was less than half of that remaining, firepower the only means of holding the superior brigand numbers away from the house. Old Tim had had one hundred and three rounds of ammo for the .-. How much he had remaining she couldn't guess. There was an even hundred rounds of . ACP, only one pistol available to handle it—hers. She would save that until the rifle ammo was nearly gone, then use it to repel as many brigands as long as she could. She had decided—she would save at least four rounds—one for the Jenkins girl, hiding with Tim, helping him, Sarah hoped. One for Mary Mulliner. Two for her own children. She had seen what brigands could do to children—young boys, little girls. She had seen them do things to older women. She shivered—she had seen what they did to women like herself. Gang raped, left exhausted and dying by a roadside for the wild dogs to feast on.

  She might save five rounds, she thought. She pumped the M-'s trigger. A three-round burst, then another and another. She shattered the windshield of the pickup truck coming dead-on for the back of the house. But the truck was still coming. A man stood up from the truck bed, a torch in his hands. He was swinging it.

  Sarah pumped the M-'s trigger—the gun belched two rounds and was empty. The man fell back and the torch was gone from sight.

  She sank behind the sink again as a burst of automatic weaspons fire came.

  This assault would end soon—she understood their tactics by now. Get the occupants to waste as much ammunition as possible. Dead men were apparently of no concern.

  There would be another attack and another—then the

  final rush.

  She needed a tactic of her own.

  "Tim—Tim!"

  It was Michael's voice she heard.

  "He's dead, Mommie—I think he's dead."

  Sarah Rourke felt sick—her first thought was, "Who will replace him in the front of the house?"

  "I can fire a gun—Daddy taught me a little."

  She closed her eyes. "Take Mary's AR-, Michael— and stay down."

  She made the sign of the cross over her chest.

  Chapter 21

  Michael Rourke sat by the window, Mary Mulliner beside him—he waited. He'd watched his mother do it many times before. He tried thinking about how it must feel.

  "Michael—maybe you won't have to kill anybody."

  "I killed a man once—maybe a second time. I'm not sure about that."

  "But maybe—"

  "It'll be all right. The stock for the rifle is too long for me so I can't hold it that well. But it'll be all right."

  "You're only a little boy, Michael—"

  "I'm eight years old."

  "Michael—"

  "It'll be all
right, Aunt Mary," he told her.

  He didn't know if it would be all right. His father had only just started teaching him to shoot seriously. He couldn't remember for certain, but he thought he was five the first time he'd been taken out into the woods behind the house and given a gun to shoot.

  He remembered the gun—the Python. His father had cut his left hand holding the gun down in recoil. He remembered what he'd told his father, "Wow—that gun really kicks."

  "It's a . Magnum," his father had said.

  "Is that a powerful kind of gun?"

  "Pretty powerful—you're going to have to be ten or

  twelve before I let you try a .—"

  "I wanna try a .—"

  "Gotta be too careful with a .—any automatic. Keep your fingers out of harm's way. Gotta be older." But he had let Michael try the CAR-. And Michael had liked that, his father complaining, he remembered now, about the ammo cost, then laughing.

  Michael reached out his right arm to its fullest extension—he could barely reach the trigger.

  There was gunfire—coming from the rear of the house, but from outside.

  He squinted his right eye, his left eye shut. He saw a man, coming out of the bushes at the front of the house.

  "There's a man there," Mary MuIIiner said. Her voice sounded upset to Michael.

  "I know," he told her, trying to keep his own voice calm. He was afraid.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The recoil hurt his right shoulder and the top edge of the stock hit his jaw and that hurt.

  But the man in the bushes fell over. Michael Rourke guessed the man was dead.

  Chapter 22

  She had begun with three magazines—exactly full. She had fired out ten rounds from one of the magazines, firing on semiautomatic only now in order to conserve ammunition.

  She assumed Michael had less than thirty rounds left.

  There was the Winchester.

  She picked it up, the unfamiliar shape in her hands seeming awkward to her.