Austin beckoned again with more animation. Emboldened, the horseman came nearer. Austin smiled like Davy Crockett grinning down a grizzly. The horseman let out a roar and goaded his mount forward.
Still smiling, Austin waited until he couldn't miss, then in a smooth fluid motion he brought the Bowen from behind his back. Holding the heavy revolver in both hands, he sighted on the X made by the Cossack's crossed cartridge belts.
"Here's one for Mehmet," he said, squeezing the trigger. The revolver barked once. The heavy bullet smashed into the rider's sternum and splintered his rib cage, sending fragments of bone into his heart. The Cossack was dead even before his hands lost their grip on the reins. The horse continued toward Austin like a runaway cement mixer, its eyes rolling in panic. Austin cursed himself for not getting down to business and firing sooner.
Spooked by the human standing in its way, and with no signal coming from the slack reins, the animal veered off. Its rock-hard haunch swung around, slammed into Austin with the force of a battering ram and knocked him off his feet. He flew through the air, and crashed to the turf with a teeth- rattling shock, landing on his left side. When he stopped rolling, he tried to stand but only made it up onto one knee. He was covered with dust and wet on one side from horse sweat. Zavala was by Austin's side, helping him to his feet.
As Austin's blurred vision cleared, he expected to see the Cossacks bearing down on them.
Instead, the world seemed frozen in time and place. Stunned by their leader's fall, the horsemen sat in their saddles like statues in a park. The people on the field were equally immobilized. Austin spat out a mouthful of dirt. Slowly and deliberately, he walked over to where his gun had landed and picked it up. He yelled at the runner and told him to go for the warehouse. The order shocked the man into action. He started to run.
It was if a power switch had been thrown.
Seeing their friend break for safety, the men in the field bolted after him in a disorganized mob. Austin and Zavala yelled encouragement and pointed to the warehouse. With their leader dead and their prey escaping, the Cossacks yelled as one, poured into the soccer field and advanced at a gallop, sabers held high, toward Austin and Zavala. The two men stood there in awe at the fearful beauty of a Cossack charge.
"Wow!" Zavala shouted over the thunder of hooves. "It's like being in an old Western."
"Let's hope it isn't a remake of Custer's Last Stand," Austin said, with a thin smile.
Austin brought his Bowen up and fired. The lead rider pitched from his saddle. Zavala's H and K stuttered, and another horseman crashed to the ground. The riders advanced without slackening their pace, well aware they held the ad- vantage in numbers and momentum. The guns fired simultaneously and two more men flew from their saddles.
The Cossacks were bold but not suicidal. First one, then another, leaned out of his saddle and hung from his horse's neck so he no longer offered an easy target. As Austin and Zavala adjusted to the new strategy, one horse came to a sudden stop, dropped to the ground and rolled onto its side.
Austin thought the animal had stumbled. Then he saw that the rider was firing at them, using his mount as a protective barricade. Other riders followed suit. Those Cossacks still in their saddles split up, corning in from both sides in a pincer movement. Austin and Zavala hit the ground and dug in. Bullets flew over their heads like angry bees.
"Automatic weapons!" Zavala yelped. "You said these guys carried blunderbusses and pigstickers."
"How would I know they'd stop off at a gun show?"
"What ever happened to background checks?"
Austin's reply was drowned out by the stutter of automatic-arms fire. He and Zavala let off a couple of rounds more for show than effect, then pulled back from the rise and crawled toward the warehouse. The Cossacks peppered the ridge with gunfire. Thinking their prey was dead, they climbed onto their horses and took up the charge where they had left off.
From the shelter of the warehouse, Austin and Zavala aimed through the windows and two more riders toppled from their mounts. Seeing that their foe was still alive, the Cossacks called off the attack and galloped to the center of the field to regroup. Taking advantage of the momentary battle lull, Austin turned from the window and surveyed the men who had taken refuge. Austin couldn't remember when he'd seen a more bedraggled-looking bunch. Their tan jumpsuits were wrinkled and begrimed, and their hollow-eyed faces bristled with whiskers. The first runner, who had felt the direct wrath of the Cossack leader, came over to speak with Austin. His uniform was torn at the knees and elbows and covered with dust. Yet he kept his chin as high as if he were wearing newly pressed dress whites on parade. The young man gave Austin a crisp salute. "Ensign Steven Kreisman of the U.S. Navy submarine NR-1."
Austin reached under his belt, where he had tucked the cap Zavala found on the Russian submarine. "Maybe you can get this back to its owner," he said, handing the cap over.
"It's the captain's. Where did you get this?" Kreisman said, looking at the cap as if he were seeing it for the first time.
"My partner found it in a Russian sub."
"Who are you guys?" Kreisman said, losing his aplomb.
"I'm Kurt Austin and that's my partner Joe Zavala at the window. We're with the National Underwater and Marine Agency."
The ensign's jaw dropped down to his Adam's apple. With their battle-hardened eyes and smoking guns, the two who had rescued him and his crew looked more like commandos than ocean scientists.
"I didn't know NUMA had its own SWAT team," he said with wonder.
"We don't. Are you okay?"
"I feel as if I've been run over by a bulldozer, but other than that I'm fine," he said, rubbing his neck where the saber had whacked him. "I won't be wearing a tie for a while. This may sound like a dumb question, Mr. Austin, but what are you and your friend doing here?"
"Your turn first. Last I heard, your sub was diving for relics on the bottom of the Aegean."
The young man's shoulders sagged slightly. "It's a long story," he said, with weariness.
"We don't have much time. See if you can tell me what happened in thirty seconds."
Kreisman chuckled at Austin's audacity. "I'll do my best."
He took a deep breath and delivered a condensed version of events.
"A guest scientist we had on board, a guy named Pulaski, pulled a gun on us and hijacked the NR-1. We were transported on the back of a giant submarine. This whole thing is so unbelievable." He paused, expecting a skeptical reaction. Seeing none in Austin's attentive eyes, he continued. "They transferred the crew to a salvage ship. They made us work on an old sunken freighter. Tricky retrieval stuff using the manipulators. Then the big sub brought us here. They kept the captain and pilot with the NR-1. We were held prisoner underground. When they brought us up today, we thought we were going back to the NR-1. Instead they herded us onto that field. The guards who'd been watching us disappeared, and those cowboys with the fur hats started trying to break us up." He rubbed his neck again. "Who are those SOBs?"
Zavala was signaling to Austin. "Sorry," he said. "Our thirty seconds appears to be up."
He went to the window, and Zavala handed him the binoculars. "The members of the polo club are having an argument," he said lazily.
Austin peered through the binoculars at the Cossacks, who were still gathered in the field. Some riders had dismounted and were waving their arms in the air.
Lowering the glasses, Austin said, "They could be exchanging borscht recipes, but my guess is that they're adding our names to the guest list for a slice-and-dice party."
Zavala looked as if he had a stomachache. "You have a way with words. How can we decline the invitation without hurting their feelings?"