He looked behind him once—the wildmen were filling the rocks—coming, inexorably coming.
Chapter 45
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.
"Sailor—I'm sorry," she smiled, her right hand snapping out in a knife edge, the heel hammering against the man's throat with calculated force—disorient him, perhaps knock him out—not to kill. His body stumbled, slipped, her-left hand catching at the M-, her right hand snaking toward his neck, easing his fall, her abdomen aching badly where the incision was as she stooped to ease him down.
She stood, her breath coming in short gasps with the pain. She shrugged, the blanket falling from her head and shoulders completely now, only the arctic parka and the robe to keep her against the cold.
She'winked a snowflake from her left eyelash, then eared back the bolt on the M-, letting it fly forward. The nearest of the rubber boats was still more than fifty yards from the submarine.
She stepped to the rail, pointing the M-skyward, firing a short three-round burst, her selector set to full auto.
Faces—the sailors on the deck, turned toward her.
' Those men in the boats—the ones still on the beach—they'll never make it if we don't do something. We can fire into the rocks, fire high so we won't hit our own
men—lay down heavy fire. Three round bursts—keep it pouring in there—please!"
The faces were blank, or at best puzzled.
"Like this," and she snapped the rifle to her shoulder, firing over the railing toward the rocks beyond the beach.
She returned the muzzle to the rail, resting it there. "Like this—we can do it."
"Orders, ma'am," one voice called up to her. "We ain't sposed t'fire."
"Sailor," she almost whispered. "I'll kill the first man who doesn't—those are your comrades out there—only you can save them."
Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna shouldered the M-again, her abdomen hurting badly from the unaccustomed exertion.
She pointed the flash deflectored muzzle at the sailor who had spoken.
He looked at her for an instant longer. "Where's Harriman, ma'am?"
"I knocked him out so I could steal his gun."
"Yes, ma'am," and then the sailor—she couldn't tell the rank, turned to the men who stared at her from a missile deck. "You heard the lady—if we're gonna disobey orders, may's well do a fucking good job of it!" And he looked up at Natalia.
"Scuse the language, ma'am."
"Think nothing of it, sailor," she smiled.
"Yes, ma'am," and he shouted again then. "Four of us up in the bow—two more up there with the lady, the rest on the starboard side—shoot high!" The sailor started to sprint across the missile deck, then suddenly all the men were moving.
Natalia, her abdomen still paining her, but warmth filling her suddenly, threw the rifle to her shoulder.
She could see no targets, but she could see the last defenders on the beach from their muzzle flashes. She aimed high, firing into the gray swirling snow.
Chapter 46
Rourke looked over his shoulder, out toward the submarine's silhouette in the grayness and the swirling snow. There had been rifle fire—starting moments earlier. And now there was the fire of a deck gun, heavy sounding in caliber, silhouetted figures in the rocks above falling.
He glanced to Rubenstein, then to the six men around him.
"Let's catch those last two boats—come on!" He pushed himself up, starting to run across the sand, some of the wildmen now down from the rocks, pursuing him as he looked back, Rubenstein firing out the liberated M-, nailing two of the men, then ramming the muzzle of the empty weapon into a third man's chest, leaving the man and the empty rifle lying in the sand.
Rourke splashed into the surf, the one man who'd remained with the boats hunkered down, his M-ready, the salt spray and foam washing over him. "Doctor Rourke!"
"Get in," Rourke snarled, taking the sailor's M-, shouldering it and firing into the pursuing wildmen, covering for Rubenstein and the others.
"I only got the one clip, doctor!"
"Shit,*' Rourke snarled, firing another three round burst. He judged he had fifteen rounds remaining.
Rubenstein and the six sailors were coming, running into the surf, Rourke's legs freezing as the water soaked through his jeans, his boots. He fired again, switched to semiautomatic on the selector, pumping a single round into a wildman firing a riot shotgun. The man's body flopped backward into the surf.
Rubenstein ran for the body, snatching up the riot shotgun, firing point blank into the chest of another of the wildmen, then running for the rubber boats.
Rourke rolled himself over the fabric side and over the gunwales, prone now in the prow, firing the M-single shot. "Cast her off somebody,** Rourke shouted, one of the six sailors hacking the rope with a jackknife, the rubber boat rolling up on a breaker, Rourke steadying his aim, nailing another of the wildmen.
Rubenstein's boat was casting off as well, the ends of the ropes that had secured the rubber boats to the shoreline floating on the foam near the rocks to which they were secured.
There was a boom, Rubenstein firing the riot shotgun, wildmen pursuing into the surf, Rourke firing the M-, heavy gunfire from the submarine and the roaring of the surf all but deafening Rourke as he pushed himself up to his knees, spray lashing at his face, the icy cold of it making him shiver. He fought to control his hands, firing again, killing another of the wildmen.
He heard the shout—"John!"
Rubenstein's boat—the waves flooded over it, Rubenstein and the others rolling out, the boat upended. Rourke pumped the M-, killing the man near the upended boat, the man giant-sized, his right hand hacking down with a machete as he stood in the surf, the compressed air of the rubber boat exploding out of the water, Rourke pumping the trigger of the M-, once, then once again, then once more, the wildman's body slapping forward across the torn hulk of the rubber boat.
Rubenstein—Rourke could barely see his head bobbing in the waves, then suddenly Rubenstein was up, standing, the water chest high, a wave slapping him down—gone again, Rourke stripped his bomber jacket away and the shoulder rig for the twin Detonics pistols, his left hand
freeing the belt holster with the Python as he dove into the water, his, body going flat to avoid hitting bottom, the breakers fighting him as he started toward his friend.
He pushed up, the salt spray pelting his face, his body racked with shivers from the chill of the water. More of the wildmen, on the beach, running into the surf. Rourke grabbed for the A.G. Russell knife inside his waistband, the little Sting IA black chrome coming into his palm as the nearest of the wildmen—spear in hand—lunged, Rourke's right fist feigned as he got to his feet in the water, his left snaking out in a straight arm thrust, the spear pointed knife, its steel shimmering in the water, biting deep into the wildman's throat.
The water ran blood red as the body flopped down. Rourke searched the surface—no Rubenstein. He ducked down, diving below the surface, his free right hand reaching to the bottom. Though it was nearly sunrise, the gray lightening above the surface, below the surface of the water, the swirling waves above him, tearing at him, it was dark.
A shape—darker thari the rest. He started toward it, a machete breaking the water, the blade arcing past his face, inches away. He pushed himself up, two of the wildmen, one stabbing into the water with a spear, the second with the machete. Rourke lunged for the man with the machete, the long bladed knife slicing air past his throat, Rourke pulling back.