'I feel something,' Rubenstein murmured beside him.
Rourke smiled, saying nothing. Beneath the bomber jacket against the cold, he wore a dark blue crew neck sweater from the submarine's stores—but he still shivered. It wasn't the cold doing it.
There was a whitish outline gleaming ahead—the shoreline where the waves lapped against it now. The tide was high, and this cut the distance to the rocks beyond the beach.
'Kill those oars,' Rourke commanded, stripping away his leather gloves, stuffing them into one of the bomber jacket's outside patch pockets, then dipping his hands into the water on both sides of the prow. 'Use your hands,' he rasped, his fingers numbing from the water temperature already—but there was no choice.
It took several minutes of the slow movement, barely
able to fight the waves rolling back from the shore, to move with the tide and reach the land. Rourke throwing a leg out, water splashing up over the collar of his combat boot, then his other leg out, Rubenstein into the water too now. The surf splashed against the prow of the boat, turning into a fine, icy spray, Rourke flexing his fingers against the fabric of the boat as he hauled at it, snow still coming down—no more heavily than before, but no less heavily either.
'Come on, Paul,' he rasped to the younger man, then to Cole, 'Get your butts outa the boat and give us a hand! Come on!'
Cole sprang from the boat, dousing himself in the water, his three men following suit but with less lack of grace. Water dripping from him, Cole reemerged, cursing—'Shut up, damnit!' Rourke snapped. The boat was nearly up from the surf, Rourke glancing to Paul, saying, 'Together,' then hauling at the rubber boat, over the last roll of breakers, both men heaving together, the boat onto the sand.
'You and you—you help 'em,' Rourke rasped to the three soldiers. 'Get the boat out of here—back in those rocks. Secure it in case the tide does get higher.'
Rourke swung the CAR-off his shoulder where it had hung muzzle down. He pulled the rubber plug from the muzzle and dropped it into his musette bag where he carried some of his spare magazines and other gear. He shifted the rifle forward, working the bolt and chambering the top cartridge out of the freshly loaded thirty-round stick.
He started forward across the sand, feeling he was being watched, waiting for it to come—It came.
'Kill them!'
The shout—somehow oddly not quite human.
Ill
Rourke wheeled, snapping the CAR-'s muzzle forward, ramming the flash deflector into the face of the man—man?—coming for him. The machete dropped from the right hand as the body reeled.
'No guns unless we have to,' Rourke half shouted, flicking the safety on for the CAR-IS. He stepped toward the attacker, the man starting to move, a revolver rising in his right hand, already the sounds of more of the attackers going for Rubenstein and the others coming to him over the sound of the waves, over the whistling of the wind. Rourke's right foot snaked out, cross body, catching the man's gunhand wrist, the revolver sailing off into the darkness.
Rourke let the rifle slide out of the way on its sling, his left foot coming up, going for the man's jaw. He missed, the body rolling across the sand, coming upright. There was another knife, smaller than the machete, but not by much.
Rourke grabbed for the AG Russell Sting IA in his trouser band, the small knife coming into his palm, the black skeletonized blade shifting outward in his left hand as the man—he wore a motley collection of clothing and animal skins—made his lunge. Rourke sidestepped, the man steaming past him, Rourke's knife hammering down, the blade biting into flesh somewhere over the right kidney, the body's momentum tearing the blade through and down, Rourke's left wrist hurting badly, the knife slipping from his grip.
He turned, hearing something—feeling something. Two men—like the first, half in the clothing of 'civilized' men and half in animal skins, unshaven, hair wildly blowing in the wind. One had a long bladed knife secured, lashed to a pole—a primitive pike or spear. The second held a pistol.
Rourke violated his own rule; not bothering with the CAR-, not having the time to get at it, snatching at the i
Detonics under his left armpit, his right fist closing on the black rubber Pachmayr gripped butt, his right thumb jacking back the hammer, his first finger into the trigger guard as the pistol came on line, twitching against the trigger, the gleaming stainless handgun bucking in his hand, the man -with the pistol taking the impact somewhere near the center of mass, the -grain JHP
throwing him back into the sand.
The one with the improvised pike was swinging it, the blade making a whooshing sound as it cut the air. Rourke edged back, hearing more gunfire now from the beach— the light rattle of Paul's Schmeisser, lighter than the shotgun blast he heard following it.
Rourke edged back, the pike coming again, Rourke dropping to his right knee, scissoring out his left leg for a sweep as the man followed up on his lunge, the blade inches above Rourke's head, Rourke's left leg connecting behind the right knee of the man with the pike. The body started shifting forward, like a deadfall tree in the wind.
Rourke rolled left, pulling his right leg after him, the body slapping down against the sand, a shout issuing from the man. 'Kill them! Kill the heathens!'
'Heathens,' Rourke muttered, rolling again, getting to his feet.
The man was starting up, his pike coming up, Rourke feigning a kick with his right, half wheeling, snapping out his left combat-booted foot. His leg took the shock, his left knee aching as the toe of his boot impacted against the right side of the man's face.
Rourke wheeled, two more of the wildmen coming for him. He dodged left, one of the men—a machete in his right hand—bringing the blade down hard through the air, barely missing Rourke's right arm.
Rourke pumped the Detonics, nailing the second man, this one with a gun.
