The Savage Horde

'Natalia,' she nodded.

'All right—then no, damnit, Natalia,' Gundersen shouted. 'I'm not takin' a woman KGB major wearing a bathrobe and an arctic parka into a rubber boat for a shore party to investigate what sounds like a battle royal—got it?'

'Damn you,' she shouted.

'Thank you very much for the good wishes—you can stay in the sail if you like—come on, O'Neal—let's launch,' and Gundersen started across the missile deck and over the railing side cleats toward the rubber boat.

Natalia screamed after him. 'Nyehvozmohznoh!'

Gundersen looked up as he took the ladder. 'And what the hell does that mean, lady?' 'It is Russian—you are impossible!'

'Thanks again,' and Gundersen's head disappeared from sight.

She shivered—she wore a hospital gown under the robe and the arctic parka only covered the upper half of her body, the wind blowing up under the robe.

Almost as if Gundersen could read her mind, she heard him shout, 'And get that damn woman a blanket to wrap around herself before her legs freeze!'

'Aye, sir,' a voice called back.

'A^e,' she snarled.

Chapter 37

He had fought his way to Rubenstein's side, the two men standing now, back to back.

'Gotta move on those crosses,' Rourke shouted. 'Get some more of them down.'

'Of the six I freed,' Rubenstein shouted over the steady roar of the high pitched subgun, 'only two of them were able to move—one guy on the ground was using an assault rifle I liberated.'

Rourke said nothing, eyeing the battleground—there were still dozens of the wildmen, attacking in small packs, sporadic gunfire coming toward them now.

Then, 'Let's get outa here—free the rest of the men to carry the ones who can't walk—fight our way back toward the beach.'

Rourke started moving, Rubenstein backing as Rourke glanced toward him, covering his back, the barrel of the CAR-radiating heat as Rourke kept firing, the magazine well hot to the touch slightly as Rourke rammed a fresh stick up the well.

'I'm almost outa sticks, John,' Rubenstein sang out.

Rourke shouted back, 'Let's run for it—beat ya to the nearest cross,' then started out at a dead run, keeping low, the CAR-spitting fire. The nearest cross had a man clinging to it who seemed half dead, blood dripping down his wrists and forearms but no spikes driven through the palms of his hands—massive lacerations instead.

'Lemme,' Paul shouted, shifting the German MP-back on its sling, putting an open pocket knife between his teeth, then jumping for the cross's spar, reaching it, wrapping his blue jeaned legs around the stem and the man on it, then freeing one hand, sawing at the ropes. Rourke had retrieved his black chrome Sting IA and he hacked with it now at the ropes binding the ankles to the cross's stem.

'One hand to go,' Rubenstein shouted.

'Dr. Rourke,' the man called down from the cross. 'God bless you both!'

Rourke stared at the face of the man strung to the cross—the irony of the words struck him, at once saddened him.

He held the man by the legs as Rubenstein tried guiding him down. The man's sweating, shivering body was covered with clotted blood from lash marks across his chest and back, stab wounds in his thighs and upper arms.

Rourke felt almost ashamed to ask. 'Could you handle a gun—even from the ground?'

'Yeah—a gun—yeah,' the man mumbled.

'Fine,' Rourke nodded, rising to his full height, picking a target with an assault rifle. He started toward the wildman at a loping run, firing the CAR-as the man turned around.

Rourke was beside the body the next moment, wrestling the AR-from the dead man's grasp, searching the body—finding what he sought. Three spare twenty-round magazines.

He started back toward Rubenstein and the injured soldier—two of the wildmen blocked him, Rourke firing a short, two round burst from the CAR, downing the nearer man, the second man rushing him. Rourke sidestepped, snapping up the rifle butt, smacking against the side of the man's face. He wheeled half right, raking the flash deflector down like a bayonet across the exposed right side of the neck. The man sank, Rourke dropping got his knees beside the first man, firing his CAR-, assault rifle fire leveled at him now from the far side of the ring of crosses. Two of the wildmen—Rourke hitched the rifle he held to his shoulder, firing, one of the two men down, the second pulling back. Rourke grabbed up the Ml carbine the dead man near him had carried, searched the body under the rags and animal skins, found two thirty-round magazines in a jungle clip and was up and running again.