'Captain—the gunfire's pretty much died out.'
'Hope those men haven't died out with it, O'Neal,' Gundersen panted, pulling himself up over a breadloaf-shaped rock and starting for the next one.
Gundersen judged the distance remaining to the height of the rocks as some twenty yards—twenty yards that could well take another five minutes to traverse.
'O'Neal—take your men and spread 'em out—both ends of the rocks. We get up there and there's an ambush waiting for us, don't want 'em having too easy a time of it.'
'Like a pincer movement, sir—'
'Don't give me that Army crap,' Gundersen laughed, panting, his breathing coming hard. He realized now—shifting his weight to pull up over another rock—what a soft life it was to be a submariner.
O'Neal was shouting orders, the men of the landing party fanning out. Gundersen silently wished he had Marines with him—he'd used Marines in a shore party once and despite the massive Navy-Marine Corps rivalry, he considered them consummate fighters.
He was nearly to the top of the rocks, to the ridgeline there and he stopped, leaning against a slab of flat rock, taking the Government Model . from the shoulder holster strapped across his chest, jacking back the slide. He still wished he hadn't lost the Detonics.
He raised the thumb safety, then turned toward the rocks again, inhaling deeply, resigning himself to the last part of the climb. As he started it, he shouted to O'Neal and the others, the words coming in gasps because of his breathlessness.
'We reach the—reach the top—con-consolidate on me and on O'Neal—consolidate on us before fanning out.' He didn't know if that was proper tactics, but he didn't want his men too scattered. He reached up with his left hand,-then his right, the pistol in his right hand scraping across the rock. 'Kiss off the finish,' he murmured, peering up over the ledge.
He could see Rourke, Rubenstein and two men—the men looked butchered and half dead—running, limping, pursued by what seemed like a hundred men who looked even more terrifyingly feral than the prisoners brought back to the submarine. They brandished knives, guns, torches. And faintly, as the running bands came even closer, he could hear shouts—savage cries. 'Kill the heathens!'
'Holy cow,' he swore. 'Christ—'
Chapter 39
Rourke dropped the man to the ground, turning toward the mob, a Detonics pistol, freshly loaded, in each hand.
'Paul—we can't haul these guys any further!'
'I know,' Rubenstein's voice came back, sounding odd.
'If I don't get out—and you do—'
'I'll get back—I'll find them—I swear it to God, John—'
'And Natalia—'
'I'll take care of her—'
The younger man was beside him now—no rocks to hide in, nowhere to run, out in the open, the savage horde of wildmen running toward them brandishing spears, clubs, knives, a' bizarre assortment of guns—and the torches lighting the night, their glowing brilliance leaving floaters on the eyes as Rourke watched.
'John—'
Rourke stabbed one of the pistols into his belt, his right hand going out, to Rubenstein's shoulder. He said nothing, just looked at the man—his friend.
He moved his hand away, retaking the Detonics . in his fist, his fingers balling on the checkered rubber of the Pachmayr grips.
Rourke had predetermined it—he would save one round, to shoot Paul if somehow it looked the wildmen would take him alive. It was better than the cross, far better.
He held the pistols at his hips, ready.
The mob was slowing its advance, the leaders or front runners—Rourke couldn't tell which—waving their torches in the air.
The mob stopped, then began to advance, slowly, at a determined walk. The isolated shouts and curses were gone, but the voices now becoming one voice, a chant, the words chilling his soul. 'Kill the heathens! Kill the heathens! Kill the heathens! Kill—'
'John—remember how you used to tell me—trigger control?'
Rourke nodded, words hard to come for him, his throat tight. 'Yeah. I remember.'
'It's been like a second life anyway, hasn't it,' the younger man's voice murmured, Rourke not looking at him.
'Yes.'
Rourke turned to look at Rubenstein, the pistol—the battered Browning High Power—clutched in his right
