'Don't know,' Rourke shrugged. He didn't care either. As long as the man wasn't guarding his back.
'All right—do like you suggested—pick your own men.'
'Paul,' Rourke shouted, the younger man firing a burst toward the wildmen, the wildmen moving in the ! ow rocks on the top of the ridge, firing, advancing, firing.
'Paul!'
'Yeah!'
'Pick three men—fire and maneuver—take 'em as close to the edge there as you can, cover me until I get my men back twenty-five yards, then we'll lay down fire and you move back.'
'Gotchya,' Rubenstein called back.
As Rourke grabbed one of the sailors by the arm, then gestured to two more, Gundersen, already running ahead to get the rest of the men down, shouted, 'Good luck!'
Rourke looked after him, but said nothing.
Chapter 43
Rubenstein rammed a fresh stick into his liberated M-, the rifle coming up to his shoulder, one of his three man squad to his left, the other two behind and slightly above him.
He looked to his right—the edge of the ridge was perhaps a foot and one-half away, perhaps less, the rocks below jagged, dark, unremitting, he thought.
To fall into them—
'All right,' he shouted to his men. 'When I open up, hold it to three round burst—maximum—pick specific targets or we'll run out of ammunition before we hit the beach and we'll need plenty to keep them off our backs while we load the boats. Everybody ready!'
It was a command, not a question—he smiled, amused at himself. He had never served in any army, but since the Night of The War considered himself objectively a veteran, of much combat.
These three sailors—they looked to him, though all his own age, certainly little younger. They looked to him.
Leadership.
He settled the butt of the M-into the hollow in his right shoulder, his right elbow slightly elevated.
A man moved among the rocks, then another and another behind him. Gunfire was starting again. He squeezed the trigger of the M-, letting it go forward almost instantly.
A perfect three round burst. He made another, then another, bodies falling behind his front sight. He found
himself laughing as he fired—insanity? He had no time to consider that, he realized.
'Trigger control!' He shouted at the man next to him who'd let off seven shots in a burst. As he fired again, he laughed again, murmuring it to himself as well. 'Trigger control—trigger control—trigger—'
Chapter 44
Rourke pushed himself up, firing, Rubenstein's fire team under heavy assault rifle fire from the rocks above, on the last leg of the fight toward the beach—a fight it appeared they might lose, Rourke realized. There would be enough firepower to hold the wildmen back until they reached the surf, but unless a fireteam remained behind to cover the withdrawal, it would be hopeless—the boats would be shot out of the water.
'Come on, Paul!'
Rubenstein's three men hit the beach, Rubenstein still in the rocks, firing.
- Rourke ordered his own men. 'Those three—join 'em and set up a firebase to cover loading the boats,' and Rourke started to run, back into the rocks, Rubenstein pinned down now.
As he reached the edge of the rock field, he looked up—the wildmen were coming, seemingly uncaring of their own lives, coming. Rubenstein's rifle was blazing a hundred yards up in the rocks, glints of ricocheting bullets striking sparks in the night on the rocks around him.
Suddenly, Rubenstein's rifle stopped.
'Changing sticks,' Rourke rasped, upping his pace, clambering over the rocks.
