He had been the last man, his arms sore, numbed with cold from the paddling of the rubber boat, helping to fight against the breakers and reach the submarine, the boat so low in the water that the packed survivors had scooped water with their hands as each wave broke, swamping them.
'Doctor Rourke—I see why the president wanted you for this thing with the warheads—-you should have been a field commander.'
'War is stupid—fighting's necessary,' Rourke answered, his voice a monotone—he was exhausted and knew it.
He shivered, crouching on the missile deck from the sporadic fire as the rubber boat was hauled up.
Gunderson, in cover behind the base of the sail, shouted, 'Who the hell gave the order to open fire on the beach there—should court martial him—or give him a medal!'
The voice was quiet and Rourke looked up to the top of the sail. She held an M-in her hands, a half unconscious looking sailor standing beside her, leaning on the rail.
'I did, commander.'
Rourke watched Gundersen's eyes. 'If your doctor says it's okay, I'll buy you a drink, Major Tiemerovna —soon as we get this boat under the surface.' Then Gundersen
shouted. 'Secure the deck gun— prepare to dive!'
Rourke stood up, getting to the cover of the sail, surprised that he could still move.
Chapter 48
The 'drink' had devolved to a glass of orange juice; Natalia sitting in her borrowed bathrobe beside Rourke in the officers' mess, Rourke feeling the pressure of her left hand on his right thigh through the blanket he had wrapped around him over his wet clothes. He sipped at his coffee—it was hot, almost scaldingly so—good to feel in his throat and stomach.
Gundersen walked in, sitting down, removing his cap and setting it on the table.
'Doctor Milton says Paul Rubenstein is going to be fine—Rubenstein remembers trying to grapple with that wildman who overturned the boat—the butt of the man's machete took care of him. Milton doesn't think there's anything serious but he's keeping Rubenstein confined to bed for the next twenty-four hours just in case of mild concussion. Said you could check, but there really wasn't the need.'
'He need any help with—'
'The wounded—Pharmacists Mate Kelly is patching up the lesser wounds, and Milton seems to feel he has the more serious cases under control. Those two survivors of the crucifixions—lots of cuts, bruises, lacerations—the only serious wound was Cole's man who got it in the knee—that knee's gonna keep him out of action for a long time, but should heal satisfactorily—at least that's Milton's preliminary diagnosis.'
'Good,' Rourke nodded.
Rourke looked across the table, at the far end to his left—Cole sat there, smoking, nursing a cup of coffee.
Rourke said nothing to him.
'Gentlemen—and major,' Gundersen began. 'We're going to have to find another area to try another penetration. The boat's ammo stores are seriously depleted, and more importantly the manpower. We lost six dead, have fourteen wounded in all.'
'What about the wildmen we took prisoner?'
'Disassembled their cot springs, used them to slash their wrists—Milton nearly saved one of them, but the blood loss was too great.' Gundersen sighed hard.
'Suicide—what kind of people are these with such total disregard for their own lives—those attacks—they were suicide charges—I heard about them from the men in Korea years ago.'
Rourke lit one of his dark tobacco cigars, his lighter too wet still to use, using a match instead. 'Did Milton check the bodies for abnormal radiation levels?'
Gundersen nodded, then, 'He thought of that too—maybe a death wish because they figured they were dying anyway. He autopsied one of the men while the battle was going on out there—aside from bizarre diet—nuts, berries, things like that, the man was perfectly normal. Physically,' Gundersen added.
Cole, his voice odd, detached sounding, interjected, 'We've still gotta get to those warheads—the hell with those wildmen or whatever they are—'
'Barbarism,' Rourke interrupted. 'Civilized men sunk to barbarism—so short a time. Some religion—has to be. They kept shouting, 'Kill the heathens.' Kept shouting it over and over. Half civilized, half savage—that business with the crosses, then burning people. My guess there's some leader who organized these people— survivors of the Night of The War, maybe a religious cult before then.'
'There were many crazy religious cults in California—warrior religions and things like that,' Natalia murmured. 'Before the Night of The War—in KGB, there were plans to infiltrate some of the cults, perhaps use them to start civil unrest—Vladmir—'
'Vladmir?' Gundersen asked.
'My husband—he is dead. He—he, ahh—he believed that if the people of the United States could be made to fear their own homes, the safety of their own beds, they would be that much easier to conquer. Some agents
