ramming it into his belt. He whacked the base of the magazine, seating it, then threw the rifle to his shoulder, firing up into the rocks at the wildmen. One man in his scope—one man dead. He shifted the scope. A woman, or a tall, long-haired man who seemed very thin. Rourke fired, the body falling from sight.
'Cole—you and your man!' Rourke shouted over the gunfire.
The fire from Rubenstein's M-increased, Rourke feeling the hot brass pelting at him, feeling it against his neck, feeling one of the empties sliding down his shirt front.
He kept firing. Another wildman under his scope—he shot the man twice, the body tumbling from the rocks, a scream echoing across the defile.
'Here we come,' Cole shouted, Rourke glancing away from his scope, seeing Cole and the Army private running. Rourke looked back to the scope, finding another target, firing, firing again, the target going down.
'They're through—come on, John,' Rubenstein shouted.
'Get going,' Rourke rasped, glancing to his left as Paul was up and running, firing a burst half over his shoulder into the rocks.
Rourke dropped the partially shot out magazine, stuffing it into his belt, inserting a fresh thirty up the well. He started to run, turning every few steps, pumping shots up into the rocks. Beyond the V-notch there had been a rocky trail, narrow. He ran along it now, firing out the magazine in the CAR-, the trail taking a sharp bend to his right and down, gunfire hammering into the rock wall to his right as he took the bend.
He stopped, the ricocheting sounds of bullets hitting granite stopping—he was out of range.
He looked ahead of him.
A valley.
Natalia sat on her haunches, Paul stooped over beside her, her face pale, her head between her knees. O'Neal's left arm was streaming blood, but he stood erect. One of O'Neal's men lay on the ground, the front of his peacoat stained and wet with blood.
In the valley beyond the trail and stretching below them—Rourke walked forward, toward the edge of the trail—he could see the outline of a fenced military enclosure—Filmore Air Force Base. There were small craters in the far side of the valley—to the north. Nothing grew in the valley—brown trees, brown grass—he couldn't hear a bird chirp.
'Radiation seems okay—what the hell happened?' Rubenstein asked, suddenly beside him.
Rourke looked at the younger man. 'Neutron bombs—the craters are from the impact areas.'
'John—' Natalia, pale, closing her eyes as she spoke, turned her face up toward the sky, her voice odd sounding. 'Why did they stop shooting—why aren't they—'
'Following?' He interrupted. 'Everything that was here is dead—maybe some personnel at the base—but they're afraid of radiation.' He looked away from her—it
would have been green before the Night of The War. Now it was brown and dead.
There were wounds to treat—the man on the ground seemed the most serious.
'Natalia—when you can, take care of O'Neal's bleeding.'
Rourke started toward the missile technician on the ground—like O'Neal, his missiles fired, he was out of a job. Rourke bent to check his pulse—he was out of life as well.
If the warheads still existed, to get them out past the wildmen would be nearly impossibler Rourke realized.
And there was still Cole.
He thumbed closed the eyelids of the dead man, stood up and removed his sunglasses.
'We can rest here for a little while—move out into the valley in a few hours—Paul and I'll take the geiger counters and run point for radiation.'
He found another injured man, mechanically starting to treat him—it was minor.
He wondered who cared for his wife and two children—were they alive? He closed his eyes and told himself they were, and that he would find them, then opened his eyes and inspected the injured man's wound. 'Paul—get my medical kit—got a bullet to take out here.'
