from the rocks above.
Rourke dove toward the shelter of a rock outcropping, snapping off two shots into the rocks. He heard the boom of the Python again, then silence, then suddenly the crack of three-shot bursts from an M-16.
He looked behind him as he reloaded his second pistol. Natalia— an M-16 spitting fire in her hands— was running toward him.
Rourke thumbed down the slide stop of the pistol in his left hand, sliding his thumb back around the tang, gripping the pistol, then pumping a fast two-round semiautomatic burst up into the rocks.
He still couldn't see Rubenstein and O'Neal, both men pinned by a heavy concentration of assault rifle fire. He heard Natalia's M-16 again, then her voice, breathless, beside him.
'How many do you think?'
'Two or three or they would have made a rush— remember, they're crazies.'
'Here,' and she stuffed the Python back into the flap holster on his right hip. He heard the snap of the flap closing shut. 'Two rounds left in it if you started with a full six.'
'Yeah,' he nodded, realizing that he too was breathless.
'There could be more of them in the valley, going for the helicopter.'
'To destroy it— yeah,' he nodded, watching her face for an instant in the moonlight, in the instant forgetting where he was, what he was doing— she was incredibly, unreally beautiful, he thought.
Another burst of assault rifle fire from the rocks. 'Gotta nail those suckers,' he rasped, finding one of his thin, dark tobacco cigars, biting off the end and clamping it between his teeth.
'I've never seen you do that before.'
'Usually trim the ends with a knife at the beginning of the day,' he told her. 'You keep 'em pinned down— don't try getting over in the rocks to Paul and O'Neal— I'll get up there after those suckers.' He reached his left hand to his musette bag, reaching inside, removing four AR15 thirties. 'Here,' and he looked at her for an instant as he handed her the magazines.
'I love you, too,' she smiled.
'Shut up,' he whispered, leaning across in the rocks, kissing her forehead.
Rourke pushed himself to his feet, starting to run— there were three men still to kill, he judged.
Chapter Seventeen
Rourke worked his way through the rocks, the partially spent magazines in the twin stainless Detonics pistols replaced with full ones, giving him seven rounds now in each gun, the full magazine plus the round chambered. He had emptied the Python of the two remaining rounds, worked one of the Safariland speedloaders against the ejector star and loaded six into the cylinder, the Python nestled in the flap holster on his right hip.
There were sporadic bursts of gunfire from the rocks, poorly controlled bursts that ate up large quantities of ammo and had little effect on a target except by accident.
There were occasional bursts from the rocks below as well— Natalia's M-16, three-round bursts which made sparks as they hit the rocks pinning down the wildmen. Bursts from Rubenstein's sub-gun too, neat bursts— two or three rounds each, long bursts— accurate but too long— from O'Neal. Rourke kept moving, seeing the three wildmen clearly now.
There was no other way for it.
He holstered the cocked and locked Detonics pistols and secured the guns in the leather, working the trigger guard breaks closed with the thumb and first finger of the opposite hand.
He reached to the Python.
He carried it for one reason only— long-range accuracy.
There were no custom parts in the gun— with some fitting he had taught himself to do, he could replace anything. It was one of the very few out of the box revolvers which could be used perfectly well without action tuning. The action was sometimes criticized as being too sensitive, too prone to fouling with dirt or debris. He had never found it so. And the strength of construction made it perhaps the most solid of .357 Magnum double actions.
He thumbed back the hammer as he extended the pistol in both clenched fists, resting his forearms on the rock in front of him but not the gun itself.
He sighted on the furthest of the three heads, then barely touched the trigger, launching the 158grain semi- jacketed soft point load, the gun barely moving in his hands, his right thumb cocking back the hammer, the other two wildmen starting to turn.
Rourke fired again, taking out the man to his left, the man's face seeming to disintegrate in the moonlight.
The third man, the last of the wildmen there, was raising the muzzle of the assault rifle.
No time for a single action shot, Rourke double-actioned the smooth trigger. The third headshot made, he waited quietly in the rocks— just in case there were others of the wildmen he had not detected.
He had a Python in storage for his son— one of the newer, stainless steel Pythons. He had a Detonics stainless for him as well. He wondered if he would ever see Michael Rourke again.
'John— are you all right?' It was Natalia— John Rourke took what he judged a full five seconds before answering her.
Chapter Eighteen
Lieutenant O'Neal had originally been a missile officer— before the complement of missiles from Commander Gundersen's nuclear submarine had been fired out on the Night of The War. His was the cause of his being with the shore party to begin with, and of his eventual sole survival despite his wounding.
Rourke thought of that as O'Neal, still weak but seemingly invigorated from the fighting, waxed eloquent over their predicament. 'She's right— Major Tiemerovna, that is. What she described from the homework she did on this system— assuming all her facts were straight—'
'We had a very highly placed source,' Natalia smiled. 'But he's dead now anyway— I think.'
'Yes— but assuming everything he gave you about the missiles was true, you're right, major. Disarming these would be very tricky— impossible once they were armed. You always get intelligence stuff on a need to know basis, but you pick things up, things you aren't supposed to know. This irretrievable system— The No— Recall was what they called it. Once they were armed, the only thing you could do was fire them.'
Rubenstein, leaning against the steel doors of the bunker, pushed himself away from the doors, saying, 'That's stupid!'
'Yeah— a lot of us thought so, Mr. Rubenstein,' O'Neal nodded, shifting his position on the ground, obviously uncomfortable. 'Nobody asked us, though. It was—' and O'Neal looked up at Natalia, standing opposite him, beside Rourke. 'I ahh— it was to guard against Soviet sabotage of our missile systems—'
'Don't apologize to me— I'm still an enemy agent,' she told him, her voice a warm alto, contrasting sharply, Rourke thought, with her words.
'Well, then— what'll we do—'
Rourke looked at Paul. 'You and O'Neal hold the position— against Cole. Three of them, two of you— shouldn't be that difficult. Natalia and I fly back to the submarine with the two helicopters— bring back reinforcements. Shouldn't be more than two hours— three tops. Those wildmen we killed were foragers, I guess. Either that or something like a patrol. These doors are bombproof, so they weren't trying to get into the bunker— you can see from these scorch marks where somebody tried it— likely some of these guys, and they learned they couldn't. If I'm wrong and there's a big concentration of wildmen coming, get out— we'll pick you up— fire a flare from that H-K flare pistol of mine—'
'There are flare guns in the helicopters—'
Rourke glanced at Natalia. 'Better still. So, either way,' Rourke said, taking his rifle from where it leaned against the bunker doors, 'it shouldn't be rough duty. Stay up in those rocks— Cole comes, keep him away from the bunker. The wildmen come, beat it out of here— and they'll keep Cole away. Then we can try to do something about getting inside— that may be where you come in,' Rourke said, looking at Natalia.
She laughed.
'What's so funny, major?' O'Neal asked, his face wearing a strange expression.
'A KGB major being aided in breaking into an air force missile bunker by the United States Navy—'
Rubenstein said it. 'She's right— that's funny—'
Chapter Nineteen
