'Aww— that was my good coat, John.'
'Shut up,' Rourke snapped— the wound was dirty, clotted— he would have to open it to clean it. 'You think it hurts now— wait'll I get around to fixin' it!'
Rubenstein glanced at him, then pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
'Coulda been worse, John— coulda lost my glasses.'
'Yeah— could've at that,' Rourke told him, leaning against the pickup truck. 'Remember how to hotwire a car?'
'Yeah— I remember,' Rubenstein nodded.
'Gimme that rifle and climb up there— once you've got it going, I'll pass up the CAR and the spare mags— we take off for the bunker— make a stand there— run over as many people as we can on the way, huh?'
Rubenstein smiled, handed Rourke the rifle and reached up for the door handle.
'Shit— it's locked!'
'I'll fix that,' Rourke told him. 'Look away.' Rourke reached for the Python at his hip, aimed at the lock and turned his face away, firing upward, the thudding sound loud of lead against sheet metal. 'Now try it.'
Rubenstein pulled at the door handle—'Hot' and the handle broke away, the door swinging out.
The younger man grinned, then started up into the pickup cab, gunfire coming from the sky again as Natalia's helicopter made another pass, gunfire from the ground as well as the shore party advanced from both sides. Rourke looked under the truck now, finding targets of opportunity with the CAR-15, firing single shots into backs and chests and legs, bringing down as many of the wildmen as he could.
The truck vibrated, coughed, rumbled— the engine made sputtering sounds as it came to life.
'John!'
'Right,' and Rourke edged up, grabbing the spare magazines, then throwing himself up beside Rubenstein. 'Can you drive this thing one-handed?'
'You just shift when I tell ya to,' Rubenstein shouted.
'Right,' and Rourke, the Python back in his right fist, tugged at the door, closing it partially.
Wildmen running for the truck, Rourke's right hand swinging the Python on line— one round, a head shot. A man down. Another round, then another, two in the chest and a man down. He fired out the last two, a double shot at a wildman with an M-16, the rifle discharging a long, ragged burst, a spiderwebbing in the glass at the top of the windshield.
'Shit,' Rubenstein shouted, the truck starting to move.
Rourke holstered the empty Python, giving Rubenstein the CAR-15. 'Just aim the truck forward and hold the wheel with your left knee—'
'Gotchya, John,' Rubenstein called back, taking the CAR-15 in his right fist and pointing it out the window, firing as wildmen stormed toward them.
Rourke took one of the Detonics pistols, firing point blank as a wildman jumped for the hood of the truck, the face exploding, blood caught on the truck's slipstream spattering the windshield.
The truck lumbered ahead. 'Have to shift,' Rubenstein shouted.
Rourke's left hand reached to the stick, his concentration focused on hearing, feeling the clutch pedal activate. He upshifted into second, the vehicle starting to weave, then back under control, no firing from Rubenstein with the CAR.
Rourke— through the partially shattered windshield— could see the bunker now— and there was a man near to it, near the doors, the doors opening— 'Cole!'
Chapter Thirty-Three
Natalia glanced at her altimeter and banked the helicopter to port, checking her degrees against the level horizon, correcting slightly and banking again, homing the machine toward the greatest concentration of wildmen, around the massive, oversize-wheeled pickup truck that she could see Rubenstein driving, Rourke beside him. At the far end of the flat expanse along the ridge she could see Lieutenant O'Neal as well— the rifle in his hands a familiar shape— an AK-47.
'Gunner— start firing when you're ready— leveling off,' she shouted back.
'Yes, ma'am,' the blond seaman shouted.
And she could hear it— the rattling of the M-60 machine gun mounted in the door— for his sake she wished there had been flak gear to protect his legs. There was heavy fire coming again from the ground as he strafed the wildmen attacking the truck.
Her heart froze— a man was entering the missile control bunker— Cole.
She pulled up on the controls, gaining altitude so she could maneuver, banking the helicopter steeply, 'Hold on, gunner!'
'Yes, ma'am— holdin' on!'
The helicopter spun a full one hundred eighty degrees and she had the nose lined up on the bunker, throttling out toward it, arcing hard to starboard. 'Gunner— kill that man entering the bunker!'
There was no answer in words, just the rattle of the M-60 machine gun, Natalia watching as the gun walked on target, the ground plowing up under the impact of the slugs, Cole disappearing inside the bunker doors as bullets hammered against the concrete surrounding the doors and into the doors themselves, Cole gone.
'Damnit!' she snapped. She pulled up on the controls, banking steeply to starboard again, climbing, then nosing down toward the ground— she would have to get the wildmen on the ground blocking Rourke and Rubenstein in the truck— and Rourke and Paul would have to get Cole. 'Damnit!'
Chapter Thirty-Four
Rourke rammed a fresh magazine into each of the Detonics pistols, shoving both out the window simultaneously as a wildman carrying a machete threw himself across the hood of the truck, Rubenstein screaming, 'John!'
Rourke fired both pistols, the slugs impacting against the blond, burly wildman's curly-haired chest, the body rolling off the front of the hood, Rourke bouncing in his seat, his head hitting the roof of the truck cab as the vehicle rolled over the body and there was a hideous-sounding scream.
The bunker was less than a hundred yards away now, Rourke firing at targets of opportunity, occasionally the truck lurching under him as Rubenstein would free his right hand to pump the CAR-15 through the driver's side window.
And Cole had disappeared.
Natalia's chopper buzzed overhead, gunfire pouring from it into the surrounding wildmen attempting to stop the truck through sheer force of body numbers, a solid wall forming in front of Rourke and Rubenstein, gunfire everywhere now, from the wildmen and from the submarine's shore party.
At the doors of the bunker now Rourke could see a second figure— O'Neal. The missile officer was stepping back, kicking out, ramming his foot against the outer door of the bunker, then falling onto his knees, firing his pirated AK-47 at the locking mechanism.
Rourke pumped the triggers of the twin stainless Detonics pistols, the truck grinding ahead, over the bodies, hurtling bodies to each side, gunfire ripping into the windshield again. Rourke fired out both pistols, nailing the wildman with the assault rifle.
Forty yards to go, Rourke ramming fresh magazines into his pistols. He fired one pistol through the open side window, killing a man there, then pushed open the door, standing up, holding to the truck cab, shouting to O'Neal, 'Back away— we're gonna ram the door.' The massive winch at the front of the vehicle— it could be used as a battering ram, Rourke judged. 'Paul— get into a crouch behind the wheel— I'll jump clear. Leave her in second and give her all the gas you got!'
'Right— gotchya,' Rubenstein shouted back.
Rourke jammed the second Detonics into his left hip pocket, holding on now against the window frame with his left fist, leaning out, firing the Detonics pistol in his right, a chest shot on a woman with a spear rushing toward them, her blond hair knotted and tangled, dirty. Her body spun out and she fell, lurching forward, the truck bouncing as the right front wheel crushed her, a scream piercing the air.
Rourke fired again— twenty-five yards to go— a massive man wrapped in what looked like dog skins racing toward them firing an assault rifle. Rourke emptied the Detonics into— the man's chest and neck, bright splotches of blood flowing there, the body lurching back, falling against more of the wildmen in his wake.
The Detonics was empty, the slide locked open, a wildman rushing them with a machete. Rourke dodged the
