The Savage Horde

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The Savage Horde Page 9

by neetha Napew


  .45. One standard pistol will suit our needs more than adequately. And of course

  each officer will have his own individual weapon." He patted the Colt Single

  Action Army under his uniform tunic.

  "There must be adequate supplies for all needs, but most especially for the

  weapons—the individual weapons. For the five thousand M-16s we will need there

  must be

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  five million rounds of 5.56mm military ball ammo—loaded in the eight hundred

  round steel containers will be best. These can then be sealed with wax as I've

  outlined in the master plans for the Womb. One million rounds of the .45 ACP

  ammunition for the one thousand pistols- This can be packed in greater bulk and

  likewise sealed. I'd suggest metal oil drums perhaps and the original

  boxes—again, all military ball ammunition,"

  "Yes, Comrade colonel."

  Rozhdestvenskiy nodded, stepping away from the wall where the rifles leaned and

  towara the catwalk. He looked below him—men moving equipment—portable

  generators, arc lights. More men—crates being unloaded from large trucks onto

  smaller trucks which could be rolled directly aboard the waiting C-130s on the

  airfield two miles away.

  "Work goes apace," he commented, leaning on the catwalk railing, swinging his

  body weight back and forth, feeling what he saw, feeling the power surging up in

  his blood. "But the pace must be quickened. If all the items are not secured in

  the Womb in a very, very short period of time, captain—all will have been for

  naught."

  "Yes, Comrade colonel—Comrade?"

  "Yes, captain?"

  "May I ask, Comrade colonel—why is this being—"

  Rozhdestvenskiy felt his smile fade. "The survival of the race, Comrade—the

  survival of the race."

  Rozhdestvenskiy said no more.

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  Chapter 25

  Rourke, Paul Rubenstein and Natalia sat, their eyes transfixed as were the eyes

  of the submarine's complement not on duty—to the television monitors in the crew

  mess. It had been the same with San Francisco when they had passed the

  ruins—watching a city where once people lived now an underwater tomb. With this

  city it was doubly difficult—a young seaman first class had been born there,

  lived there—his mother, father, two sisters and wife and son had died there.

  But he had insisted on watching—and now he wept.

  Not one of the men touched him; Rourke, feeling perhaps like the rest of them,

  not knowing what to say, to do.

  Natalia—wearing a robe borrowed from the captain, moving slowly, her left hand

  holding at her abdomen where Rourke had made the incisions—stood. Rourke started

  up after her, but she shook her head, murmuring, "No, John," then walked. She

  supported herself against the long, spotlessly clean tables, moving to alongside

  the weeping man.

  "I am sorry—for your family—and for you," she whispered, Rourke watching her,

  watching all the others watching her.

  The young man looked up. "Why'd you and your people wanna kill us—we coulda

  talked it out—or somethin'?"

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  "I don't know, sailor—I don't know," she whispered.

  He looked at her, just shaking his head.

  She moved her hands, touching them lightly to his shoulders. He looked down, his

  neck bent, his shoulders slumping. Natalia took a step toward him, leaning

  against him to help herself stand, her arms folding around his neck, his head

  coming to rest against her abdomen.

  She closed her eyes as he wept.

  Rourke breathed.

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  Chapter 26

  Rourke stood in the sail, the snowflakes thick and large, the temperature barely

  cold enough for them, he thought. They melted as they reached the backs of his

  hands on the rail, the knit cuffs of his brown leather bomber jacket,

  occasionally one of the larger flakes landing on his eyelashes—he would close

  his eyes for an instant and they would melt.

  The flakes melted down from his hair, the melted snow running in tiny rivulets

  down his forehead and his cheeks—he could feel them.

  Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna shivered beside him and he folded his arm around

  her to give her warmth.

  The submarine was moving—through the fjord-like cut in the land and toward the

  new coastline—it was north central California and beneath the wake the sub's

  prow cut were the bodies of the dead and cities they had lived in.

  ' Rourke thought of this—he could not avoid thinking of it ...

  There was a bay that had been carved at the far end of the inlet, Commander

  Gundersen on the sail beside Rourke, Rubenstein and Natalia, in constant radio

  contact with his bridge for depth soundings of the fjord—it had been created by

  the megaquakes that had destroyed California beyond the San Andreas faultline on

  the Night of The War. There were no charts.

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  * 'I'm running even at eighteen feet below the waterline—shit,'' and Gundersen

  looked away from Rourke, snapping into the handset, "Wilkins—this is it—we get

  ourselves hung up—bad enough we can't dive. All stop, then give me the most

  accurate soundings you can all through the bay—wanna channel I can stay over

  where I can dive if I have to. Once you've got that, feed in the coordinates and

  back her up—you got the con."

  "Aye, captain," the voice rattled back.

  Gundersen put down the set. "You've been avoiding Captain Cole."

  Rourke nodded, saying, "You didn't want a fight on board ship."

  "Well—the time has come, hasn't it—let's all get below and talk this out so we

  know what the hell we're doing, huh?" Gundersen didn't wait for an answer, but

  retrieved the handset, depressing the push-to-taik button. "Wilkins—Gundersen.

  Get that Captain Cole sent over to my cabin in about three minutes."

  "He was just up here looking for you, skipper."

  "Terrific—well—tell him I'm looking for him."

  Gundersen started below, cautioning. "Watch your step, miss," to Natalia. She

  nodded, starting down the hatchway after him.

  Rubenstein caught at Rourke's arm. "We really gonna go through with this?"

  "Cole wants those warheads—whether it's just carrying out his orders or for some

  other reason. Only way we can know is to be there with him when he gets them."

  "I was afraid you were gonna say that."

  Rourke felt himself smile. "Come on—watch your step. Slippery."

  Rubenstein nodded as Rourke looked away—there was more to watch your step about

  than ice on the sail, Rourke thought.

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  Chapter 27

  The weather had turned cold again—spring was gone. She wondered if it were

  forever.

  The refugee camp a short distance away had been eight days away. She stood now

  on a low rise, seeing it in the distance. Eight days—large Soviet forces moving

  into factory towns along the way, brigand concentrations— days of waiting in

  caves and in the woods—days of rain, of cold.

  She shivered, reaching her hands up to tug at the bandanna that covered her

  hair, to pull it lower over her ears. She folded her arms around herself,

  hugging herself—but the cold would not go away.


  "We can rest here," the gruff-voiced resistance leader announced. Gruff-voiced,

  she thought, but a warm man, a good man. Pete Critchfield, Bill Mulliner's

  father's second in command and now the leader by default. But he seemed a good

  leader, she thought.

  She looked behind her—Annie and Millie Jenkins rode the mule, Michael walked

  beside^

  "Stop for a while," she breathed—"the camp's in sight, but a little distance

  yet."

  They were in a field of jagged, carelessly arranged rocks on the rise, mists

  covering much of the valley, the fine mist coming down on them as well on the

  rise.

  The mule's hide smelled as she took Annie into her arms and helped her to the

  ground.

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  Michael held the mule's halter. Sarah helped Millie down.

  "You kids get under some shelter—got a shelter half goin' up," Bill Mulliner

  ordered.

  Michael looked at him, saying nothing, then nodded and took the two girls in

  tow.

  Sarah shifted the weight of her knapsack, tossing it to the ground near the

  rocks and then unslinging the M-16 from her right shoulder.

  "Mrs. Rourke—there's shelter for you, too," Pete Critchfield said, passing her.

  He was always moving, always doing something—never standing still.

  "I'm all right here, Mr. Critchfield," she called after him, not knowing if he'd

  heard or not.

  She sat on the rock nearest her, feeling the cold and dampness as it worked

  through her blue jeans to her panties and then to her skin.

  "Here, ma'am," and Bill Mulliner handed her a blanket. "Sit on this."

  She smiled up at him, took the blanket and placed it under her. The blanket was

  damp feeling, but at least not so cold as the rock, "The weather's crazy, isn't

  it?" she said, just for conversation.

  Bill Mulliner sat down beside her and she rearranged the blanket which brought

  him quite close to her, but at least made the young man more comfortable. "Them

  sunsets— so red. The thunder all the time in the sky—spooky to me," he nodded,

  lighting his pipe. He looked silly smoking it, but she wasn't about to tell him

  that.

  "Maybe it's the end—for all of us," she said after a moment.

  "Way I see it—well, folks used to talk in the magazines and books and on the

  television how's a nuclear war would kill ever'body. But everybody ain't dead,"

  and he looked at her.

  "Maybe you're right," she answered, her voice Jow.

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  She shifted the pistol belt she now wore—inherited from one of the dead brigands

  at the Mulliner farm. The .45, her husband's gun—was on the belt in a flap

  covered black leather holster with "US" stamped into the flap. She had canvas

  magazine holders on the belt as well—six extra magazines for the .45. The

  smaller gun—the Trapper Scorpion .45—was in a homemade belt holster— same

  holster Bill Mulliner's father had used, on a belt threaded through the belt

  loops of her jeans under her coat. It was a good way to carry a gun, she

  decided—it was always on her, except when she slept, and beside her then when

  she did.

  She unlatched the web material pistol belt, wrapped the belt around the flap

  holster and set the big .45 on the ground beside her—she was tired.

  "Things'Il be fine once you and your family reach the refugee camp—people

  there'll help ya out—and people there for you to help too, ma'am. Lots a sick

  people. Lots of people who lost their families and all. But it's a good

  place—church service twice a week—Wednesday nights and Sunday

  mornin's—preacher'd do more, but he keeps up goin' out the rest of the time

  lookin' for more sick people to bring in. Good man, the preacher. Methodist— me,

  I'm Baptist, but that's all right."

  "I guess we were Presbyterian before the War—didn't go much to church," she told

  him.

  "Me—heck, ma'am—I miss church. We had a youth group—I woulda been out of it the

  next year anyways— And the Scouts—my Scout troop was through the church—Pastor

  was my scout leader from the time I first got out of my Cub pack 'til I made

  Eagle Scout."

  "Your parents must have been very proud of you—I know your mother still is,"

  Sarah whispered.

  "I liked that life—don't spose we'll ever have that life again."

  "Did you have a girl?" she asked him, then felt sorry

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  for asking as she watched his eyes.

  "Yes, ma'am," he answered after a moment, sighing hard and loud. "Yes, ma'am—I

  had a girl. Pretty hair like yours—long like yours is."

  Sarah felt he wanted her to ask—so she did. "What happened to your girl, Bill?"

  The boy licked his lips, looked at her and then looked away, knocking out the

  pipe against the heel of his work-boot. "Dead, ma'am. What got me in the

  Resistance. She lived in town, ya know—some of them brigand trash came through

  right after it all happened. I—ahh—I found her— they'd, ahh—" He didn't finish

  it.

  Sarah reached out to him, putting her left arm across his shoulders, her left

  hand touching his neck as he leaned forward, not looking at her.

  "They'd—they'd raped her—real bad—real—it was— the stuff—all over her legs and

  her belly and her face— it—it was all beat up. She just died I guess—right in

  the middle of it all—her name was Mary—like my mom's—" He started to cry and

  Sarah leaned close to him. There wasn't anything she could say.

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  Chapter 28

  "I need Doctor Rourke with me—Rubenstein can stay here. And no guns for

  Rourke,*' Cole said flatly.

  Gundersen wove the fingers of his hands together. "I anticipated that, Captain

  Cole. I've talked briefly here with Doctor Rourke. Sending a man out unarmed

  into what might be out there would be like committing murder. Doctor Rouke gets

  his guns—"

  "I object to that, sir!"

  "I'll note that objection in my log," Gundersen went on placidly. Rourke watched

  his eyes. "And as to Mr. Rubenstein—if he chooses to accompany his friend, he

  certainly may. If you like, Lieutenant O'Neal—he's my missile officer and hasn't

  had much to do since we fired all our missiles you know—well, he's coming along

  as well as are a few of my men—a landing party. Lieutenant O'Neal can be

  responsible for Mr. Rubenstein if that suits you better. And as to Major

  Tiemerovna—there's no policy decision to be made there. She's not strong enough

  yet to travel. So she doesn't need her guns. Questions about that, captain?"

  "I still protest, sir—once we're on land, this mission is mine."

  "But this mission involves my submarine, mister—and getting those missile

  warheads safely on board this boat directly affects the safety of my crew. So

  some of my people go along, like it or not."

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  "I want to send out a recon patrol right away—before the shore party."

  "A wise move—I'll let you handle that. If you'd like any of my men to ace—"

  "No—no, sir. My men can handle that. That's what they're trained for."

  "Can I say something?" Rourke asked.

  "Certainly, Doctor Rourke," Gundersen nodded.

  Rourke saw Natalia, Paul—even Cole s
taring at him. "That recon party could be a

  mistake—we can recon as we go. We have to go from here anyway, regardless of

  what's out there. Only way to reach Filmore Air Force Base. Sending out a patrol

  from here will only serve to alert any potentially hostile force to our

  intentions of going inland. I say we move out under cover of darkness—get

  ourselves well inland before dawn and go from there."

  "Bullshit, Rourke!"

  "There's a lady present, mister," Gundersen snapped. "And I agree with Doctor

  Rourke."

  "The land portion of the mission is mine—I intend to send a recon patrol out

  now—I've got men geared up and ready."

  Rourke shrugged.

  Rubenstein cleared his throat, Rourke watching as the younger man pushed his

  glasses up off the bridge of his nose. "John's right—we let anybody out there

  know what we're up to, all they're going to do is set a trap for us."

  "If this meeting is about over, commander—I've got a final briefing for my men."

 

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