The Savage Horde

Chapter 10

"What's the name of this boat anyway?"

"Well, Mr. Rubenstein—you've got the terminology right. We call her a boat. I guess calling her a "her" is kinda dumb—but it's tradition. She's the U.S.S.

John Paul Jones."

"How'd you know my name?" Rubenstein asked the older man sitting across from him at the officer's mess table. Rubenstein looked at the radiation badge he'd been given as soon as he'd come aboard. No name appeared on it.

"My business to know everything that goes on aboard this boat—" The man smiled, extending his hand. "I'm Bob Gundersen—Commander Gundersen, sort of an affectionate title the men use with me. Sometimes they just call me Captain, though."

Rubenstein took the hand—it was warm, dry—solid.

"My friends call me Paul, Commander."

"Paul it is then—"

Rubenstein wished again he'd not given up smoking years earlier. "If you know everything that goes on on this ship, then tell me how Natalia's doing?"

"Major Tiemerovna?" He glanced at his watch—Rubenstein noticed it was a Rolex like Rourke wore. "Dr. Rourke started transfusing blood into her about ten minutes ago. He may be operating by now—I don't know that."

"I wish John weren't—"

"Doctor Rourke?"

"Yeah—John. I wish he weren't. I remember reading something once that doctors aren't supposed to operate on family members—or people they're close to. Too much of a stress situation."

"I asked Doctor Rourke the same thing myself," Gundersen nodded, sipping at his coffee. "He said he'd checked with our doctor—Harvey Milton. Doctor Milton told Rourke he'd never worked on a gunshot wound before. He hadn't. He's fresh out of medical school two years ago and before the Night of The War at least, we didn't have many gunshot wounds in the Navy. Now, of course, we don't really have a Navy at all. All the surface ships are gone or at least gone out of contact. Not many of us in the pigboat fleet left either."

"Pigboats?"

"Old submariner's term—real old. But I'm an old submariner," Gundersen smiled.

"Guess that's why it doesn't bother me to use it. Naw, but—ahh—anyway, Dr.

Milton never had worked on gunshot wounds before and your friend Doctor Rourke said he had. Guess there wasn't much choice. Bumped into Milton outside the sick bay just before Rourke began transfusing Major Tiemerovna—Milton seemed to think Rourke was good. Only hope Harvey was right."

"Harvey?"

"Doctor Milton's first name—"

"Ohh—oh, yeah," Rubenstein nodded.

"Brought this along—figured you might be needing it. Sometimes the waiting gets harder than the doing." From the seat beside him Gundersen produced a small slab-sided bottle. "Medicinal liquor—I've drunk smoother. But there's more where it comes from," and Gundersen handed Rubenstein the bottle. Rubenstein downed his coffee, twisted open the bottle and poured two fingers into the cup. He offered the bottle to Gundersen. "Never touch the stuff when we're underway."

"What's that mean?"

"We've been underwater and heading north for—" he looked at his wristwatch.

"Fifty-eight minutes. They don't really need me up there until we get near the icepack—and that'll be a while yet. Should be tricky—imagine there's been a lot of shifting in the pack since the Night of The War."

"Ice pack?" Rubenstein coughed—the medicinal liquor was strong, burning as he felt it in the pit of his stomach.

"As to the running of the submarine here and the welfare of my crew, I give the orders. But for the actual operation it's Captain Cole's say so. He ordered us underway before they put him out to take out the two slugs in his left arm."

"Ohh, shit," Rubenstein muttered, taking another swallow of the liquor. It burned less this time.