The Savage Horde

Chapter 42

Rourke walked backward, pumping short bursts from the M-toward the advancing horde of wildmen—they were firing back, perhaps galvanized by the loss of life their ranks had suffered, galvanized to fight as a unit and the gunfire was having some effect. One of Gundersen's landing party was down, dead, the body being carried slung in a fireman's carry by one of the other sailors, still another wounded in the left arm, but firing an M-with his right.

Gundersen was running, back toward Rourke as Rourke turned to see how close they were to the far side of the ridgeline. "I'm already getting my men down with those two crucified men—got three more helping them, then to get the inflatable ready and into the surf."

"They're gonna pick us off as we climb down the rocks on the far side," Rourke told Gundersen matter-of-factly. "Unless we break up—Paul can take three men and so can I—fire and maneuver elements to cover the rest of you getting down."

"Where the hell is Cole anyway?"

"Don't know," Rourke shrugged. He didn't care either. As long as the man wasn't guarding his back.

"All right—do like you suggested—pick your own men."

"Paul," Rourke shouted, the younger man firing a burst toward the wildmen, the wildmen moving in the !ow rocks on the top of the ridge, firing, advancing, firing.

"Paul!"

"Yeah!"

"Pick three men—fire and maneuver—take 'em as close to the edge there as you can, cover me until I get my men back twenty-five yards, then we'll lay down fire and you move back."

"Gotchya," Rubenstein called back.

As Rourke grabbed one of the sailors by the arm, then gestured to two more, Gundersen, already running ahead to get the rest of the men down, shouted, "Good luck!"

Rourke looked after him, but said nothing.