The Savage Horde

Chapter 43

Rubenstein rammed a fresh stick into his liberated M-, the rifle coming up to his shoulder, one of his three man squad to his left, the other two behind and slightly above him.

He looked to his right—the edge of the ridge was perhaps a foot and one-half away, perhaps less, the rocks below jagged, dark, unremitting, he thought.

To fall into them—

"All right," he shouted to his men. "When I open up, hold it to three round burst—maximum—pick specific targets or we'll run out of ammunition before we hit the beach and we'll need plenty to keep them off our backs while we load the boats. Everybody ready!"

It was a command, not a question—he smiled, amused at himself. He had never served in any army, but since the Night of The War considered himself objectively a veteran, of much combat.

These three sailors—they looked to him, though all his own age, certainly little younger. They looked to him.

Leadership.

He settled the butt of the M-into the hollow in his right shoulder, his right elbow slightly elevated.

A man moved among the rocks, then another and another behind him. Gunfire was starting again. He squeezed the trigger of the M-, letting it go forward almost instantly.

A perfect three round burst. He made another, then another, bodies falling behind his front sight. He found

himself laughing as he fired—insanity? He had no time to consider that, he realized.

"Trigger control!" He shouted at the man next to him who'd let off seven shots in a burst. As he fired again, he laughed again, murmuring it to himself as well. "Trigger control—trigger control—trigger—"