The Savage Horde

Chapter 45

It had been coming on toward sunrise for some time, the darkness turning to grayness, and in the grayness, she could see the wildmen—wildmen the prisoners had looked like, the returning men had described. She could see them swarming down through the rocks perhaps two hundred yards away.

"Sailor—I'm sorry," she smiled, her right hand snapping out in a knife edge, the heel hammering against the man's throat with calculated force—disorient him, perhaps knock him out—not to kill. His body stumbled, slipped, her-left hand catching at the M-, her right hand snaking toward his neck, easing his fall, her abdomen aching badly where the incision was as she stooped to ease him down.

She stood, her breath coming in short gasps with the pain. She shrugged, the blanket falling from her head and shoulders completely now, only the arctic parka and the robe to keep her against the cold.

She'winked a snowflake from her left eyelash, then eared back the bolt on the M-, letting it fly forward. The nearest of the rubber boats was still more than fifty yards from the submarine.

She stepped to the rail, pointing the M-skyward, firing a short three-round burst, her selector set to full auto.

Faces—the sailors on the deck, turned toward her.

' Those men in the boats—the ones still on the beach—they'll never make it if we don't do something. We can fire into the rocks, fire high so we won't hit our own

men—lay down heavy fire. Three round bursts—keep it pouring in there—please!"

The faces were blank, or at best puzzled.

"Like this," and she snapped the rifle to her shoulder, firing over the railing toward the rocks beyond the beach.

She returned the muzzle to the rail, resting it there. "Like this—we can do it."

"Orders, ma'am," one voice called up to her. "We ain't sposed t'fire."

"Sailor," she almost whispered. "I'll kill the first man who doesn't—those are your comrades out there—only you can save them."

Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna shouldered the M-again, her abdomen hurting badly from the unaccustomed exertion.

She pointed the flash deflectored muzzle at the sailor who had spoken.

He looked at her for an instant longer. "Where's Harriman, ma'am?"

"I knocked him out so I could steal his gun."

"Yes, ma'am," and then the sailor—she couldn't tell the rank, turned to the men who stared at her from a missile deck. "You heard the lady—if we're gonna disobey orders, may's well do a fucking good job of it!" And he looked up at Natalia.

"Scuse the language, ma'am."

"Think nothing of it, sailor," she smiled.

"Yes, ma'am," and he shouted again then. "Four of us up in the bow—two more up there with the lady, the rest on the starboard side—shoot high!" The sailor started to sprint across the missile deck, then suddenly all the men were moving.

Natalia, her abdomen still paining her, but warmth filling her suddenly, threw the rifle to her shoulder.

She could see no targets, but she could see the last defenders on the beach from their muzzle flashes. She aimed high, firing into the gray swirling snow.