The Savage Horde

Chapter 47

Bullets—strays, the distance too great for aimed fire from the lower elevation of the beach—pinged against the hull of the submarine, Rourke taking Gundersen's right hand in his, letting Gundersen help him up from the rubber boat.

He had been the last man, his arms sore, numbed with cold from the paddling of the rubber boat, helping to fight against the breakers and reach the submarine, the boat so low in the water that the packed survivors had scooped water with their hands as each wave broke, swamping them.

"Doctor Rourke—I see why the president wanted you for this thing with the warheads—-you should have been a field commander."

"War is stupid—fighting's necessary," Rourke answered, his voice a monotone—he was exhausted and knew it.

He shivered, crouching on the missile deck from the sporadic fire as the rubber boat was hauled up.

Gunderson, in cover behind the base of the sail, shouted, "Who the hell gave the order to open fire on the beach there—should court martial him—or give him a medal!"

The voice was quiet and Rourke looked up to the top of the sail. She held an M-in her hands, a half unconscious looking sailor standing beside her, leaning on the rail.

"I did, commander."

Rourke watched Gundersen's eyes. "If your doctor says it's okay, I'll buy you a drink, Major Tiemerovna—soon as we get this boat under the surface." Then Gundersen

shouted. "Secure the deck gun— prepare to dive!"

Rourke stood up, getting to the cover of the sail, surprised that he could still move.