Survivalist - 18 - The Struggle (21 page)

The cleats were not a ladder, but served well enough as purchases for hands and feet. There was a rail along the missile deck. Darkwood clung to it, roping along hand over hand, his feet only frictioning against the hull. Rourke followed him, his knife in his borrowed webbed belt.

John Rourke raised his head, peered across the missile deck. Some of Aldridge’s people were already boarding the Island Classer. It was imperative to wait until some of them at least were below decks, lest the hatches were shut and the submarine dived.

Rourke kept moving, nearer to the sail, looking to his left. Half of the two dozen men of the boarding part> were clinging to the rail, some of the others still on the cleats, fewer than a half dozen still in the water, men with knives bitten hard in their teeth, sharp

pointed sticks thrust through their belts, barefoot, shirtless men, like Rourke was himself, their bodies dripping wet, the wind like icy tentacles curling around them.

John Rourke kept moving. He stopped. It appeared that some of the Aldridge party were below decks. But there was some sort of altercation on the missile deck near the boat ladder on the starboard side, and Sam Aldridge seemed to be in the middle of it. The Marine Captain just stood there, still acting like a cowed prisoner, Lance Corporal Lannigan, now in a Marine Spetznas Lieutenant’s uniform, standing between Aldridge and a naval officer of considerable rank, perhaps Commander Stakhanov from the radio message.

Rourke looked to his right. His eyes and Darkwood’s eyes met. Rourke looked across the missile deck. Aldridge took a step away, Stakhanov drawing a pistol. It wasn’t a Sty-20, looked like a real gun.

Jason Darkwood shouted, “Board her!”

John Rourke pushed himself up, over the rail, his wet trousers sticking to his legs, his hair dripping water across his face, the wind and falling snow freezing him as on bare feet he raced across the missile deck. Lannigan stabbed one of the Mid-Wake issue pistols toward the naval officer and fired, again and again, the man’s body tumbling back, sprawling across the deck.

John Rourke’s left hand reached out, grabbed one of the Arkhangelsk’s company from behind, spun him around. John Rourke’s right hand thrust forward, the LS-X knife punching into flesh.

There were shouts. There was a pistol shot, then another and another. A burst of assault rifle fire and a scream, the body of a Soviet seaman tumbling from the sail, smashing down on to the missile deck. Rourke shoved the dead man off his knife, ajunior Soviet naval

officer turning to face him, a Sty-20 in his right hand. Rourke’s right hand moved faster, the LS-X slashing open the carotid artery, continuing across the throat, Rourke averting his eyes as the blood sprayed.

Paul Rubenstein was locked in combat with a man nearly twice his size, the man swinging a fire axe, Paul ducking under its arc, lunging with the Gerber knife, into the axe-wielding man’s abdomen, out, then in again, falling to his knees as the man tumbled forward over him. Then Paul was on him, raking the knife across the man’s throat as he snapped the head back by the ear, blood spurting across the deckplates.

John Rourke started for the sail, gunfire from the rail at its height, Rourke drawing one of the two Sty-20s from his belt, firing it again and again and again toward the man with the assault rifle, the useless pistol outclassed by the range. Rourke bashed it across the skull of a Soviet seaman, sheathing his knife, jumping for the ladder to the top of the sail. As Rourke climbed, the rifleman above him leaned over the railing, taking aim. He heard Paul’s voice behind him. “John! Swing right!”

John Rourke swung right. There was the crack of a pistol shot from the deck below, then again and again. Rourke looked back, Paul Rubenstein, shirtless and dripping wet, the Soviet Commander’s pistol in his right hand. Rourke swung back to the ladder, took the rungs as quickly as he could, vaulted over the rail, and was on the sail.

A yard from his feet, the main hatch was closing. To his left, a Soviet seaman rushed him with a monkey wrench. John Rourke sidestepped right, the Crain LS-X in his hand. As the monkey wrench swung, Rourke dodged, then rammed the Crain knife forward into the seaman’s throat. Rourke brought his left fist to the knife, swinging the already dead man round, hurtling

the body off the knife and interposing flesh between the hatch and the deck.

On the deck near Rourke’s bare feet was the AKM-96 that a moment ago had been aimed at him. He picked it up, stabbing the muzzle of the AKM-96 under their hatch. The body was being compressed, blood spurting from it. Rourke fired, spraying out the contents of the magazine into the space below.

He left the rifle wedged beneath the hatch, then reached to it, throwing his body weight against the hatch. Suddenly Paul was beside him, then Jason Darkwood. “Wait a minute!” Paul shouted. There was a second AKM-96 on the sail’s deck and Paul grabbed it, fired it out beneath the hatch.

Suddenly, the downward pressure on the hatch eased, reversed. There was a shout from below. It was Sam Aldridge’s voice. “We’re secure below—get more men down here, Jase!”

As the hatch raised, Rourke, then Paul Rubenstein and Jason Darkwood simultaneously started down, Rourke’s knife back in his fist.

Bodies of Soviet seamen and Americans from Mid-Wake lay everywhere. Aldridge was bleeding from his right shoulder. “The bridge is secure. And so are the torpedo rooms. Time’s on our side now!” Aldridge started down into the bowels of the Island Classer.

Rourke took the ladder down, skating it, crashing, dropping to his knees, then running after Sam Aldridge.

Paul Rubenstein was beside him.

Sam Aldridge was shouting, “The ship is ours!”

And Jason Darkwood ran toward the bridge …

The fighting below decks consumed another hour, scouring every berth and cabin, every possible space

I for Soviet personnel. Those who surrendered or were I captured alive were allowed to live. They were put I ashore with provisions and a radio, the radio disas-i sembled so it would take several hours to make it work | again, enough time for Darkwood to pilot the Island Classer out of harm’s way.

They waited for dawn, and the snow finally slowed, nearly stopped. There was a crack in the horizon, sun bleeding beneath it across the sea.

Above the sail, some of Aldridge’s Marines raised the American flag.

John Rourke stood beside Paul Rubenstein. It was cold. The wind blew fiercely as the flag stiffened under it.

John Rourke watched it for a long time. Things were turning around. He felt it inside himself. Beside him, Paul Rubenstein wept.