Read Online Survivalist - 15 - Overlord by Jerry Ahern - Free Book Online
Authors: Jerry Ahern
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that.
The helicopter was steadily dropping, the land beneath it steadily rising, the effect unnerving slightly as Rourke’s eyes surveyed the battlefield they fast approached at the rim of the cone. The main body of Soviet forces and hence the main thrust of the Soviet attack against the Hekla Community seemed concentrated against the face of the cone nearest the German base —a poor move, Rourke felt subjectively, but if the Soviets had been better tacticians and strategists, they would have been that much more difficult an enemy.
Rourke shouted to the pilot, Rourke’s radio set already stripped away before he had entered the open doorway. “Bring her down now!” It was convenient that the German officer corps spoke English, but for himself and Natalia, though her accent was better and her vocabulary broader, German was not a problem at any event.
The pilot made a hand signal showing recognition, Natalia joining John Rourke at the fuselage door, holding to the same safety strap that he did. Paul Rubenstein wedged himself just inside the door as he pulled up his parka hood then regripped the M-16s. The German MP-40 submachinegun was strapped to and snugged tight against his chest.
The rotor pitch shifted abruptly and Natalia was thrown slightly off balance, Rourke feeling her impact against him. “Be careful,” she shouted over the slipstream.
“I love you too,” he told her.
“I know that,” she nodded, leaning up quickly, tugging away the scarf which protected the lower portion of her face against the wind and the cold, kissing him full on the lips,
but briefly, then pulling away and raising the scarf again. Rourke glanced at his friend Paul. Paul nodded.
The helicopter was nearly down, but attracting no noticable attention from the rear of the Soviet lines as it swept in. The chopper skimmed the glacier crusted surface now, stopping abruptly to hover in mid-air, then seemed to skid into touchdown.
Rourke loosened the security strap and jumped, nearly losing his balance on the glacial ice, breaking into a dead run as he regained it. Paul and Natalia jumped out side by side as Rourke glanced back, Rourke diving for cover behind a wide ice ridge which signalled a crevasse below, looking back again. Paul and Natalia had taken up positions nearer the landing, side by side behind the protection of a massive upthrust boulder. Rourke worked the safety tumbler of the M-16 to full auto, shouldering the rifle, waiting. He glanced right, across the snowfield, the light nearly bright enough to read now that the clouds above which had darkened the sky during most of their journey from Europe had broken to reveal a three-quarters full moon. Natalia nodded and Paul loosed one of his M-16s, gave a handsignal and then shouldered the other assault rifle. Rourke moved his right first finger inside the trigger guard.
There was a whooshing sound, then a whistling sound and then a roar, the first grenade from the multi-barreled German grenade launcher impacting, exploding, into the core of the Russian rear. Bodies sailed into the night sky, plummeting downward, in whole or in fragments, a puff of orange tinged white smoke belching upward. The whoosh, the whistle, the roar again, another grenade detonated; some of the Russians dodged to take cover, others turned to fire. Rourke touched his finger to the trigger, spraying, burning through at least ten rounds, shifting the muzzle, doing it again, confident against burning out the barrel with the sub-zero temperatures. He blew out the entire magazine, bodies falling as the Russians rushed their position.
The grenade launcher again, assault rifle fire from Paul’s position as Rourke changed sticks, ramming the fresh thirty-round magazine up the well, continuing firing. The whoosh, the whisde, the roar, more Russians down. Rourke was up on his feet, spraying out the entire magazine, then dropping as enemy soldiers fell and others rushed toward him to take their place. Paul was
The helicopter was steadily dropping, the land beneath it steadily rising, the effect unnerving slightly as Rourke’s eyes surveyed the battlefield they fast approached at the rim of the cone. The main body of Soviet forces and hence the main thrust of the Soviet attack against the Hekla Community seemed concentrated against the face of the cone nearest the German base —a poor move, Rourke felt subjectively, but if the Soviets had been better tacticians and strategists, they would have been that much more difficult an enemy.
Rourke shouted to the pilot, Rourke’s radio set already stripped away before he had entered the open doorway. “Bring her down now!” It was convenient that the German officer corps spoke English, but for himself and Natalia, though her accent was better and her vocabulary broader, German was not a problem at any event.
The pilot made a hand signal showing recognition, Natalia joining John Rourke at the fuselage door, holding to the same safety strap that he did. Paul Rubenstein wedged himself just inside the door as he pulled up his parka hood then regripped the M-16s. The German MP-40 submachinegun was strapped to and snugged tight against his chest.
The rotor pitch shifted abruptly and Natalia was thrown slightly off balance, Rourke feeling her impact against him. “Be careful,” she shouted over the slipstream.
“I love you too,” he told her.
“I know that,” she nodded, leaning up quickly, tugging away the scarf which protected the lower portion of her face against the wind and the cold, kissing him full on the lips,
but briefly, then pulling away and raising the scarf again. Rourke glanced at his friend Paul. Paul nodded.
The helicopter was nearly down, but attracting no noticable attention from the rear of the Soviet lines as it swept in. The chopper skimmed the glacier crusted surface now, stopping abruptly to hover in mid-air, then seemed to skid into touchdown.
Rourke loosened the security strap and jumped, nearly losing his balance on the glacial ice, breaking into a dead run as he regained it. Paul and Natalia jumped out side by side as Rourke glanced back, Rourke diving for cover behind a wide ice ridge which signalled a crevasse below, looking back again. Paul and Natalia had taken up positions nearer the landing, side by side behind the protection of a massive upthrust boulder. Rourke worked the safety tumbler of the M-16 to full auto, shouldering the rifle, waiting. He glanced right, across the snowfield, the light nearly bright enough to read now that the clouds above which had darkened the sky during most of their journey from Europe had broken to reveal a three-quarters full moon. Natalia nodded and Paul loosed one of his M-16s, gave a handsignal and then shouldered the other assault rifle. Rourke moved his right first finger inside the trigger guard.
There was a whooshing sound, then a whistling sound and then a roar, the first grenade from the multi-barreled German grenade launcher impacting, exploding, into the core of the Russian rear. Bodies sailed into the night sky, plummeting downward, in whole or in fragments, a puff of orange tinged white smoke belching upward. The whoosh, the whistle, the roar again, another grenade detonated; some of the Russians dodged to take cover, others turned to fire. Rourke touched his finger to the trigger, spraying, burning through at least ten rounds, shifting the muzzle, doing it again, confident against burning out the barrel with the sub-zero temperatures. He blew out the entire magazine, bodies falling as the Russians rushed their position.
The grenade launcher again, assault rifle fire from Paul’s position as Rourke changed sticks, ramming the fresh thirty-round magazine up the well, continuing firing. The whoosh, the whisde, the roar, more Russians down. Rourke was up on his feet, spraying out the entire magazine, then dropping as enemy soldiers fell and others rushed toward him to take their place. Paul was
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