Read Online Survivalist - 15 - Overlord by Jerry Ahern - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jerry Ahern
Ads: Link
up, an M-16—one his and one of them one of the two Natalia carried —blazing from each hand, the guns on full auto, Russians going down. Paul ducked’down, Rourke up to his knees, the M-16 to his right shoulder, spraying death again. The whoosh, the whisde, the roar, then the whoosh, the whistle, the roar again—then again and again.
Rourke changed sticks and was on his feet. He glanced toward Paul, the younger man doing the same now, but an M-16 in each hand, Rourke and Rubenstein firing simultaneously into the attacking Russians.
Bodies fell and men died. The whoosh, the whisde, the roar, then again and again.
Rourke changed sticks for the M-16 again and started forward around the edge of the crevasse. He felt it, shouted over the roar of gunfire, “Paul!”
His footing was suddenly gone and he was plummeting downward, into the crevasse …
Annie Rourke felt something stabbing her, dropping to her knees, loosening her rifle from her grasp, her hands going to her temples as she screamed.
They had been moving across the greenway searching for what remained of the Soviet infiltration team, her mother near enough to her that she was beside her the next instant. “What is it, Annie?”
“Daddy—oh my God, Momma!”
Chapter Nine
John Rourke let go of the M-16 the instant he realized what was happening, before he even shouted. The impact of the explosions had forced apart the crevasse and the ice-bridge had disintegrated beneath his feet. His right hand had grasped upward for the surface, his gloved fingers slipping across it, his body hurtling downward, his left hand reaching to the butt of the Crain System X knife he had just recently added to his gear from his supplies at the Retreat. And he silently thanked God that he had. There was no time to verbalize. As his body skidded downward, the space surrounding him narrowed dramatically with each foot, the light ebbing even faster. His left hand tore steel from leather and as his left fist balled over the tubular haft, he stabbed, his right hand splaying outward, his feet twisting outward, his legs spreading. The Crain knife bit deep into the ice, his shoulders and neck taking the shockwave as it engulfed his body, his full weight with its acceleration abruptly stopping, Rourke’s body swinging by his left fist from the haft of the Crain survival knife.
Rourke’s eyes closed and he breathed.
He opened his eyes. The darkness was near total. He couldn’t shout, could barely breathe. Rourke’s right foot was wedged into the crevasse and he realized that had he fallen
any further he would have broken the foot, or dislocated his hip. He flexed the toes of his right foot inside his combat boots. They were numb with cold and pain but moved. His left shoulder was screaming at him to let go of the knife as he pried his boot free, struggling for a new, less punishing purchase against the glass-smooth wall of glacial ice which could at any moment close above and around him, entombing him.
Rourke’s right hand moved slowly along the ice, toward the bottom edge of his arctic parka, then raising it, his gloved hand searching against the small of his back, near his right kidney. He found the vastly smaller knife he always carried, had always carried even before the Night of The War. The Sting IA Black Chrome. He tugged it free of the inside-the-pants sheath, balling his right fist over the skeletonized handle, then drawing his right arm up and back and stabbing forward, gouging the A.G. Russell knife into the ice, his body weight suspended from both hands now, swinging free as his foot lost its purchase.
Rourke tested his weight against both knives. Both knives held.
Both knives were at approximately the same level. He began to pull himself up, his shoulders seeming to burn with the pain. There were times he wished he were still Michael’s age.
If Natalia and Paul had seen him fall, if Paul had heard his shout—but the distractions of battle. They had just begun
Rourke changed sticks and was on his feet. He glanced toward Paul, the younger man doing the same now, but an M-16 in each hand, Rourke and Rubenstein firing simultaneously into the attacking Russians.
Bodies fell and men died. The whoosh, the whisde, the roar, then again and again.
Rourke changed sticks for the M-16 again and started forward around the edge of the crevasse. He felt it, shouted over the roar of gunfire, “Paul!”
His footing was suddenly gone and he was plummeting downward, into the crevasse …
Annie Rourke felt something stabbing her, dropping to her knees, loosening her rifle from her grasp, her hands going to her temples as she screamed.
They had been moving across the greenway searching for what remained of the Soviet infiltration team, her mother near enough to her that she was beside her the next instant. “What is it, Annie?”
“Daddy—oh my God, Momma!”
Chapter Nine
John Rourke let go of the M-16 the instant he realized what was happening, before he even shouted. The impact of the explosions had forced apart the crevasse and the ice-bridge had disintegrated beneath his feet. His right hand had grasped upward for the surface, his gloved fingers slipping across it, his body hurtling downward, his left hand reaching to the butt of the Crain System X knife he had just recently added to his gear from his supplies at the Retreat. And he silently thanked God that he had. There was no time to verbalize. As his body skidded downward, the space surrounding him narrowed dramatically with each foot, the light ebbing even faster. His left hand tore steel from leather and as his left fist balled over the tubular haft, he stabbed, his right hand splaying outward, his feet twisting outward, his legs spreading. The Crain knife bit deep into the ice, his shoulders and neck taking the shockwave as it engulfed his body, his full weight with its acceleration abruptly stopping, Rourke’s body swinging by his left fist from the haft of the Crain survival knife.
Rourke’s eyes closed and he breathed.
He opened his eyes. The darkness was near total. He couldn’t shout, could barely breathe. Rourke’s right foot was wedged into the crevasse and he realized that had he fallen
any further he would have broken the foot, or dislocated his hip. He flexed the toes of his right foot inside his combat boots. They were numb with cold and pain but moved. His left shoulder was screaming at him to let go of the knife as he pried his boot free, struggling for a new, less punishing purchase against the glass-smooth wall of glacial ice which could at any moment close above and around him, entombing him.
Rourke’s right hand moved slowly along the ice, toward the bottom edge of his arctic parka, then raising it, his gloved hand searching against the small of his back, near his right kidney. He found the vastly smaller knife he always carried, had always carried even before the Night of The War. The Sting IA Black Chrome. He tugged it free of the inside-the-pants sheath, balling his right fist over the skeletonized handle, then drawing his right arm up and back and stabbing forward, gouging the A.G. Russell knife into the ice, his body weight suspended from both hands now, swinging free as his foot lost its purchase.
Rourke tested his weight against both knives. Both knives held.
Both knives were at approximately the same level. He began to pull himself up, his shoulders seeming to burn with the pain. There were times he wished he were still Michael’s age.
If Natalia and Paul had seen him fall, if Paul had heard his shout—but the distractions of battle. They had just begun
Similar Books
