Spooked by the human standing in its way, and with no signal coming from the slack reins, the animal veered off. Its rock-hard haunch swung around, slammed into Austin with the force of a battering ram and knocked him off his feet. He flew through the air, and crashed to the turf with a teeth- rattling shock, landing on his left side. When he stopped rolling, he tried to stand but only made it up onto one knee. He was covered with dust and wet on one side from horse sweat. Zavala was by Austin's side, helping him to his feet.
As Austin's blurred vision cleared, he expected to see the Cossacks bearing down on them.
Instead, the world seemed frozen in time and place. Stunned by their leader's fall, the horsemen sat in their saddles like statues in a park. The people on the field were equally immobilized. Austin spat out a mouthful of dirt. Slowly and deliberately, he walked over to where his gun had landed and picked it up. He yelled at the runner and told him to go for the warehouse. The order shocked the man into action. He started to run.
It was if a power switch had been thrown.
Seeing their friend break for safety, the men in the field bolted after him in a disorganized mob. Austin and Zavala yelled encouragement and pointed to the warehouse. With their leader dead and their prey escaping, the Cossacks yelled as one, poured into the soccer field and advanced at a gallop, sabers held high, toward Austin and Zavala. The two men stood there in awe at the fearful beauty of a Cossack charge.
"Wow!" Zavala shouted over the thunder of hooves. "It's like being in an old Western."
"Let's hope it isn't a remake of Custer's Last Stand," Austin said, with a thin smile.
Austin brought his Bowen up and fired. The lead rider pitched from his saddle. Zavala's H and K stuttered, and another horseman crashed to the ground. The riders advanced without slackening their pace, well aware they held the ad- vantage in numbers and momentum. The guns fired simultaneously and two more men flew from their saddles.
The Cossacks were bold but not suicidal. First one, then another, leaned out of his saddle and hung from his horse's neck so he no longer offered an easy target. As Austin and Zavala adjusted to the new strategy, one horse came to a sudden stop, dropped to the ground and rolled onto its side.
Austin thought the animal had stumbled. Then he saw that the rider was firing at them, using his mount as a protective barricade. Other riders followed suit. Those Cossacks still in their saddles split up, corning in from both sides in a pincer movement. Austin and Zavala hit the ground and dug in. Bullets flew over their heads like angry bees.
"Automatic weapons!" Zavala yelped. "You said these guys carried blunderbusses a
nd pigstickers."
"How would I know they'd stop off at a gun show?"
"What ever happened to background checks?"
Austin's reply was drowned out by the stutter of automatic-arms fire. He and Zavala let off a couple of rounds more for show than effect, then pulled back from the rise and crawled toward the warehouse. The Cossacks peppered the ridge with gunfire. Thinking their prey was dead, they climbed onto their horses and took up the charge where they had left off.
From the shelter of the warehouse, Austin and Zavala aimed through the windows and two more riders toppled from their mounts. Seeing that their foe was still alive, the Cossacks called off the attack and galloped to the center of the field to regroup. Taking advantage of the momentary battle lull, Austin turned from the window and surveyed the men who had taken refuge. Austin couldn't remember when he'd seen a more bedraggled-looking bunch. Their tan jumpsuits were wrinkled and begrimed, and their hollow-eyed faces bristled with whiskers. The first runner, who had felt the direct wrath of the Cossack leader, came over to speak with Austin. His uniform was torn at the knees and elbows and covered with dust. Yet he kept his chin as high as if he were wearing newly pressed dress whites on parade. The young man gave Austin a crisp salute. "Ensign Steven Kreisman of the U.S. Navy submarine NR-1."
Austin reached under his belt, where he had tucked the cap Zavala found on the Russian submarine. "Maybe you can get this back to its owner," he said, handing the cap over.
"It's the captain's. Where did you get this?" Kreisman said, looking at the cap as if he were seeing it for the first time.
"My partner found it in a Russian sub."
"Who are you guys?" Kreisman said, losing his aplomb.
"I'm Kurt Austin and that's my partner Joe Zavala at the window. We're with the National Underwater and Marine Agency."
The ensign's jaw dropped down to his Adam's apple. With their battle-hardened eyes and smoking guns, the two who had rescued him and his crew looked more like commandos than ocean scientists.
"I didn't know NUMA had its own SWAT team," he said with wonder.
"We don't. Are you okay?"
"I feel as if I've been run over by a bulldozer, but other than that I'm fine," he said, rubbing his neck where the saber had whacked him. "I won't be wearing a tie for a while. This may sound like a dumb question, Mr. Austin, but what are you and your friend doing here?"
"Your turn first. Last I heard, your sub was diving for relics on the bottom of the Aegean."
The young man's shoulders sagged slightly. "It's a long story," he said, with weariness.
"We don't have much time. See if you can tell me what happened in thirty seconds."
Kreisman chuckled at Austin's audacity. "I'll do my best."
He took a deep breath and delivered a condensed version of events.