Doomsday Warrior 13 - American Paradise Page 10

  Rock told McCaughlin and Scheransky to catch up to the freed girls making their way to Chimura’s house. But he had each unload his satchel of explosives first. “Chen,” he instructed, “we’re going to make it look like mother nature went on a rampage here.” He took out the detailed map Chimura had given him and shined the penlight on it. “See these fissures behind the pagoda? We’ll drop some of the explosives there, blow ’em open—hopefully they’ll spout some lava. It’ll work, because it has to!”

  The Freefighter sapper team—Chen and Rockson—sneaked back around the pagoda and planted all the explosive satchels in carefully spaced rows along the fissure.

  Once back in the reeds, Rock turned the radio-control switch. A monumental series of explosions shook the area. As the two Freefighters ran splashing down the streamlet, geysers of hot water, rock, mud and then molten lava spewed on high. The pagoda, its foundation undermined, leaned like the Tower of Pisa, and then fell into the conflagration.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Chen, glancing to the side as they ran, could see a candy-eating grin on his commander’s face, illuminated red by the blazing fury they had left behind them.

  Seventeen

  The albino girl was named Kimiko. After being taken to the cave and given some warm miso soup, she sat wearing one of Chimura’s warm, grey cotton kimonos.

  The Freefighters and Leilani listened as Kimiko related what she’d overheard the Soviet officers discuss.

  “When I was taken from my parent’s home Friday night, I was tied, put in a truck and delivered to the pagoda. I was handled carefully. The KGB team that got me said I was for an important officer. I thought they meant Killov—I feared him the most. I had seen him in a victory parade when he took over the island. He’s—like a vampire, so thin—and his eyes!

  “But the KGB men said I was a present for a Major Smernsk. They snickered about his ‘propensities.’ I do not know what that means, but it sounded bad.

  “They tied me in the top room, the special room they called it. And then they had some drinks with the matron. I was very frightened when they cut my clothes off me. But knives were put away. They sat and drank more. Then they talked about a—crystal weapon.”

  “What did they say?” Rockson asked, leaning forward.

  “Something about the raising of the crystal to the top of Tokyo Tower and—I remember! Yes—a timetable was gone over! One man said that there was just three days of work now and the weapon would be done. Killov would activate the crystal from his suite in the tower’s building. It’s—the 71st floor!”

  “Good Kimiko,” Rock urged, “that’s helpful. Go on!”

  The girl went on—she had quite a good memory. The Red officers had bragged a lot to the matron about their work. There were scattered snatches on positioning of KGB troops—a squad of fifty in each leg of the tower. Rockson took out the map and made quick notes, circling the fortifications she mentioned, in the tower and by the docks. When the girl was done, he was encouraged. “This info,” Rockson said, “will help us at lot. Now if only the Bushido would come!”

  Killov put down the phone and frowned. He spun the swivel chair and stared out at the glittering Tokyo skyline and Mount Fuji beyond it, like some white ghost.

  A horrible natural disaster, Major Smernsk had reported, had overtaken the Pleasure Pagoda. That was what it seemed to be! A lava eruption from the unstable geyser behind the Pleasure Pagoda . . . not unheard of on this volcanic island. And yet, Killov was suspicious. Why now? Why this time? Coincidence?

  He decided to be on the safe side. There might be a resistance movement forming after all. A clever one that hid its work.

  He picked up the phone. “Search every house within a mile of eruption,” he ordered.

  “For what, sir?” the corporal on the line queried.

  “Idiot! For anything strange. Especially for strangers, house guests—anything unusual! Report back to me in one hour!”

  All was havoc in Chimura’s house as the KGB thugs literally tore the place apart, looking for “anything unusual.” Just as they had torn apart the six other houses closest to the destroyed pagoda.

  “Stop,” Chimura pleaded. “These things are precious! There are many ancient relics, sacred art—”

  “Bah—get out of my way you old fool,” snarled a thick-set soldier. He smashed Chimura across the face. The old Japanese fell so that his hip struck the fifteenth-century vase in the tokonomo alcove. The old vase and its careful O-Hira flower arrangement toppled and smashed on the bare floor.

  Oblivious to the flaring pain of his shattered hip, Chimura screamed out, “You—bastard!”

  The soldier, who had begun cutting a futon open with a bayonet, turned at the epithet and kicked out his right boot, hitting Chimura in the chest. The snap of several frail ribs caused a paroxysm of pain; Chimura’s eyes rolled up, and he slumped onto the fragmented vase.

  His wife was then pulled screaming from the room and stripped. The two young KGBers who did this found Reiko “too old”, and shoved her aside, piling broken furniture over her and laughing. Huddling in fear she heard them moving into the bath area. They used their pistols, she could hear the bullets smashing crockery. And then the old woman heard them all trundle out, muttering about the fact that there was no gold for them to take with them. The search-and-destroy was over.

  Reiko whimpered for a while then stopped. The only thing that made her stop crying was the fact that the enemies of Killov were still undetected—still safe in the cave. They would strike back at these barbarians!

  Rockson and the others heard the gunshots.

  “I’ll go up,” he whispered, pulling his pistol and climbing the stairs. He opened the “rock” a crack and saw the coast was clear. Red dawn spread in the east, sending shafts of color through the bamboo fence. He opened the door wide and went to the house to investigate. Finding the havoc and no sign of Chimura or his wife, he ran back and called for the other Freefighters. They began a search through the house for the missing couple.

  “Oh, my God, why they do this?” Leilani gasped.

  “KGB are like that,” Scheransky said, “filthy pigs!” He lifted an overturned cabinet. “Rock—he’s here. Chimura!”

  “Chimura!” Rockson exclaimed, “are you all right?” The man moaned as Rock lifted his head slightly and cradled it. Rockson did his best to comfort the old man, but he was too far gone. He spat some blood and said, “KGB—they—came! Where—my—wife!”

  His wife, freed of the tumble above her by McCaughlin, came to him in time to see him smile at her. Then he expired.

  She stated simply, “He could not live after this. I will help you now—to carry on the attack. Killov must die.”

  Eighteen

  Killov’s Afghani bootman slipped the colonel’s left boot on and then the right. He buffed them both one last time with his mufti sleeves. This accomplished, the colonel dismissed him. He stood up and called out, “Nakashima! Are you ready?”

  “Yes, master,” the chauffeur replied, coming out of the adjoining room. He was all spit and polish in a red, high-collar, KGB servant uniform, full of braiding and epaulets. His long dark hair was oiled down, sort of like Valentino.

  “You look very good, my friend,” Killov said. “Let us now ascend to see how the work progresses!”

  Together, they left the suite, headed toward the silver doors of his private elevator. After Killov pressed Roof, Nakashima said, “It was very wise to take the precaution of the searches after the Pleasure Pagoda mysteriously burned. Even if they did turn up nothing, it certainly looked suspicious.”

  “And,” said Killov, “it was wiser still to speed up the work on the crystal’s wiring. Even if there is no enemy lurking on this island, there is no time to waste in activating my weapon. There is a world to win!”

  The door opened onto the dizzying panorama of New Mount Fuji, the emerald and ash island, and the blue Pacific beyond it.

  Killov smiled as the men they confronted gaspe
d and/or bowed hysterically. Why were they always so surprised at his presence up here? Didn’t they expect to see him personally inspect the work from time to time?

  “Any laziness will be punished,” he called out. Immediately, hammers started banging, welders’ torches flaming again. He looked around. “Where is foreman Deminski?” he demanded.

  Instantly a black-coveralled, grey-haired, wirey type came up, snapped his heels together and saluted. “Sir! Deminsky reporting!”

  Killov’s eyes narrowed, “Are you meeting my schedule?”

  “Sir!” Deminsky snapped. “We are ahead of schedule. If the weather holds, we will be done at noon. But the barometer is dropping. The coming storm threatens to be worse than the last—”

  “Despite the weather,” Killov hissed, “see to it that the wiring is completed at noon!”

  “Yessir!” But there was a hint of panic in the man’s voice. The last storm had been a bad one! He went back to barking orders, demanding a speedup. Killov watched the officer, pleased. “Perhaps not all my men are incompetents, Nakashima.”

  Killov felt a sudden chill as the wind snapped at his back. He thought his eyes were going bad, too, for it suddenly got very dark. He looked up and saw a black sheath of clouds had cut the sun off. A beautiful morning was instantly funereal-grey.

  “Mega-storm, master,” Nakashima said. “We’d better leave.”

  “Sir!” Deminsky pleaded, running over to him. “It will be too windy—we have to abandon work and go below, or—”

  “No—keep everyone working! Those who are fearful, kill them! They all must know the importance of this project!”

  “But the workers—all of us—will be blown off the tower!”

  “Bah,” Killov scoffed, “you have ropes do you not? The work must continue. Nakashima, destroy the controls of the work elevator.”

  Nakashima took his pistol out of his holster and stepped to the scarred work elevator door. He fired a full clip of .9mm bullets at the buttons, sending sparks and fragments of metal into the air.

  The workers all stopped their activities, stunned.

  “You will all stay up here until I see the fully operational light come on in my control room,” the colonel shouted over the wind. “Then, and only then, will I send up my private elevator to pick you up!—Deminsky! You heard my orders! Get going!”

  With that last order, Killov and his chauffeur stepped through their silver doors and descended, leaving the others to their fate.

  An hour later, Killov was rocking back and forth anxiously in his swivel chair, looking out from the safety of his 71st floor aerie as the fantastic storm clouds swirled. He was stoned out on drugs, worse than usual. His veins popped out blue on his thin arms from the arthovalium pills effect, and etherorium-V purple capsules sent thrills of artery-contracting ecstasy in waves up his cheeks and into his swollen brain.

  Sheets of rain slammed at the window as lightning rent the sky. Still, the little bulb on his chair arm that was to signal that the crystal was operational didn’t come lit. It was 12:10 P.M.

  “What are they doing up there, playing?” he muttered. “Surely they don’t like the rain and wind. Why don’t they finish?”

  Aggravated with the wait, tired of the rainy view, he decided to amuse himself otherwise. Killov pressed the red button on the control arm of his chair. A whirring noise commenced behind him. He swivelled to see his secret trophy room—the Doll Room—slowly revealed as a bookcase slid back.

  Everyone needs a little hobby. Killov’s doll collection was a bit strange, but it helped him focus his mind on objectives of long-standing. And his longest standing objective was revenge!

  He left the seat, walked around his boomerang-shaped, black marble desk and walked unsteadily toward the secret room.

  Once inside, he pressed the button that closed him off from view—should anyone dare enter his office unannounced!

  Before Killov was a display of lifelike dolls on a long table. These perfectly wrought dolls would be the envy of any child—yet they were not for play in the ordinary sense. They were for burning!

  Each doll was an exact two-foot-high replica of each of his sworn enemies—those that had stood in his way time and time again—those that had thwarted Killov in his quest for absolute control of the Earth.

  The colonel examined them. The first doll, Ted Rockson, stood upright, tall and proud. He wore an outfit of khaki green, and an accurate scale model of his Liberator rifle was clutched in his tan, steel-muscled right arm. Rockson had a streak of mutant-white in his long black hair. His eyes were mismatched light- and dark-blue.

  Perfect in every hateful detail!

  Then there was Premier Vassily, the #2 doll. Vassily was depicted in a wheelchair made of miniature wires—chrome coated just like the real one. The “Grandfather” wore his eternal shawl over his arthritic shrivelled legs. His damned book of Rilke’s poetry was on his lap. He was dozing.

  “The peacemaker” Vassily called himself, for now he wanted peace with the U.S. The bastard was as old as time itself, face and hands palsied and covered with age spots, but he just wouldn’t die and let a better man—Killov—take his place!

  Holding onto the rear of the wheelchair was Ruwanda Rahallah, the premier’s black servant and aide-de-camp. The tall Rahallah was the man-behind-the-throne, some said. His very dark figure was accented by the blinding white tuxedo he always wore, and his white gloves. Killov hated him as much as he hated Vassily! The two were inseparable.

  Doll #3 was a carefully rendered model of the fat, jowly, bushy-eyebrowed, balding man that was Vassily’s nephew, Zhabnov. He had been installed by the premier as the president of the U.S.S.A. He was depicted holding a red rose—Zhabnov’s mania was roses! Well, he’d have plenty—at his funeral!

  Then there was doll #4—President Langford, the real U.S. president. He was sixty-ish, wearing a tan business suit, silver-haired and still looking wan and thin from radiation exposure he never truly recovered from—radiation he’d received from an N-bomb dropped by Killov’s bomber!

  “Which one?” Killov said, hissing the words between his teeth, dizzy with the thrill of it all. “Which one of you do I kill first?”

  He looked at the lined-up figures carefully, staring at them one by one, and then decided: “First you Rockson! You are the most obstinate of these enemies. Then I will do Premier Vassily—and your black lackey Rahallah,” he snickered. “I talk to you dolls like you are real—but someday, you will all die for real. Now die in symbolic form!”

  He put his hands onto the control levers and activated the little laser guns mounted on the ceiling above the figurines. Killov manipulated the levers until the twin mini-guns pointed upon the first statue—Rockson. The targeting laser lit up a red spot on the lifelike doll’s khaki-clad chest. “Now, you obstinate bastard—die, mutant die!” Killov squeezed both triggers.

  The mini-lasers fired, and light streaked down and ignited the Rockson doll. As the doll flared, then melted and burned, Killov turned the lasers toward Vassily in his wheelchair. The trigger squeezed, the premier and Rahallah burst into flames, too, from the heat of the intense light ray. The realistic metal wheelchair melted, the blanket-shawl smoked and ignited, the plastic faces hung and stretched, then their “flesh” fell off their heavier plastic skulls. The smoke and smell in the room was awful—the smell of burning poly-vinyl—but the colonel didn’t care. Killov’s drug-crazed senses reeled in pleasure. “Now one more,” he said, turning the rays on Zhabnov, with like results.

  As the dolls puddled and burned, Killov laughed like the madman he was. He liked the smell of burning plastic—or skin. He liked destruction, even if it was just symbolic.

  The room’s phone started beeping. Killov let it beep. He sat and inhaled the plastic smoke until he started choking; only then did he turn on the vent blowers.

  The phone was still beeping, and he picked up and spat angrily, “What the hell is it?”

  “Sir!” Deminsky’s hysterical
voice cried out over a whooshing wind, “the weapon is nearly operational. Please, please send the elevator. Don’t abandon us, sir! We’ll go back to work as soon as the storm breaks! We—we’ve lost seven men—blown off the—”

  Killov snapped, “You finish! I’ll not have Nakashima send the elevator until the work is done. As for the seven men, there are lots of technical people on this island—we can get replacements easily enough. They should have been proud to die for my cause. Keep the rest working!”

  Nineteen

  The team had been going over the attack plan for hours.

  “There has to be a reconnaissance of the tower before we attack,” Rockson concluded. His men, who were clustered around him in the cave, all volunteered.

  “I’ll do it,” Detroit said.

  “No me,” Scheransky said. “I speak perfect Russian and—”

  “Nix! I’ll go,” Chen insisted. “I have the skill. I can get in and out—”

  “I’m going,” Rock stated, “with some bugs to plant. But I’ll have to wait until the storm is over. Leilani—how about our two ships. Can they ride out the storm?”

  Leilani said, “Don’t worry. The Polynesians on board will take them into the lee of the island. We have weathered such storms as these, even on the open sea.”

  “I’m glad you think so. I’m very relieved, then, as soon as it lets up a little, I’ll get going.”

  At dusk, as the rain died to a mere shower and the wind to a normal-scale gale, Rockson walked out of Chimura’s house, dressed as an aged intinerant poet. He wore a whispy white beard and carried a gnarled staff. “One of the best makeup jobs I ever had, thanks to you, Reiko.”

  She walked him to the gate saying, “But must hide size! There are no aged poets so big.” Reiko worried. “Please keep bent.”