Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style Page 13

“Don’t worry about them,” Killov said, noting Qarnain’s constant glancing over at the guiding toylike boats on each side of the bow. “They’re mere underlings, pigs, unable to even conceive an original thought let alone notice anything amiss. The Red bear is a fat bear, Qarnain—stupid, slothful, wanting its bread at dinner, its vodka in the evening and a warm bitch every now and again. We have nothing to fear from these.”

  As they moved into the main course of the river, brilliant cherry trees suddenly appeared in rows of each bank, twenty feet or so apart. They were in full bloom, their pink and white blossoms virtually exploding into the sunny afternoon air. Qarnain, who fancied himself a lover of beauty, noted the flowers, not unaware of a certain irony that a man who was about to launch a maelstrom of blood and death was greeted with flowers.

  “Quite beautiful,” he said, leaning to one side to get a closer view. With the green grass behind them and the blue river in front, the picture was almost paradisical. Not dissimilar to the vision he had had of Paradise. There would be such flowers there, and flowing blue rivers so that all his camels would never want for liquid. It made his heart suddenly flutter to see his vision so near—and real. It meant that his death, too, was approaching. He knew it. Knew that it was true—for the first time.

  “Flowers are for assholes,” Killov snorted, not able to relate at all to the aesthetic sensibility. “That pig Zhabnov had them planted, undoubtedly,” the KGB colonel went on with the deepest contempt in his gravelly voice. “It is like him to spend time, money, on flowers—instead of guns and fighters. He shall pay the price for such a stupid set of priorities. And the first thing I shall do when I take power,” Killov vowed, almost under his breath so that Qarnain hardly heard the words, “is dig the damned things up and burn them—and take the pig’s body and all his top echelons, and grind them up and plant them there.” The thought made him a little delirious, as the drugs were hitting him full force. He laughed and couldn’t stop, white drool falling from the corners of his mouth. His lips grew dry as chalk and he almost began shaking, but clamped the force of all his will down on his trembling physicality. Qarnain couldn’t see him shake. He knew that, even in his drugged state. Nor any of the Arab fighters. If they should believe for one moment that Killov was weak—or that there was something wrong with him—the whole mission could explode in his face. He could be weird, but not weak.

  The tanker moved slowly up the Potomac, as boats of every size, carrying myriad cargoes, passed them on all sides. It felt good to be home, Killov had to admit it. A surge of—not patriotism—but perhaps of reclaimed ownership swept through his heart. For it had all been his—and he was back to take it.

  They moved up toward the berthing that Qarnain’s captain had radioed to the tugs—an unloading center off-route, out of the way, that Killov had indicated would do nicely.

  Good: It was his ace in the hole—a hide-out right in the middle of the enemy’s camp. They would wait until all the players were present, until the first act of the farcical theater of peace had begun—and then they would strike. The bastards wouldn’t know what hit them. Killov could taste it—destruction. Then: total and complete power. It was so close. He licked his lips over and over, his lizardlike gray tongue like a windshield wiper lapping over his lips again and again like a carnivore salivating before the creature it would kill. Savoring the moment for as long as it could, that there was food, nay a banquet waiting for it—and that soon it would feast, its face wet with blood.

  The Washington Monument, then the Capitol Building itself came into view a few miles off as the boat slid slowly through the city of enemies, unnoticed, just another beat-up oil tanker. Both men stared at the great stone and concrete icons with a kind of morbid fascination. For only they, of all the men who rode the river around them, who worked its shores, knew the truth: That it would all be rubble within a week. Ashes, broken bricks lying spread out in a shroud of dust. America’s greatest shrines—turned into a garbage dump.

  Sixteen

  As usual, life played out its black humor on Rock and the team at the least expected moment. They had driven across half of America without being really challenged, had breezed their way through every damned checkpoint the Red Army had set up. But then at the very gates of the citadel—the shit hit the fan. The rig had come to the very outskirts of D.C., up to the bridge that spanned the Potomac and led into the city proper, its White House dome shining like an overcooked egg in the noonday sun. Another checkpoint awaited them at the far side of the bridge and Scheransky drove up to it, slowing down a little as he waited for the guards to open the barrier when they saw the Nerve Gas Priority Passage symbol on the sides of the big diesel.

  But they didn’t move a thing. The metal pole stayed where it was, and two guards, submachine guns over their shoulders, stepped forward and up to the window on each side.

  “Papers, please,” a Red sergeant asked in a bored monotone, coming up to the driver’s window. The other guard stared up at Rockson, who smiled back in his stupidest grin as he slunk ever deeper into the seat, trying to hide the fact that he was wearing the outfit of an elephant.

  “Papers?” Scheransky acted irritated. “Can’t you see what we’re carrying, comrade? Nerve gas! Priority Alpha Blue clearance. Don’t need papers.”

  “Everyone needs papers in the capital, comrade,” the sergeant replied, trying to maintain his composure since he had both ulcers and hemmorhoids and didn’t need to get his blood all boiling—and his infirmities all pumped up again. “So, please—” he held his hand up toward the window.

  “Plan B,” Scheransky whispered out the corner of his mouth to Rock. Both men pulled out their weapons—Scheransky his 7.2 mm that he had carried since his defection, Rock his .12 gauge shotgun-pistol. Both weapons burped out loads of death and two Russian Army slobs shot backward away from the truck like they had just been kicked by a mule—their bodies spewing blood in fountains from their death wounds.

  “Floor it,” Rock screamed. “Floor it!” But the defector had already slid back in the seat and thrown the big diesel into gear, slamming his foot down on the pedal. The huge rig shimmied down the bridge for about twenty yards, the whole thing sort of arching up almost like a cat in attack mode. Then it got its power behind its huge mass and suddenly tore down the end of the bridge, moving like a whale trying to get back to the sea. The other guards saw it coming and the machine-gun posts on each side of the checkpoint opened up, so that slugs were dancing in on Rock and Scheransky from both sides.

  But only for a few seconds. The diesel truck slammed straight into the steel barrier and snapped it in two like a piece of balsa wood. One of the machine-gun posts disappeared beneath their wheels, the screams of the men audible for a second above the roar of the engine and the rat-tat of the .9 mm slugs. Then the rig was through and skidding wildly down a wide boulevard that led right into Washington. The sheer momentum of the truck was so great that though Scheransky was steering fairly straight, the back end of the truck was skidding wildly back and forth like a wild ride at an amusement park of old. The long, square body of the diesel keep slamming into parked cars, sending them flying like broken toys, snapping meters and lamp posts as it cut through them like a scythe. Rock could hear yells from the back and the rising chorus of a half-dozen hybrids, all letting the world know that they didn’t like what was going on one fucking bit.

  They had gone only a few blocks when they heard sirens blaring behind them. Both men turned and stared into the rearview mirrors that took up the whole front side of each window. Three army cars, machine-gun mounted, were tearing after them like they were ready to pursue them to the ends of the earth.

  “Shit,” Rock spat through angry lips. They were so close and now . . . He wondered whether they could all try to make a run for it—but realized quickly that though he and Scheransky might have been able to somehow split the moving tractor-trailer, the men in the back had no quick exit. And that settled that.

  “Hang on, palski,” Scher
ansky said with a strange gleam in his eye. “We’re going for a little ride.” If what they had just been on for the last mile wasn’t a “little ride,” Rock didn’t know what was. But he was about to find out. Scheransky upped the gears of the immense truck until they racing down the center of the six-lane boulevard, the intoxicating perfume of the cherry blossoms wafting sweet smells to their nostrils.

  “I know this damned town like the back of my hand,” the Doomsday Warrior said. “When I was last through this burg, I did lots of exploring.”

  “This isn’t the first chase I’ve been involved in. Not by Stalin’s nose hairs, it isn’t.” The defector had a peculiar look in his eye that Rock wasn’t at all sure he liked. Scheransky upshifted again and Rock could hear the powerful motor of the diesel truck roaring like some sort of wounded elephant. But it powered the damned thing. The tractor-trailer hit fifty, then sixty. It slammed through every car on the road like they were bowling pins, sending vehicles flying off to the side as the truck barreled through, their drivers twisting their wheels so as not to crash.

  But still the army vehicles kept in pursuit, falling behind slightly but letting off volleys of machine-gun fire constantly. Something had to give. And it was Scheransky. Suddenly, seeing an exit appear out of nowhere, he veered the wheel sharply to the right and the entire truck skidded around 120 degrees, wheels screeching up a sound that could be heard for a mile, sending out a cloud of burnt rubber that smelled sour and sickening. The screams and shouts from the back of the truck were louder than ever now, and Rock heard pounding on the steel backrest of the seat. He leaned around and saw that there was a latch and a small opening, which he promptly undid and stared through the small opening into Detroit’s angry face.

  “What the hell is going on up there?” He was trying to smile, but Rock could see that his face was almost shaking with anxiety, as were the others of the team behind him.

  “If you want to stop the ride,” Rock screamed, cupping his hands, “send some fucking firepower out the back. You hear me! We’re being followed. Take ’em out—we’ll slow down.”

  “You got it,” Detroit shouted, his black face covered with sweat. “Why didn’t you say so.” He ran back through the darkness of the truck, lit only by rippling streaks of sun that darted in through a few cracks in the outer covering of the vehicle. The men swarmed to the back, undid the latches of the huge doors and kicked the things open, so that they swung out and around on their hinges. Three Red Army cars had caught up to about a hundred feet, and they saw a band of filthy, wild-eyed men staring out at them, ugly over-furred horse creatures jumping around behind them.

  But the Russians didn’t have time to ponder the situation very long, for hardly had the steel door flown open when the figures inside unloaded with everything they had. The Reds didn’t know what hit them. The first armored vehicle took a direct blast from both McCaughlin’s .50 caliber machine gun, which he held under one meaty arm while he fed in the belt with the other, and one of Archer’s exploding arrows. The driver of the ARV found his head suddenly detached from his body and the vehicle ripped to the side sharply so that it suddenly toppled over and burst into flame.

  The second car got a combined hit from two of Chen’s exploding shurikens and a phosphorus grenade from Detroit. It went up like a mini A-bomb, suddenly just disappearing as a cloud of black oily smoke filled the place where it had been. The third vehicle, an old U.S. jeep mounted with anti-tank rifle on top, didn’t even need to have any ammo expended on it. It ran into the flaming pile of debris right in front of it—and when it came out the other side it, too, was on fire. Suddenly it erupted with a boom! as the tongues of fire found their way to the gas tank. The two men inside came running out, balls of flame themselves, and ran along the highway—hastening their fiery deaths as they fed oxygen to the flames. Then both fell almost simultaneously, burning on the cool concrete.

  The Rock team pulled the doors shut fast and locked them. Scheransky steered off the boulevard and went down a side street barely big enough to accomodate the truck. He slowed down to a crawl once sure there was no one still in pursuit, then slid slowly through darkened street after darkened street. There was almost no traffic, Rock noticed, and he wondered where the hell they were. Then he recognized the area. “Turn left, comrade. I think we’re in the old slave section. Slow down, the streets get potholed around here. Reds won’t even think someone might come here, let alone a twenty-ton. We’ll just back-alley it all the way.”

  “And where is all the way?”

  “There’s an old repair terminal at the north border of town,” Rockson said as they went past an intersection. He looked both ways down the mud avenue to make sure there were no army guards sitting watch. “There’s so many goddamned rigs there that we’ll just be one in a thousand. They bring ’em in for repairs—usually takes months, since there’s only a few mechanics who actually know how to make repairs. We’ll park it in the back somehow—believe me, the bastards there won’t even want to come check us out.”

  And sure enough, twenty minutes later, as they pulled in through the front gate of a hundred-acre truck dump, not a soul paid the slightest attention. The halfwit reading a dirty magazine on a spring bed with only half the springs left didn’t even look up as they passed. Scheransky dimmed the lights so no one could follow their passage, and parked in the rows of metal debris. There were piles of tires, engines, hoods, windows. Everything. It was a veritable graveyard of trucks.

  “This will do fine,” Rock stated. “Hey guys, get out. Let’s pow-wow.”

  Rockson assigned Detroit—the most conspicuous of them—to secure the truck and contents. It would be their base. “The horses will be our way out of D.C. if we have to split. They can go where vehicles can’t follow. Assignments, gentlemen:

  “Chen will check around—how about the restaurants? Say you’re looking for work. Get intelligence on any new troops in town. You know, entrapment forces; patches, uniforms— Take McCaughlin.”

  “You bet, Rock. I’ll go to Chinese places, too. The Sovs love Chinese food, but the Chinese waiters don’t like them much. I’ll find thing out.”

  “Scheransky,” Rock ordered. “Hit the bars—just have beers—listen in on conversations.”

  “Got you.”

  “Everyone use the walkie-talkies. Frequency 31, Z-Code. Give me a progress report in—say, six hours!”

  Rock continued to instruct his crew.

  Seventeen

  Detroit complained, but Rock insisted he had the most important job—holding the fort.

  “We all meet back here,” Rockson told them, “at 0300 hours tomorrow. Each of you knows his task. If I, or anyone doesn’t return, Detroit, call out the marines.”

  “There are no marines,” Detroit couldn’t help but interject with a friendly sneer on his grime-coated face. “But I’ll find you.”

  “That’s even better. Drive around, find us.” He looked them over. These American Freefighters were probably the moxiest, toughest sons of bitches on the face of the planet!

  “Archer—you come. Come with Rockson,” the Doomsday Warrior said, turning to the giant who stood a few feet off, looking over everyone’s heads as if he were into some other world.

  “MEEEE COOMMMME,” the immense near-mute said with a tooth-twisted smile. He was still feeling pretty good about saving Rock and the rest of the Freefighters from the corn worshippers. What he lacked in intelligence he made up for in animal cunning—or so he liked to believe. At any rate he was flattered that he had been chosen to go with Rock to reconnoiter the city. He looked around at the others with a sort of shit-eating grin, unable in his childlike innocence to contain the simple emotions he was feeling.

  He jammed down his big leather hat, the one that hid the peculiar structure of his cranium—filled with crystals. Those crystals were part of an extensive repair job done on his brain when it was caved in by an ax on another Freefighter mission. He pushed the hat tightly down. He’d protect good, hard, th
e Doomsday Warrior!

  Rock worked out various contingency plans with the team.

  They all had maps, and all of them had been in D.C. before. He would return—or let them know what was happening. And that—play-it-by-ear plan that it was—was all they had. But then Rockson had been working with a blank script since the day he was born. You did what you did—and hoped that the rest worked out.

  He and Archer left first. They made their way through an opening in the steel mesh fence about thirty yards behind the truck and were quickly off into the darkness and the bushes. Rock had kept track of the way they came, more or less—one of the star-patterned mutant’s traits, they couldn’t get lost. They walked through abandoned, weed-blanketed fields and, as they got closer, brick-covered lots, crumbled buildings. Just outside the Russian sphere, they were therefore non-existent to them.

  Washington looked like a twinkling fairyland. For though darkness was behind them and on both sides, ahead was a lit-up metropolis the likes of which they hadn’t seen in their travels. Lights were everywhere, a galaxy of them, houses, cars moving, even a few medium-sized skyscrapers, reaching 60, 70 stories into the air, floors lit up like great neon signs in the sky—advertising that there was a new owner here. The old ones were gone. All the condo’s in the sky had hammers and sickles on their white walls.

  Rock was glad to see that there was plenty of human intercourse—that is, Americans—from the surrounding countryside walking up to and past the guards at the gates that surrounded the ‘main town’ After numerous assassination attempts, Zhabnov had had the entire city virtually fenced off—with armed guards at every entrance. But though that seemed to assuage his fear, in reality the guards did little to stop or search those who entered. They were dependent on the livestock, the vegetables, on the labor of the American farmers who hacked out what homes they could in the surrounding radioactive tracts of land that had been left for them.