Doomsday Warrior 08 - American Glory Read online

  “Sirs, sirs, sorry,” heaved out the young Freefighter through dry lips, gasping for air, his face bright as an apple in October. “Just run a mile ’out stopping,” explained the strapping lad, barely out of his teens. “ ’Cause some people showed up at the southeast woods—and sirs, they—they—they—” He couldn’t seem to find the words and every man in the room stared down incredulously at his wild-eyed face.

  “They what?” Hastings asked impatiently.

  “They’re weird, sirs, weird.”

  Fifteen

  As Rockson came out of the southeast perimeter of the trees around the Freefighter camp, he could see immediately that the kid had been telling the truth. Weird wasn’t the half of it. For coming off the plains in a fifty-yard-wide line that stretched back a good mile was an army that looked like it was out of The Arabian Nights. At the front—the cavalry riding tall black steeds that looked more like the horses of the 20th century than the Freefighters’ own mutated ’brids. Atop them, carrying their fighting flags and banners, sat white-robed warriors with long pointed beards and with swords at their sides. Behind them came the infantry, long lines of turbaned troops bearing an odd assortment of both primitive and modern weapons—machine guns and bows, lances and bazookas. And far in the rear, Rock could see from atop Snorter, were men pushing immense wooden structures on roughly hewn wheels. There were ropes and pulleys and levers all over the damned things, but for the life of him the Doomsday Warrior couldn’t imagine what they were.

  The two riders at the very front of the army drew closer and Rock saw that they were shielded from the sun by men riding alongside them holding large silk umbrellas. The men’s eyes were fierce, countless diamonds, sapphires, and blood-red rubies burning on their robes and turbans, set afire by the stabbing rays of the afternoon sun. They made quite an impressive picture, and Rockson knew by the calmness of their demeanor and the tornado just behind their eyes that they were fighters of the highest order—men who had killed many times.

  “Bow, cur!” one of the riders spat out at Rock in perfect English as he and his bejeweled companion pulled to a stop before him. The entire army slowed down and the men began marching in place without missing a step. The fierce brown eyes stared down at Rockson.

  “No thanks,” Rock said, spitting a mouthful of coffee grounds down next to his ’brid. “I don’t even bow to kings and holy men. What are you?”

  “A general, fool,” the older of the two barked down, his eyes beginning to spark with fury. “And by what odious appellation are you known to those with the misfortune to be in your company?”

  “Ted Rockson, an officer of the Army of the Re-United States of America.”

  The mounted Sikh general seemed to turn to stone for a moment as his mind took in the words, and he looked at his partner with a quizzical glance as if wondering whether to believe it. The younger man looked down at Rockson with a little less antagonism and asked, “What can never be allowed to be opened?”

  “The Seventh Seal, for within it lies ten thousand years of darkness,” Rock replied, giving the response that he and Rahallah had agreed to over the phone, so that Vassily’s forces would be able to identify themselves. Vassily’s Sikh army had arrived.

  “You are Rockson?” the silver-bearded Sikh fighter asked with barely disguised scorn. “I am General Sikh Panchali, and this,” he said, pointing a lazy finger to his right, “is General Ragdar. We are the Royal Indian Sikh Army under the personal orders of Premier Vassily to join with your—” he looked around and sniffed the air as if he found something not to his liking, “army, which I am afraid I do not see anywhere. Nor do I see lines of troops to greet us, or buglers signaling our arrival. This is not how we do things in the Asias! The ritual of preparing for battle is as important as the execution of it. I must say, I am disappointed.”

  “Sorry, General,” Rock said with a click of the tongue and a quick smile. “We Americans never were much for all that ‘God-save-the-Queen’ stuff—but we’re kick-ass fighters. I promise you that. How the hell did you get here, anyway—just marching along out of nowhere?”

  “Our fleet of transport planes touched down about fifty miles east of here,” Ragdar said, folding his wide-sleeved arms across his chest, emeralds sewn along the seams glistening like little tongues of green fire every time he moved. “So we marched.”

  “Through the wastelands?” Rock asked, remembering snakes and such.

  “Compared to the mountainous regions we have fought in,” Ragdar said, “your wastelands, as you call them, are like an oasis to us. We come from the least hospitable terrain on this planet, General Rockson. Landscapes that can only be likened to the dark side of the moon.”

  “And your English, you speak so—”

  “Of course we do,” General Panchali butted in, snapping loudly at Rockson. “Every Sikh officer speaks at least four languages, many five, even six. English is one. I must apologize for Sikh Panchali,” the younger Sikh said. “He has been killing men for too long to remember how to greet them, I am afraid. But for both of us I give greetings and prayers for success at our joint venture.”

  “I hate to bring it up,” Rock exclaimed, looking past the two men at their army spread out across a mile of terrain, totally exposed to air attack. “But don’t you think your men should have better cover, should get into the woods, should—”

  “We do not fear attack,” General Panchali said loudly, motioning for his umbrella bearer to put the thing away as the sun was dropping behind the trees and its direct light and heat were dissipating. “In the hundred years my army has been in existence—no one has defeated us, General Rockson. Those who dare attack us are welcome to try. We run from no man.” He turned on his gilded saddle and gave a simple head motion to his subordinate officers, who immediately ordered the troops to dismount and make camp right there in the open, just feet from the sheltering forest. Rockson shook his head in disbelief.

  “And now,” Ragdar said with a smile, “you must inform us of your battle plans so that we may begin briefing our men.”

  “Well, to be honest with you,” Rock said, feeling foolish, “we’d been wondering just that thing ourselves. You wouldn’t have any ideas, would you?”

  “You want to take the fort,” Panchali said, snapping his fingers together. “It is simple. We are experts of siege, of laying waste to ‘indestructible’ structures. You have undoubtedly heard of our exploits, our conquering of the entire Tibetan armies, our taking of whole nations—even over here.” The silver-bearded general sat back on his wide elephant-skin saddle and waited for the praise to pour on.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Rock responded, “but we don’t get much in the way of international newspapers or the evening world news on television—so not too many of us are that well informed on world events. But I’m sure we’d all be fascinated to hear about your exploits. Your place—or mine—for the get-together?”

  That night Rockson got his stated desire and more—as the Freefighters came to a banquet thrown by the two Sikh generals. Rock brought Kim, Rona, and the Rock team along with fifty or so Freefighting officers who would be leading the rest of the American men into battle. Rock and the top staff agreed that it would be wise for at least the officers of the two armies to meet and get a nodding acquaintance—since they would be fighting for their lives together within 24 hours. The Sikh generals, anxious to show off their brand of “having one over for a bite,” had erected a long brightly colored tent with high billowing silk walls and banners intricately embroidered with lions’ heads and dragons. Inside, the tent was like a dream of Asian jaded luxury—long tables filled with fruit, steaming platters of meat and fish, decanters and bottles of multicolored liquids carried around on silver platters by black-robed servants, musicians playing rhythmic but alien-sounding music that followed no tonal system Rockson had ever heard on long, curved stringed instruments.

  The guests of honor were led in and to their places on immense, overstuffed satin pillows that
lay around thick rugs which covered the entire tented ground.

  “Excellent, excellent,” Ragdar said from his own pillow. Two young veiled, but bare midriffed women on either side of him were feeding grapes into his mouth. “So glad you could all come.” Rockson sat on one side of him as Kim and Rona each tried to grab the pillow closest to the Doomsday Warrior. Chen, Detroit, McCaughlin, and Archer all walked slowly around the place, gawking at the extravagant silks and weavings and gilded cow heads that hung on the tent walls. And the food—mountains of it, a feast one could only imagine in a dream. Vassily’s impromptu airlift of men and supplies must have been massive. But what about quality?

  But when they cut into the rare roast beef, bit into the yogurt and honey sparrow eggs, they knew it was real.

  “Where the hell did you get all this stuff?” Rock asked after he’d taken a few bites. “These things don’t grow around here.”

  “General Rockson,” Sikh Panchali said as a young woman covered in gossamer pink veils and bracelets fed him bite-sized portions of partridge pâté and truffles, “one thing our fighting forefathers learned very early in the formation of the Royal Sikh Army was to have the best of everything. It is only worth dying when one’s life is rich and full. Thus—we carry out Moscow’s orders and we are rewarded with the finest things that a man can have. One entire transport plane was filled with boxes and refrigerated containers of our culinary needs.”

  “This is the way to fight a war,” Rona said, stuffing her mouth with the turtle eggs in chocolate sauce, which for some not-inexplicable reason she found irresistible.

  “Why can’t we bring lunchboxes like this along on all our missions?” Detroit yelled from across the table, his own plate piled so high that things were slipping off as he ate. The rest of the team dug in with much enthusiasm, each eating like it was their last meal—which for some would be the case. Archer wolfed down whole platefuls in a bite and reached for whatever was closest as it passed by with a long pronged serving fork.

  Panchali clapped his hands after a few minutes and a line of dancing girls came out dressed in gossamer veils, which barely concealed their charms. They began undulating, insinuating their rather attractive musculature directly under the eyes of Ted Rockson and batting their moist doe-like eyes at him. Rona and Kim both coughed loudly and stared at the Doomsday Warrior with green rising in their eyes. This man had it too good!

  “If you so much as look at once inch of those—those women,” Kim sputtered, “I’ll put .45’s in both your eyes.” She banged her small fist down on the table, making a plate of creamed onions bounce slightly and several of the little grease balls rolled onto the silk tablecloth. Rock kept his eyes on his food. Rona leaned over and buttered his rolls, showing as much cleavage in her mostly open shirt as the dancing girls.

  “You see,” Ragdar said, smiling at Rockson, whom he could see was truly impressed by the display of wealth. “The ancients knew it well. All their fighting men—early Egyptians, the Greeks, Caesar’s, Alexander the Great’s—they always made war in style with feasts and women along the way. Why must a combat soldier suffer his hours when he is not fighting? He suffers enough in battle. Really, it is such an outmoded concept! I am surprised at your backwardness in such matters!” The Sikh general scolded Rockson in a mocking fashion with his ringed finger.

  “You’re goddamned right there’s ‘backwardness’ in such matters,” Rona said loudly. “This is the United States you’re in now, pal. And our faiths, our traditions—our everything dictate that we do things our own way. And that means no dancing girls. The Freefighters got us.” She smiled sweetly at Rockson and then at Kim and folded her hands across her ample chest, satisfied that she’d at least said her piece.

  Panchali and Ragdar gathered the top Freefighter commanders around the dinner table, once the feast had finished. Panchali swept the dishes, silverware, and glasses from the table with a dramatic flourish, sending the contents crashing onto the floor where they were attended to by a cluster of efficient servants. Panchali then pulled out a large pencil-drawn map and unfolded it on top of the table.

  “This is a map of the fortress,” the Sikh general said, probing his teeth with a golden toothpick. “You can see it from all four flanks.”

  “That’s remarkable,” Chen intoned as he slowly sipped some after-dinner plum brandy. “Where did you dig that up?”

  “We make our own maps, General Chen,” Ragdar said with a quick good-humored laugh. They’d taken to calling Rockson and his top five men “General,” unable to conceive that leaders of such numbers of troops could be of anything less than of that august ranking. “The moment we arrived, our cartographers were in the field making drawings, using surveying equipment to get the exact distances and dimensions of Minsk.”

  “Yes, General Rockson,” Panchali interjected, his face glowing with excitement for the first time that evening—as the subject was war. “We have found through costly experience that the more one knows exactly what the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses are, where his highest walls and lowest walls are, their makeup, the more one knows everything about him—as in making a fine piece of carpentry—the results will come out perfect if the measurements are correct. War is a science to us, General, not a game of chance.”

  Rockson was impressed as the generals went over the maps, which showed the approaches to the outer walls, the entrances that must be breached. Whatever their kingly airs, the Sikh men seemed to be the real thing—military strategists who knew how to kill better than the enemy. The Doomsday Warrior paid close attention to their words, their concepts. There was a lot to be learned from men such as these, steeped in siege-warfare.

  “So you see, it’s really absurdly simple,” Panchali went on, holding a long carving knife he had picked up from the table and using it as a pointer along the map. “We simply create diversionary attacks on the south, east, and west walls but concentrate our main attack on the north wall—the least protected because of the inhospitable terrain. But what is thought uncrossable by Russian planners is, for us, an eight-lane super-highway. Once the north wall is taken, cavalry and infantry will attack, sending all forces into the fortress. They have been instructed to kill only KGB and release Red troops. We are, as you can see,” Panchali said, sitting back with a smug look, “completely prepared. The situation is in hand.”

  “And what of my men?” Rockson asked, leaning forward. “Where do we come in?”

  “Oh really,” Panchali said with a bemused look. “We’re used to doing it alone. At least until the first fighters open the gates, I think you’d just be in the way.”

  Rockson didn’t show a flicker of anger and froze Chen and Detroit, whom he saw start to rise in fury, with but a single glance.

  “I don’t think you understand, General,” Rockson said coolly. “We’re in this together. We asked for you to come here to help us. I don’t mind if you run the show, since you seem to know what you’re doing strategically—but my men are to be in on every phase of it. You may be great fighters—but I daresay you’ve never fought the KGB or Colonel Killov over there in Asia. And as dangerous and fierce as those you faced may have been, I have a feeling your men will be glad there are some American kick-ass Freefighters along to point a few things out.”

  “I just don’t think—” Panchali began again, his eyes rolling up, but Ragdar cut him off.

  “I’m sure what my co-general means,” the younger and more diplomatic Sikh said, “is that we’d be glad to have you along as long as our men and your men know just how to place themselves so they won’t accidentally injure one another. Isn’t that right, brother?” Ragdar asked, looking at Panchali with a don’t-fuck-with-me-now expression.

  “Of course, of course,” Panchali blurted out, knowing that he easily enraged others and that he’d be better off letting the younger man take care of it all. “You must excuse me, Generals—I am so clumsy with words sometimes, a soldier who sometimes forgets the social niceties that allow for interaction
between men.”

  “At any rate,” Ragdar went on as Panchali sat back in his chair and drank a dark blue liquid from a crystal goblet, “we attack at midnight tomorrow and—”

  “And your equipment—those huge wooden things,” Rock asked, “what are they, how—”

  “Please, General Rockson,” Ragdar said, snapping his fingers for more wine, “it’s so difficult to explain it all—you’ll see tomorrow night. A battle, as they say, is worth a thousand military manuals. As we move into position, you’ll see it all.” He looked at Rockson. “If you want, pick your own team and come in with the first of us!”

  “I propose a toast,” the black Freefighter said with the beginnings of an idiotic drunken smile, “to our fine Asian fighters—whoever they killed in the past—we thank them for coming to our aid.” The Freefighters raised their glasses in salute and downed their drinks.

  “And my turn,” Ragdar said, as a servant filled his glass with a golden syrupy liqueur. “A toast to fighting men everywhere—whatever their rank or army. To the combat soldiers of history.” They all raised their glasses once again and happily downed the contents.

  Before the others could respond, Ragdar pulled another glass, already filled, from the table and turned toward Rona and Kim. They were starting to loosen up a little now that their third shots of booze had hit their stomachs.

  “And may I say,” the young, quite handsome if rather large-nosed, Sikh pronounced with a twinkle in both eyes as he looked at the Freefighter females, “that the American rebel army possesses some of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my travels around a good portion of this planet. To General Rona and General Kim.” He smiled the sexiest smile he could manage, directing it with all his dark-eyed male power at the two and swallowed the liquor gustily. Both women blushed, not daring to look either at Ragdar or Rockson, and quaffed theirs in a single gulp too.