Doomsday Warrior 05 - America’s Last Declaration Read online

  By the time the dawn sun raised itself on glowing threads into the carpet of the fading night, the Rock squad had left their woods cover and began climbing the southern peaks several miles to the side of where they hoped the German headquarters would be. It was rough going as they had to go up a steep rocky slope to avoid detection by Nazi troops dug into the front of the mountain in machine gun and mortar emplacements. With their skis dangling from around their shoulders and laden with nearly a hundred pounds of weaponry and explosives, the freefighters hugged the side of the sheer rock wall, dragging themselves up, foot by treacherous foot. Huge mountain vultures kept screaming out at them, flapping their five-foot wings from their nests inside crevices and small caves. But the Americans were strong, among the toughest that C.C. had to offer, and they made good time.

  At last they reached the summit, pulling themselves up over the edge and quickly rolling into scraggly thorn bushes that dotted the plateau of the mountain, in case there were any Nazis looking for strike squads. But there weren’t. The Germans, in their overconfidence at the immense power of their quarter-million-man army, couldn’t even conceive that the freefighters would dare attack them, much less crawl like spiders up a six- thousand-foot granite wall that a mountain goat couldn’t traverse. But they had, and the Nazis’ stupidity was the freefighters’ good luck.

  They scanned the long flat peak carefully, Chen checking every tree, every boulder ahead with his binocs. Nearly a mile away he could see the command tents, five of them, side by side, with officers running frantically past the flapping swastika flags outside their entrances. There were troops and artillery batteries all along the front ridge of the mountain—but also no one guarding the back. Mistake number two for the German invaders.

  “We’ll have to go way around them,” Chen said to the others who sat, breathing hard behind him. “Now, you know our plans, we’ve been over them a thousand times. There’s not going to be one second to figure things out once the action gets going—so be on your toes. Rona, Archer, you take the lead with me. We’ll have to dump anyone we run across silently—that means non-exploding star-knives and Archer’s crossbow. Don’t use the heavy stuff unless they actually start firing. Surprise is our only chance—let’s not fuck up. There’s too much at stake. You got me?” They all nodded in ascent and began moving across the plateau in a half crouch, running from tree to tree, bush to bush, like jack rabbits.

  They had nearly two miles to go in their circuitous route around the backside of the mountain peak, but after climbing the damned thing, running on a flat surface felt almost effortless. Small mountain rodents, horned field mice, multi-banded armadillos scampered away at their approach, scuttling off to safety in their hidden network of tunnels. But the freefighters were after bigger game—the Nazi beast. The sun was brilliantly clear as it rose higher and higher into the blue sky. Chen wished it was cloudy, as it had been for days—but nature doesn’t fit its plans to the needs of men, rather the opposite.

  At last they swung all the way around the three-mile-wide plateau and began moving slower as they came up on the rear of the German command center. Far off at the other end of the valley they suddenly heard thunderous explosions and saw smoke rising high in the air in funnels of blackness. The freefighters had opened up. The battle had begun and there was no turning back. Rona pictured Rockson for a second, giving the command to fire. She tried to reach him with her mind—as he had taught her. But couldn’t. She prayed he would survive.

  “Let’s go,” Chen said. “We’ve got to go full speed from now on. Don’t stop, don’t look back. If one of us gets hit, he gets left. It’s bigger than any of us, you understand?” He looked at them with his almond-shaped eyes, his dark curved mustache contrasting against the pure white of his attack uniform. There was sympathy in his eyes—for all of them—for they were among the closest friends he had ever had. They had all trained with him in the martial arts, had gone out on countless missions against the Reds, had stared right in the face of death and survived. There was compassion—but no mercy.

  They shot forward from their hiding places behind a row of dark boulders at a full run. The commencement of the firefight would distract the Nazis. German eyes faced forward, their rear was virtually unprotected. The American attack team built up speed, swooping in from behind like a pack of lions on the scent of blood. The tents loomed in the near distance, growing larger by the second as the echoes of the artillery of both sides shattered the calm of the valley. Their eyes and ears were super-sensitive, their every perception in a state of heightened ability, as are all those who are about to kill or be killed.

  Suddenly there was a shout just ahead of them. A guard post. Five Germans. One of them had risen to take a piss and spotted the stampeding Americans. The Nazis reached for their Kalashnikovs and Turgenev submachine guns in a flash. But not fast enough. Chen, running with a star-knife in each hand, flung them forward without breaking stride. They whistled through the air like missiles, spinning blades searching for hot flesh. First caught was the German who had spotted them, in the right eye, digging deep into brain tissue which spouted into a thick gush. The second found root in a Nazi throat severing the windpipe and larnyx so that the combat soldier fell to his knees gurgling blood instead of words. Everything seemed to move in slow motion—the guards reaching for their weapons, trying to raise them, Rona’s own two star blades, with which she had become highly proficient, streaking out like dark comets across the mountaintop, Archer raising his crossbow to his cheek and firing a four-foot-long shaft of death. The Nazi guns came up, desperately trying to get a bead on their zigzagging enemies. But the freefighters were quicker. Rona’s star-knives hit home, one lodging deep in a Nazi chest, the other in a soldier’s groin. Both fell, spurting their lifeblood out onto the cold ground. The fifth trooper had his sub at chest level, his finger about to squeeze the trigger, when Archer’s iron shaft found what it was looking for. The hunting tip entered the German’s skull leaving an inch-thick path behind it as it exited the other side in a spew of bone and pink. The German stood as motionless as a rock for several seconds and then toppled forward, in death.

  “Move, move,” Chen spat out as they sped past the still-quivering bodies by the glowing fire. They ran up to a row of Jeeps parked just behind the command tents and stopped for a second, hidden just behind the steel vehicles. The five tents were only twenty yards away, the largest one nearly a hundred feet of light brown canvas, obviously Von Reisling’s headquarters, with two on each side for the underlings. They could hear officers screaming out orders over radios inside as they attempted to deal with the American attack deep in the valley, before their own forces organized into battle formations.

  “Satchels,” Chen said, his eyes whipping back and forth behind the tents, searching for the sudden appearance of a German uniform that might mean their discovery before the mission had been carried out. Two star-knives sat on the fender of the Jeep he was hidden behind, ready for instant deployment. The freefighters reached in their backpacks and took out the deadly packets of high explosives that Dr. Shecter’s team had made just for them. “Set timers for ten seconds,” the Chinese martial arts master said as he laid his out in front of him. “Rona, you and I will hit the main tent. Archer and McCaughlin—you take the two on the right. Detroit yours are the two on the left. Set the timers and then start heaving—aim for the tops, there’s no time for subtlety. The first few may be shielded by the canvas but the rest should drop in—and take care of business. Any questions?” He quickly looked in each wide pair of eyes to make sure they understood. Especially Archer’s—who he was never quite sure knew just what was being said. But the oversized freefighter stared firmly back and grunted, “Throooow booom-booom.”

  “Now,” he screamed, heaving the first of his deadly packages high in the air toward the command tent. They soared end over end, their steel timing devices on the top glistening for a second as the sun’s swordlike rays bit into them. Then they hit. Chen’s first pac
k of plastique bounced off the flat springy surface of the tent roof, detonating almost a yard above it. It blasted a ten-foot-wide hole in the material as the second pack dropped in. A thunderous roar shook the entire headquarters as flames shot out the top. From inside they could hear the desperate screams of the maimed and dying. The freefighters hefted two of their death dealers at a time, heaving one then the other and instantly reaching for more without waiting to see the results. But the results didn’t have to be seen. The tents shook and flamed inside as if the very fires of hell had been unleashed on their occupants. Packet after packet spun through the air, every one hitting home with a deafening roar. Within seconds all five tents were ablaze, sending up balls of smoke and fire. Still, the Americans threw death at them, wanting to make sure that not one Nazi commander escaped. It was death wholesale—but when you prepare to kill, prepare to die as well. The Nazis had signed their own death warrants.

  At last they had nothing more to throw, and stood watching the tents burn wildly, flames shooting in every direction like immense yellow and orange tongues, searching for even more material to incinerate. And there were no more screams.

  “Let’s go,” Chen yelled after a final perusal of the conflagration to make sure their mission was complete. They tore back across the plateau, heading in the opposite direction of the way they had come up. Behind them they could hear a frantic commotion as troops and vehicles descended on the burning tents in hysteria—their entire command wiped out.

  They had gone several hundred yards when Chen spotted a chopper, its rotors just slowing to a stop, ahead on a rubble-cleared circle about twenty yards wide.

  “There’s our ride,” the martial arts master said with a grin. They ran, shotguns and rifles at the ready, straight at the helicopter whose crew and new arrival of more Nazi officers was just descending to the ground. But this time the Germans saw them coming and ripped out their revolvers, sending out a hail of slugs toward the advancing wild-eyed and soot-coated Americans.

  Chen unleashed a wave of star-knives, flinging them out like bullets on automatic fire. The blades tore into the Nazi faces and chests and thighs, as bodies toppled over from their crouched firing positions in front of the chopper. Detroit let loose with his uzi, sweeping it across the line of twenty German officers, cutting jagged lines across crisply uniformed flesh that instantly poured out bright red blood from myriad holes. Rona and McCaughlin drifted to the right, trying to flank the Nazis, firing as they ran with Rona’s Liberator and McCaughlin’s .12-gauge pump pounding out shell after shell of bone-shattering death. The big Scotsman suddenly felt a German slug slam into his thick thigh and he grimaced for a second but managed to move on, hobbling slightly. Detroit, Archer and Chen advanced on the now-terrified Germans who slowly began falling back. These crazy Americans didn’t seem to give a shit about their lives—but the Germans wanted to live. They could fight another day.

  Rona reached the back of the chopper and rushed around to the pilot’s seat, pulling open the door. A grinning face met her, holding a 7.22mm revolver at her face.

  “Die, bitch,” the pilot screamed, pulling the trigger. But Rona was faster. She had trained too long and hard to let some assistant Nazi asshole take her out. She whipped her head to the side as the bullet whizzed past and kicked up with her right leg, catching the German on the hand. The pistol flew into the air as the officer’s face sank into an expression of pure terror.

  “Not yet,” Rona said with the barest trace of a grin as she pumped half a magazine of .9mm Liberator rounds into his body. The bullets cut like scissors, from the navel to the throat as the nearly dissected German fell sideways and out the door. Rona jumped in and swung her rifle around into the passengers’ section, letting loose with a burst before she even looked to see who was there. And what was there were three cowering Nazis, their pistols half raised. But speed wins in the game of death. And Rona had been a split second faster. She rushed back to the cargo door and snapped it open, kicking the dead meat out on the ground.

  The freefighters tumbled in, McCaughlin bleeding badly from the thigh, Detroit holding his hand over one shoulder that leaked red down onto his khaki jacket. Chen was the last one in, heaving two more exploding star-knives out the door at a few Germans who had decided to be heroes. They went somewhere—in a spray of blood and veins, but not to a medal-presenting ceremony.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” the Chinese martial arts master yelled out. “Rona—you know how to fly this thing?”

  “Sure.” The statuesque redhead grinned. “Driven ’em a thousand times.” She ran back to the control pit and desperately tried to remember watching Rockson fly one of the damned things. She clicked the ignition on and the blades above sputtered to life, quickly reaching flying speed. She pushed the joystick forward and the chopper, lurching wildly, soared almost straight up into the air as bullets followed it from below. “See—there we go. It’s easy,” she yelled back to the green-faced crew. She eased the stick forward and the German helicopter, for use by Nazi officers only, charged forward at a peculiar angle toward the back of the mountain. Below and behind her, Rona could see the command tents burning like bonfires in the noonday sun. “Not bad for a morning’s work,” she said to Detroit who painfully seated himself beside her at the controls.

  “You actually know how to fly this damned thing? ’Cause I do,” the ebony-faced freefighter said, tying a tourniquet around his upper arm.

  “We’re flying, ain’t we?” Rona replied with a sardonic grin.

  “Like an eagle,” Detroit said. “Like a fucking eagle.”

  Far below them, Ubenführer Von Reisling stood alongside the burning tents as troops frantically tried to extinguish the flames. But he knew it was too late. There was nothing to save in there but charred bones. His body was coated with a thin sheen of his own blood. But he was alive. His radar-patched eye had seen the first of the satchels as it flew down onto the command tent roof. He knew there was no time to warn the others—besides he was what mattered. He had torn out of the back of the tent at a full run, knocking over officers as they stared after him with puzzled expressions. But they had found out—in a most hideous way—why their commander was fleeing. And by then it was too late.

  Von Reisling looked up at the helicopter quickly disappearing over the mountain edge with hate in his eyes. He had underestimated these freefighters. They were more than guerrillas—they were tacticians.

  Within his hate was twisted respect as well. They had struck quickly and forcefully, as the Führer himself had conducted his military campaigns. And they had dealt a powerful blow against his army. But he was alive. And that was all that mattered. They had won a battle—but the war, that was a different matter.

  He walked slowly and painfully over to the edge of the plateau, shaking off field doctors attempting to treat his wounds. The commander of all the German forces looked down on his Panzer divisions as they spread out, boxing in the freefighters on the plains below—as he had commanded just minutes before. Soon they would all be cut off. And then, then they would die.

  Sixteen

  From his perch on the forward ledge of the northern peak overlooking the valley floor, Rockson could see the freefighters fighting valiantly as hordes of the hybrid-riding sappers continued to sweep in from all sides. They threw their explosive charges into the advancing German ranks, and under the endless stream of Panzer tanks. But bravery is an emotion and overwhelming numbers of men and equipment a reality. The freefighters had been preparing for this day, for an all-out battle with the enemy for years. But not yet—it was too soon. The Americans were not ready. And it would spell their doom.

  He looked through the field glasses with a sinking heart as he took in the full picture of the war—the huge tanks forming a square around the valley floor in which every single damned freefighter would soon be trapped. The sappers were taking Nazis out by the dozen but new ones kept streaming out from the center, taking the place of every death machine that was dest
royed. He could see the ranks of Nazi troops goose-stepping forward, alongside the metal monsters, firing from the waist. He could see his own brothers and sisters of freedom falling like flies everywhere. Sacrificing their lives to take out as many as they could.

  But it was not enough. The most valiant heart can be pierced by a bullet, the most fearless eyes ripped from their sockets by mortars, grenades. “Shit,” the Doomsday Warrior screamed out in rage, slamming his hand down in a fist on the rock beneath him. Tears welled up in his eyes for one of the few times in his life. The freefighters had killed twenty, thirty, forty thousand troops. Who the hell knew. And tanks beyond number. But the Germans kept pouring through the far mountain pass in an endless deathly procession.

  He tried sending out his telepathic commands again, although in his heart of hearts he knew it was too late. “Retreat, retreat now. Further confrontation on the valley floor is useless. Head east—rejoin freefighter forces at fallback position 2.” He sent the message out again and again, until his brain throbbed in pain from the effort. Here and there he got back dim mental signals that they would comply—or try to.

  “Give them covering fire,” Rock yelled over to one of the gunnery posts just twenty yards away. “And pass the word along. Hit those tanks coming to the left—that column of Panzers.” The word was sent along the artillery line by flag and the big guns opened up with everything they had, trying to buy a little more escape time for their trapped comrades.

  But there was more to worry about—the German advance ranks were reaching the bottom of the northern mountain and scaling it. Long lines of black-booted troops came charging up the slope. And behind them, the rock-climbing tanks—their huge steel legs whipping end over end, pulling them up over the big boulders that dotted the side of the mountain. Every man, woman and teenager in their defensive positions along the slope fired down with everything they had—machine guns, mortars, Liberators, .45s. They sent down a stream of death, ripping into the forward Nazi flesh like a shooting gallery. But the Nazi charge was relentless. It was like a nightmare in which whatever one does has no effect on the enemy, on the monster that just keeps coming, reaching forward with hands of death.