Doomsday Warrior 14 - American Death Orbit Page 3

  “And the other two sites?” Rock asked, leaning back in his seat to relax his sore muscles from the judo workout he’d taken with Rona that afternoon. The woman was tough.

  “We believe that there’s a space shuttle rusting in a Colorado Springs Air Force hangar. And the NASA Dynasoar Satellite Killer Space Jet in a hardened protected bunker in southern Montana. Only one was ever built—but it was supposedly the real thing. Big. Spelled D-Y-N-A-S-O-A-R. And by that I mean it made the space shuttle look like a Model T! They learned enough from the disastrous shuttle program to do it right the next time around.

  “The thing is, they only got one built before the war put an end to any more of that kind of research. The Dynasoar is state-of-the-art, it is missile- and laser-equipped, supposed to be able to take off on some kind of hidden rail system. Go up halfway to the moon if needs be, and take out anything the Reds had put up there. You might call it the first real Interplanetary Warship. Something out of Buck Rogers, if I can use the analogy.”

  Thatcher stopped and looked around the table encountering quite disbelieving eyes.

  “Oh, it’s all in our file system, if any of you want to check,” the head of Information Systems said with a thin smile. He had encountered skepticism before in his findings. He didn’t take it personally anymore.

  “All right,” Shecter said, directing the meeting firmly as he was used to doing. “What about you Skarvis? You’re the big space artillery man. Anything in that area?”

  “As far as land-based weapons like magnetic beams, tractor beams, the sound tubes—all the junk they were experimenting with way back when—no, we haven’t found any real evidence of any working systems. There have been rumors of stuff far out west in the Glowers’ territory, but none of it is mapped to date. If there’s any real chance, I’d say it’s with one of the two ships Thatcher was talking about.”

  “Rath, you’re chief of Intel,” Shecter said, taking out his pipe and lightning up the familiar cherry-synth tobacco, actually processed from hydroponically grown lettuce leaves which had been genetically altered to taste like the tobacco of the old world. Something like it anyway. “What’s the good word? Are the Reds doing this? Or is it one of our own goddamned Free Cities—in that goddamned Dynosoar What-cha-ma-callit!”

  “I don’t think its the Reds,” Rath said, leaning both elbows forward and getting a thoughtful look on his thin face. “You know me, I’m considered one of the most anti-Red people, always screaming that they’re responsible for every earthquake and megacane. But in all honesty, I don’t think it’s them. Not regular Red Army or Air Force anyway. We would have picked something up on the airwaves or from our agents in the occupied cities. That big an operation couldn’t be kept quiet down here on Earth. It’s as if someone had just shown up from some planet in outer space, and is doing their thing. As far as what that thing is—we’re as much in the dark as anyone. Obviously, the weapons systems on the Wheel speak for themselves. And don’t bode well for any of us.”

  “No, they don’t,” Shecter said, turning to Rockson who was sitting there almost in trance. “Rock!” Shecter said. All eyes turned toward the Doomsday Warrior. His eyes were clearly in another dimension. They had all heard of Rock going into a kind of trance—something he’d learned from the Glowers no doubt when he’d been with them. He never talked about it much—but they all knew something damned strange had happened. Something that had given him almost telepathic powers. Made him a kind of mystic.

  “Rock,” Shecter repeated, even louder, tapping his pipe against the table.

  “Oh sorry,” Rockson said, snapping out of it and letting a smile streak across his face. “You know I can contact the Glowers from time to time. Not all the time. Today they answered me. They said we should take the Dynasoar Satellite Killer. It’s our only chance. And—it works. We should go up there—and see.”

  There was a sudden buzzing of voices around the table as those present, military and scientist, wondered whether they wanted the voices in Rockson’s head to determine such a momentously important course of action.

  “Gentlemen,” he added, slightly sheepishly. “Please, whatever your concerns about the reliability of the Glowers—they have helped us in the past. Now they tell us—tell me—what has to be done.

  “I have gone over some of the gathered material and intel from Shecter. And the Glowers are right, the Dynasoar is still in good shape. It’s the only one that’s actually been seen by one of our own people. So we know it exists, independent of Glower information.”

  “That’s right,” Rath piped in. “There’s a lot to that. We had some of our own Search and Gather people taken prisoner up there in Southern Wyoming where the thing is based. Five of them—captured by the warlord, Garr he calls himself. The man controls a hundred square miles of terrain that our baby just happens to be in the center of—underground in a rail tube bunker. We don’t even know for sure that Garr understands the significance of the thing. Worships it maybe—or more likely uses it to cow the others. The team was captured—two were castrated and tortured—two boiled alive and eaten in a ritual ceremony. One man escaped, but not before he got a glimpse of the spaceship when he was imprisoned underground in a cell for some days. They use some of the steel rooms below ground alongside the sitting rocket to keep their sacrifices. The man was lucky as hell to be alive. He won’t even go out on field assignments anymore. We’ve had to assign him to desk work here inside C.C.”

  “Can hardly blame him,” Dr. Shecter said, shaking his head. “It was an archeological team—a family unit. Not fighters. Guy lost his father and both brothers on the ill-fated expedition.”

  The others shook their heads. Sometimes life wasn’t fair in meting out how much it gave one individual to bear.

  “Well, if it’s any consolation to him,” Rock said addressing Shecter. “If this sighting turns out to be as important as it appears to be, and we can use this ship to stop the brewing madness above our heads—their sacrifice won’t have been in vain at all. Maybe more important ultimately than all the men who have died so far in battle trying to regain freedom.”

  “Well, Rock, you’d be the man to lead any expedition since it would clearly involve a combat force. What do you see as your needs? I mean—if you want the job.”

  Rock nodded. “I want the job! Well, aside from the actual strike force which I’d keep below two dozen—more than that slows travel and our only chance will be to strike fast and surgically—get in there, clear a way for the ship—and then fly it the hell out of there. But beyond the physical obstacles, which at least are predictable, my main concern is how the hell would we fly it, and operate the military systems of this warship. Is there anyone who has a clue how?”

  “I think I can answer that,” Thatcher spoke up with a sly smile. “From the moment we began charting these possible missile-weapons, we’ve gone over whatever plans we could find. Luckily one of the most complete set of plans we discovered was for the Dynasoar. We got those from a bombed-out USAF headquarters about two hundred miles north of here. Complete blueprints and operation manual—everything. We’ve had our best brains on it, working with computer analysis to see just how the thing is actually steered and operated. And I think we can offer some help there. You’re going to have headaches beyond recall trying to memorize this stuff—and I think at best you’re going to need five or six of our top science boys along, which I know will slow you down. But—”

  “I’ll be glad to have them along,” Rockson said with a grim smile. “Just let anyone who comes on this mission know—as all my men know every time we go out into the unknown wastelands—that most likely we’re not coming back.”

  “Rock,” Shecter asked, “did the Glowers tell you who is up there?”

  “No. Only that they must be stopped.”

  “Why didn’t you ask,” hawk-nosed Rath interjected.

  “You don’t ask Glowers things. They tell you things,” Rock said, “when and if they feel like it. Be thankful they
’re helping at all.”

  “I don’t trust them,” Rath said.

  “That’s your job, not trusting,” Rock smirked. “My job is to go do it, on the best information we have.”

  Five

  Rock gave himself forty-eight hours to get it together. He had no trouble picking his men. They had to be the most battle-hardened—and the smartest. His own Rock team—Archer, Detroit, McCaughlin, Chen. He couldn’t bring Scheransky, who was working on a secret project with Schecter. That was too bad, the Russian defector was like one of their own now, and as brave as any Freefighter. Then another sixteen tough and hardy souls ready to give their lives if need be were chosen, if Ted Rockson had to order it.

  He had made such life and death decisions before. All leaders, military leaders did. And had to live with the faces of those who died in his dreams, in his thoughts. There was no escaping them. But he didn’t try to. Remembering them was honoring them, keeping them alive.

  He left the collecting of munitions, explosives, pack hybrids—the biggest and strongest of the mutant horses contained in the Century City corrals—to Chen and Detroit and the rest of his team. They’d been through this enough times. Meanwhile, Rockson spent nearly thirty-six hours straight with two of the brightest brains of the science space team. Connors, a twenty-year-old whiz kid and astrophysics genius. And Rajat Hyundrquniat, an Indian lad only sixteen years old who was considered to be a super genius. There was a small Indian community in Century City; along with just about every other ethnic group and race. When the original two thousand people—trapped inside the Interstate Highway Tunnel which had been sealed off at both ends by A-bombs—got themselves together, dusted themselves off, and saw just what the hell there was to work with—they discovered that they had among them men from just about every profession. From doctors to engineers, construction men to electricians. Americans of all backgrounds. People with skills which would prove enormously useful in building what was the beginning of C.C. within the solid mountain, expanding the tunnel in all directions, leaving only that which was above them—Carson Mountain—alone, to shield them from further strikes—and hopefully from detection.

  Proud of their roots, and anxious to keep alive their cultures, the generations of survivors kept to their own ways.

  There were now about fifty Indians spread out among five families in the city. Rajat had been rated the highest intelligence measured since the city had begun keeping scores seventy years ago. He had been doing calculus at the age of four, graduated C.C. University, majoring in physics and quantum mechanics at the age of eleven. They didn’t quite know what to do with him after that. In the old world he doubtless would have formed a company, sold stocks. Or gotten his own TV show, or won countless Nobel prizes and made lots of money. But Shecter just let him work on whatever science project caught his fancy—be it research that could be used for immediate needs, or deep research into the very structure of the universe, of the mathematical formulas that determined all events. If you could but find them . . . Schecter believed they existed.

  Rajat was hardly bigger than a broomstick, about five feet four inches tall, and weighing not more than one hundred pounds. He was also only sixteen years old which even gave Rockson—used to meeting bulky mutant-races with extra heads—a bit of a jolt. He felt a sort of macho pride rise in him, combatting the idea that he should be trained by this teenager, have to have the kid explain the workings of the Dynosoar Spacecraft over and over—and over again. Astrophysics had never been one of Rockson’s strong points, though he could fly almost anything with a seat-of-his-pants instinct.

  But Rajat’s childlike enthusiasm for his subject matter and his brilliantly clear mind soon made Rock realize he was actually learning a hell of a lot. From Connors as well, who walked him though the makeshift Dynasoar control panels that the techs had quickly thrown together. It was rough going here, even with a whole team of them coaching him every step of the way. There were roughly twelve hundred separate dials, levers, monitors, you name it. Even with only a fraction of them absolutely necessary for minimal functioning—it was still an eye- and a brain-full.

  At the end of forty hours Rock didn’t know if his mind was still working. And he wasn’t really sure he had absorbed enough from the teaching to even begin to steer the rocket.

  Both of them—Rajat and Connors—volunteered to come along. Even after Rock told them several times that they most likely weren’t coming back, would never have families, or grow to see freedom. Even after all of that they wouldn’t hear of it and just laughed young laughs. The laughs of young men that hadn’t seen so much death like the rest of the men around them, and said that it was Rockson who had to be kidding. They wouldn’t miss this chance for the world. To travel with Rockson, to possibly ride the last existing spaceship on earth, up to the very heavens. Why it was every boy’s, and many men’s, dream.

  Rockson felt bad about it, real bad. But he knew he had no choice. Without them along he would be like a blind man trying to paint the Sistine Chapel. At last with his eyes so bleary he could hardly keep them open, Rockson bid the technical staff adieu, told the others to get some final shut-eye. Once they were out of there, sleep might be a missing commodity.

  He headed down to his bunk and walked into the darkened room ready for a solid six hours. His body ached, his mind wobbled. He set the glowing clock built into the wall, and then taking off his boots and clothes, threw himself down on the bed.

  “Watch it, you elephant,” a voice squealed out below him as he slammed into something soft and perfumed.

  “Who the hell is—?” Rock asked throwing both hands in front of him trying to feel who was there. His right hand grabbed around a very firm and very wonderful-feeling breast.

  “Boy, no foreplay at all anymore in this boy,” the voice spoke back. “Just grab and take. Well, that’s okay with me Rocky, keep going.” Rockson saw, as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, a greenish coloration coming from the clock—Rona. She was stretched out alongside his with her long flaming red hair strewn around the pillow beneath her head. And her fabulous body which he knew well, naked before him, inviting, desiring, no doubt, his touch. Even in his nearly comatose state from lack of sleep, Rock felt his manhood start rising up like a flag up a flagpole. The sight of her curvaceous beauty never ceased to get him going like a stampede of snorting cattle. He reached for her again. This time with both hands.

  An hour later when their thrustings and Rona’s sweet moaning—which had risen to such a crescendo that Rock was afraid the corridor security guards might come knocking—were over, she lay draped across him. Her sweaty legs were up over his hip, Rona was making little cooing sounds as she kissed his ear.

  “I want to go.”

  “What was that?” Rock mumbled, nearly drifting into sleep, praying he got at least a little before the expedition began. Exhaustion was supposed to set in after you’d been out on the trail for a few days, not when you hadn’t even started yet. And yet he regretted not at all having done it. If it was the last time he ever made love to a woman, it was Rona he wanted to be with. A powerful memory of life to take into death with him.

  “I said—I want to go.” The redhead’s eyes flared wide. “I know you’ve already chosen the attack force—and there are no women. You’ve always allowed women to go—me as well—on other missions.”

  “That was other missions, Rona,” Rock said wearily as he turned his head toward her ear and nuzzled her sweet mane of red hair that smelled like the essense of wild flowers. “Because on other missions there was always a chance of coming back. But on this—my gut tells me it’s real slim. Even the Glowers, they sounded unsure, dark about the whole thing. I’m sorry, I’m sure it’s sexist and terrible and all that—but it’s my decision and I’m making it. No.”

  “You pig,” she said, pushing away from him in the darkness. The sudden missing presence of her body struck like a sharp pain through his chest. It was almost a portent of the Icy One himself tappin
g at one’s flesh. He wanted at that moment to touch her more than anything.

  “Rona, listen to me,” he said softly in the near darkness. “This whole thing is bigger than both of us, you’ve got to understand that. In the old days I might have taken you. But the truth is, if I don’t come back I want to know there are people here—people like you—who can give C.C. the leadership it will need in the coming years. I trust you as an equal, Rona, in many of your military abilities. I’ve been out there in the wilds with you and I’ve seen you fight. That’s why you’re needed here. If we both croak, it’s unfair to the rest. They need you. Your city needs you. There are few of us leaders, when you get right down to it.”

  There was silence for a few seconds as he heard only her breathing and the beating of his own heart. Then she spoke up again, so softly he could hardly hear.

  “You’re right, of course, as usual,” she said with a little laugh. She turned back toward him. “I’m always selfish. Innately. I guess that’s the way of all people though. You want what you want, when you want. But you’re right. I can’t always think of myself. The rest come first. Our obligations to the city that nurtured us is more important than my wanting to be with you. I’m sure you’ve picked a group who will give you the best odds for success.”

  She didn’t sound as convinced as he would like.

  “The meanest, toughest hombres I could find,” Rock said. “Most of them with no families. No more widows and fatherless children to leave behind. I guess that’s some little consolation.”

  “Oh Rock,” she said, “Rock, Rock.” She moved forward suddenly and was all over him again. But this time not really in a sensual way. More of a protective feeling. As if she were trying to save him from all threats, protect him with her own hot flesh, large breasts pressed hard against his chest. And in the darkness, as he slid into the blissful abyss of sleep, Rona stayed awake as one thick tear after another flowed slowly out of the corners of her eyes and down onto his chest. Soon the pillow was wet.