Doomsday Warrior 19 - America’s Final Defense Page 4

  “Radio signals? Doesn’t that mean that there’s some intelligent life on Karrak?” He had visions of three-headed lizards with ray guns.

  “No God, no! An asteroid that size can’t have any real atmosphere! Besides, it was out in the Oort cloud for billions of years, out beyond any heat from the sun—at four hundred degrees below zero. The radio noise is undoubtedly caused by those geysers interfacing with the asteroid’s magnetic field. The noise, incidentally, sounds a bit like your Judas Priest recording—a sure sign that the signals are not caused by anything intelligent! It’ll be fascinating to watch such an object approach Earth. Once it gets within the orbit of the moon, there should be all sorts of wonderful phenomena in the sky—and just before it hits, it will be a wonderful show of gravitonic pertubations!”

  Rockson slammed his fist onto the desk console. “Get serious, damn it! We have to stop Karrak! We can stop it, can’t we? How about we throw a few dozen nuclear bombs up there to deflect it?”

  “I thought of that already, of course. No, it’s hopeless. If only one of those geysers on Karrak had blown wide open earlier . . . now it’s too late. The mass of the object—heavier than nickel-iron—and its velocity are such that even a dozen bombs would have no effect on its course now . . . even if we had the missiles to get the nuke bombs to Karrak, which we don’t. Not since the disarmament treaty with the Soviets. Remember, the ICBMs were all destroyed.”

  “Damn! You’re right!” Rockson sagged back into his chair for a second. Then his brain started working. Missiles weren’t the only way to send an object into space. There were spaceships, in the old days, and rockets that had even gone to the moon, back in the late twentieth century.

  “Listen,” Rockson said excitedly. “If we could outfit an old NASA rocket, send a manned expedition to Karrak, then they could circle Karrak, select the best of those geysers to blow wide open—with a single nuclear weapon—”

  “It’s possible,” Schecter beamed. “If we unleashed the full potential of a geyser at just the right location, it would nudge the asteroid onto a different path! One that would miss the earth by a hair. It’s possible, if you do it just right.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes! Thanks for volunteering for the flight. You’ll need council approval, of course. And there are some problems with getting access to a powerful enough rocket. And the problem of providing the nuke device to you, of course.”

  “So do we have a spacecraft?”

  “There is one in storage a few miles from here. It might need some refitting, Rockson; it’s old. As for the nuke, I can whip one up, given all sorts of emergency appropriations of materials.”

  Rock smiled, “So that’s it! Get me the rocket, and the nuke, and I’ll go take care of this little problem. Hey, my fortune cookie—the last time I ate Chinese food—said I would be traveling soon to a far land.”

  “Don’t be so flippant, Rockson. It’ll be a dangerous voyage. And even if the bomb is planted just right, we can only hope and pray that the resultant supergeyser sends Karrak off course.” The scientist looked at his watch. “There’s time before we go to meet the council. Let’s go back to the telescope for a while.”

  “No thanks, anyway, Schecty, old man! You can freeze your old bones watching that god of bad news coming at us. For me, I’m going down into the city, round up some of my men, and start figuring out who I take along on the trip to stop that thing!”

  “Don’t get lost again, Rock! No women!”

  “Promise.”

  There was a blast of air as Rock left via the subway. Schecter had said three weeks. That meant—Rockson did a little calculating—December twenty-fifth. Sometime on Christmas Day the world might end.

  Rockson sighed and bit his lower lip. The damned council could screw up the whole desperate attempt to save the world by acting too slowly.

  Rock checked his watch. Thirty-two minutes until the meeting. He’d have to really scramble for his men to meet him!

  He couldn’t go back to Rona right now. He fingered the key to the nurse’s apartment in his pocket. Charity would have to wait, too.

  Four

  Rockson had pressed the “emergency scramble” button on his watch the minute he’d left Schecter. Now Rock headed directly for the Starlight Lounge, the informal place his “Rock Team” always met in such emergencies. Hopefully, they’d be there before him. The tube ride back to E-Level of Century City would take five minutes, plus the elevator to the top level, where the sky lounge was located. Rock smiled. He had no doubt they’d drop whatever they were doing and beat him there.

  The main dining room was nearly empty at 4 A.M. Rockson felt nostalgic as he walked through the restaurant. He looked out the wide-open sky-view windows up at the stars. He could remember all the years that there were baffles and mirrors there, and only a distorted view of the outside world could be seen through those wide glass windows. Now that there was no war, the windows were always open wide to the sky. Peace was so sweet, and usually so short. And in times of peace, soldiers like Rockson were not much appreciated.

  When Rock entered the back room, he found the ten-by-twelve-foot space crowded with his men. The five fighters of his “Rock team” were sitting around the small conference table, already with coffees, and a few beer cans, in front of them.

  The team members looked up with anxiety in their eyes.

  McCaughlin, a big bear of a Scotsman, stood up and asked, “What’s up, Rock? God, we weren’t even sure you were recuperated. You look great! Are we going on a mission?”

  “Something very bad is up,” Rock grimaced, taking in each hard-bitten, combat-ready face staring back at him. “Something worse than we’ve ever had to deal with. The mission I hope we will soon be going out on will probably be the most dangerous and most important one we’ve ever undertaken. But let me have some coffee before I continue.”

  You could cut the tension with a knife as the camouflage-outfitted men listened to the hot black coffee being poured by Rockson into his tall coffee mug. Their red-coveralled commander was being mean, Chen thought, to make them wait for the exact details. Chen was a master of patience, but the others were not. The lean Chinese-American Freefighter absently tweaked at his pencil-thin moustache, waiting calmly for Rockson’s fateful declarations, amused to see all the fidgeting around him.

  Archer, the seven-foot-tall, heavy-bearded mountain man, sat with his arms crossed over his massive chest, his beady black eyes flitting from one Freefighter to the next, breathing like a steam engine under his battered old hat.

  Detroit Green, Rockson’s closest friend, was fidgeting with a pen. The ebony-faced, muscular man sat back a little from the conference table so that his twin bandoliers of grenades wouldn’t clunk on the wood, or, heaven forbid, catch on it.

  Scheransky, the blond Russian defector, played with a pocket calculator. What was he calculating? The technician was always doing some obscure math in his spare moments.

  McCaughlin just chugged down another beer and crushed the can flat. He hated restaurant coffee. He was the team cook, and he preferred his own brews. He pulled on his long, tangled beard.

  After Rock slugged the coffee down, apparently savoring the incredibly hot, black brew tremendously, he sighed and said, “I’ve just been to see—”

  Detroit interrupted, “Rock—we heard all about it from Rath! We can save time by just going into what we’re going to do about it.”

  Rockson seemed thunderstruck. “But . . . no one’s supposed to know.”

  “Well,” Detroit said, “Rath knows, and he put it all in this intelligence report for us.” He slid a folder to Rockson.

  “What intelligence report?” Rock opened the folder, exclaimed, “God, this says—Rath has found out that Killov is alive, and that the bastard is in Peru! According to this, Intel Section intercepted a message from one of the KGB patrols . . . it was coded, but they cracked the code. Killov was ordering that his men round up another 1,000 slave workers . . . Indians, for som
e huge construction project!”

  “And that’s why you called us here,” Detroit asked, “isn’t it? It seems Killov’s getting pretty well set up down in Peru, judging by those pics from the surveillance satellite that Rath managed to activate. It shows a hell of a lot of activity in the Machu Pichu ruins. We’ve got to stop him, right, boss? These pics show the reconstruction Killov’s doing down there—all the earthworks indicate he’s setting in some hard-siloed missiles. Missiles that no doubt will be sent to hit us.”

  Rock, still apparently stunned, said, “I knew Killov was alive, but I didn’t expect—”

  “You mean, you didn’t know about this?” Chen asked.

  “Not at all,” Rockson admitted, shaking his head. He sucked in some air. “Killov being alive is bad news, and the fact that he has missiles is bad news. But not as bad as my news! Something even worse is up, I’m sorry to say. Something that makes—I thought I’d never say this—Killov actually irrelevant.”

  “Irrelevant?” Chen smiled, “Surely you’ve got to be joking.”

  “I’m not.” Rockson quickly told them all about Karrak, and the danger to Earth. It was his team’s turn to be stunned.

  After a while Chen spoke up. “We should use some nuke missiles—when Karrak gets close.” Then he bit his tongue and said, “I—I—forgot! The peace treaty we signed in Moscow! Damn it! Every ICBM is scrapped! Except for a few the Red Renegade has!”

  Detroit looked at Rockson hopefully. “Surely there are some hidden nuclear missiles out there in the desert. Didn’t somebody salt a few away in case the Ruskies cheated on the treaty, like they did in the twentieth century?”

  “Not this time,” Rock said. “We verified the Soviet compliance completely. And so did the Russians. We’ve both totally disarmed. But there is hope.” Rock told them that Schecter believed that a manned mission could deflect the asteroid, if it delivered a nuke device to one of the geysers on Karrak, “Nothing short of that,” Rock finished, “would work. I need some volunteers for the flight. I’m asking each of you to volunteer. I’ll understand if someone doesn’t want to try it—”

  Archer stood up, and the gentle giant shouted, “Me! I go! Me old hat at spaaaaace travel! Me volunteer!”

  Everyone volunteered, as a matter of fact. A game bunch.

  Rockson smiled and shook hands all around. “That’s the spirit! With all of you behind me, I’m sure I can do the job.”

  Five

  In the main council chamber of Century City, an oval-shaped room with a giant mural depicting the old United States Capitol Building, the fateful meeting had convened. There were delegates from all twenty-seven districts of Century City, wearing their colorful ethnic outfits, or drab fatigues, or business suits, according to their taste. Everyone there had been informed of Schecter’s alarming discovery. The asteroid Karrak’s ominous approach was not yet made known to the general public. But the secret was bound to be blabbed by someone present. In a democracy you can’t keep things quiet for long.

  “Rockson is late,” muttered Chairman Willis McGrugle to one of his pages. “Who does he think he is to keep me standing here at the podium like a damned fool for the second time tonight?”

  McGrugle was at the end of his patience. He signaled for the sergeant-at-arms to come down to see him, but she didn’t notice. The sergeant was busy.

  She gathered her assistants at the top of the main aisle. The uproar of the crowd of delegates made any conversation difficult. She explained their duty and added, “If there are any questions, please ask them.”

  Her squad were all men, stolid Ninja-trained warriors. They didn’t ask any irrelevant questions, just how much force to use, if necessary.

  Chen’s wife—the new one, Bing-Ling, a diminutive, sultry-looking beauty, half Chen’s age—was currently Sergeant-at-Arms. Bing-Ling and her five Ninja-trained assistants were probably the most formidable guards the chamber had ever possessed. She nevertheless frowned when she saw that she was summoned down to the podium.

  When she heard the chairman demand she go fetch Rockson, she was most hesitant. “To go and seize the Doomsday Warrior, to place him under what amounts to virtual house arrest, as you suggest,” she replied coolly, “is probably not a good idea.”

  But when the chairman insisted, Bing-Ling did not refuse. Instead, she said she’d obey, but would have to first spend a few moments giving detailed instructions to her assistants; instruction as to “procedure and protocol” for arresting the military leader of the city.

  The chairman nodded and said, “Well, then, make it quick! Then go get him. By force if necessary.”

  Bing-Ling hoped that Rock would appear before they had to go get him. She hated McGrugle for his imperiousness.

  Finally the delegates were settling down. And the chairman was glaring at her. She sighed and said to her men, “I guess we have to go. Let’s search the least likely places first.”

  Suddenly Rock and his five men strode into the auditorium. The roar of the crowd rose again, and Willis McGrugle banged the gavel and demanded the delegates be seated and be quiet. The TV cameras scanning the vast room for the benefit of distant free cities zoomed in on Rockson. Videos of the proceedings were being sent to 120 or so settlements scattered throughout the Rocky Mountains, and even to some of the newer unfortified towns that had sprung up in the Great Plains since the final peace treaty between Moscow and America. All those towns and cities each had a vote on any matter discussed in the C.C. Chamber.

  Rockson and his men took the six seats reserved for them. Rock looked around. Not many smiling faces. He sensed a long debate—democracy was a creaky machine, even if it was a good one. It had better go well this time.

  “About time you got here!” McGrugle shouted. “Where’s Schecter?”

  Schecter walked in just as he asked that question, found a seat, and leaned back with his big hands behind his balding head.

  “Well, then, we’re all here.” the chairman said acidly. Now, let’s—”

  “Mr. Chairman,” Rockson said, standing up. “I make a motion that debate be limited to under one hour.”

  That motion caused an uproar, but Rock had the floor and the motion was put to a vote. Thanks to the votes of the far-flung delegates watching the proceedings via video, all of them weary of C.C.’s endless raucous debates, the motion was narrowly carried. The tally board lit up with 230 yes votes, 208 no votes, and a few abstentions. Rock was relieved.

  Despite the dour stares when he came in, he still had a few friends among the delegates, on both sides of the aisles—doves and hawks. The doves, Rock knew, never forgave him for his secret session proposal last year suggesting America store away a few ICBMs in violation of the peace treaty, “to counter any possible threat to the RSA from renegade Soviet groups like Killov’s.”

  And the hawks were angry at him too, for Rockson had been in the forefront of the group that insisted that Vassily, the moderate ruler of the Russians, could in fact be trusted. To their chagrin, Rock had pushed through many of the earlier partial nuclear disarmament treaties.

  The only delegates firmly aligned with Rockson were Guzzens, Ferguson, and Tomita, the so-called owls—men wise enough to want peace, but wise enough to keep an ace in the hole, just in case of an emergency.

  Like now, Rock thought grimly. Too bad the owls hadn’t prevailed.

  The chair called on Schecter. He strode up to the podium, the lights were lowered, and he made his dramatic presentation.

  The AV equipment projected astro-maps and computer-generated data showing that Karrak would intersect with the earth in three weeks. Schecter spent a lot of time on technical data, and even projected his extensive hand calculations onto the lowered screen. It was far too complex for all but a handful of the delegates to understand. But all in all, the presentation was convincing. The photos the venerable scientist finished up with were the best. Karrak was shown spinning like a battered baseball hurled by a devilish pitcher. More stunning high-power pics of Karr
ak through the Schmidt telescope showed some details of its tortured surface and strange geysers.

  But people booed and even guffawed in disbelief when Schecter explained that there was no possibility of a mistake in his calculations. The evidence that Karrak would soon destroy the earth was too awesome to believe, perhaps. Maybe those present just refused to believe they could all become scattered atoms in such a brief time.

  Someone rose to ask Schecter a question that must have been on everyone’s mind. “Surely,” the soft-spoken man said, “there are things yet unknown about this—object?”

  “Yes,” Schecter admitted, “though we know the course of the death asteroid, there are lots of things we don’t know about Karrak. For instance, I have just determined it has an atmosphere, though theoretically it shouldn’t. I can’t explain this fact—yet. And there are dark, squarish spots on the asteroid that look artificial. And some—er—lines too regular to be fissures.”

  “Get to the point, sir,” Mary Smart, one of Rock’s bitterest enemies, stood up to shout out. “What do you want, Schecter? A medal for making everyone nervous for no purpose?”

  “No,” Schecter glowered back, “I want action. Rockson and his men are prepared to take on a space voyage. They will go to Karrak to plant a nuclear device to deflect the asteroid.”

  There was pandemonium in the auditorium. When the tumult died down, Schecter continued. “Oh, I know it will be the first space voyage to another world since the Apollo missions back in the twentieth century, but by the time we’re ready to launch, Karrak will be closer than the moon. And Karrak has less gravitational pull, so it will be easier to land there.”

  “Outrageous! Preposterous!” shouted some. The gavel banged again and again. Then the wily old chairman smiled disingenuously and added his own caustic remark. “Doctor Schecter, there are no spaceships available, are there? All of this is just—talk—a fiction!”