Doomsday Warrior 04 - Bloody America Page 5

  “But don’t you ever grow afraid? Angry? Vengeful? After all, your people are still subjects. Work hard—die young. Don’t you—” For the first time ever, Vassily suddenly had the terrifying image of Rahallah’s strong black hand coming in to kill him in the middle of the night—a knife, a razor.

  “Sir, you have promised me that someday my people will be free. My tribe. We have been enslaved by one race or another for centuries. We have learned to be patient, to move with the changing seasons, ride the ever-shifting winds of time. I have been given the opportunity by the gods to come and work for you. Influence you. I speak to you of peace—always. When you ask me for aid in your musings, I whisper peace. In your sleep I whisper peace. Peace for the world—for all mankind—so that we may return to the paradise that this green planet once was. That is my anger, my vengeance—to influence you, sir, to create peace.”

  Vassily looked very thoughtful for several moments, then glanced up sharply. “Peace—if only it were so easy. I know I’ve promised you freedom for your tribe. I wish things were calmer. I’ve been waiting until the empire was firmly in control before I give more power to my subjects. In the midst of revolts is not the time to give in. It is a bad sign. They would be emboldened. I’m sorry, Rahallah—it is not yet time.”

  “I know you will do what is right,” Rahallah answered with a calmness that almost angered Vassily. He didn’t feel calm. He felt his own anger rising—at always being inundated with requests, favors, crop failures, uprisings. The world was spinning around him like a gyroscope out of control.

  “I feel tired tonight, Rahallah. So tired. I’m growing old and there is still much to do. I must leave the planet a safer place. Not more dangerous. But I fear that is what is happening. With this madman Killov making his bid for power. I am the only one who can stop him. My fat fool of a nephew, Zhabnov, is incapable of fighting the cleverness of The Skull.”

  “You are still strong, sir. I know your time has not yet come. I have spoken with the spirits of my ancestors—they have never failed me, never lied to me. Death knocks but cannot break down the wall to your soul. It is my duty to give you what comforts a man, to calm your mind and heart so that you can better deal with the battles of your rule.”

  “Thank you, Rahallah. Your words always give me comfort. Wheel me in now, I grow cold.” The black servant, descended from a warrior race, slowly pushed the wheelchair of the ruler of all the worlds—a frail old man who hardly weighed more than a child. A rotting body, nothing now but skin and veins that seemed they must surely explode out with his life’s blood. But the eyes were clear. Clear as the stars that glittered on the stage of the Russian night. And in his mind those eyes were focused on the body of Colonel Killov. Might his death come soon.

  The commander of all KGB forces in America stared out from the eightieth floor of the Monolith—the headquarters of the dreaded Blackshirts in the U.S.S.A. Located dead center of what had been Denver, Colorado, the huge black, glass and steel structure was a constant reminder to the American workers for miles around that their pitchforks and axes were nothing compared to the power of the KGB. The Monolith was a monument to death as its two hundred-foot-wide circular frame pierced the morning sky like a dark spear. The veiny red rays of the sun slowly cracked across the vast cobalt blue sky above the Rocky Mountains.

  Colonel Killov popped another Benzedril, his twelfth that night. He had been up for nearly four days now and had hardly eaten a bite of food. His sustenance had been reduced to two glasses of vegetable juice pumped with megadoses of vitamins each day. His gaunt skull-like face, cheekbones popping out like bones through rotting flesh, stared back at him from the blue-tinted bullet-proof floor-to-ceiling glass that surrounded his entire eightieth floor suite of offices and living quarters. His flesh had the ghastly color of decayed dough, almost greenish. Killov’s eyes were wide open, straining in their sockets like black marbles reflecting the tentative beams of American sunlight that tried to slice into the room.

  Killov slammed his thin hand hard against the thick glass and cursed out loud. “Damn that bastard, I know he’s out there,” the Blackshirt commander said bitterly, grinding his yellowed teeth together. “That slime could be right up on those ridges at this moment,” he mused aloud, staring the ten miles or so up to the lower slopes of the arching Rocky Mountain peaks, ice tipped and shining in the dawn. Killov fingered the long scar that ran across the side of his face from just below the right eye to his lower jaw. A gift from Ted Rockson, who had kicked a glowing hot metal rod into his would-be torturer’s face just when he himself was about to be branded. The wound was still red and throbbed at times, sending a streak of pain through Killov’s central nervous system.

  But the pain was good. For the colonel was a master of pain. And the burn scar, nearly an inch wide and a jagged eight inches long was a constant reminder of the power of pain. It made sure he would never forget. Someday he would get the “Ultimate American” as the rabble called him. It might take years, decades even, but he would find him—he would torture the man with the most exquisite pains the human body could experience. He wouldn’t let Rockson die. No, death would be a kindness. The torture would be slow, days, weeks perhaps if his doctors could keep the rebel leader alive down in the subbasement of the Monolith filled with every pain-producing device known to man—even the new mind-breaking machine. Killov could picture the twin laser probes ripping into Rockson’s skull. The sickly odor of the burning brain tissue—then the screams.

  But first things first. It was Vassily and his idiot nephew Zhabnov whom Killov must deal with now. There had been two assassination attempts on the KGB commander’s life within the last month. Both had failed. He was too clever, too quick for even the most highly trained assassins. But the Blackshirt leader knew there were more, and it added to his increasing paranoia. Everywhere were spies—no one was to be trusted. Anyone who entered his suite of rooms was searched and then had to walk through two detectors: one an x-ray device to pick up guns or knives; the other, an elemental spectrometer, to detect poisons and gases.

  Killov rarely left the eightieth floor anymore. When he did, it was by helicopter which was stationed on the landing pad on the roof of the Monolith. But soon he wouldn’t have to hide like this—like a cornered rat. They thought they had him now with their combined forces. But Killov knew he was a thousand times smarter than either of them. Already his own plots of counter-assassination were being planned. They would die—not he. Anyone who opposed him would be destroyed. He would rule. It was his destiny to be emperor of the planet, and then things would be done his way—as servant of the Lord of Death.

  Six

  “Jesus, Rock, look!” McCaughlin said, half tripping as he looked up toward immense clouds, each as big as a city, that flew quickly across the thick sky promising a downpour of rain over what had been the state of Montana. But it wasn’t the clouds that had caught the Scotsman’s eyes—it was the black dots that were approaching rapidly. Red choppers from the formation and speed—and they were coming right at the freefighters. Rockson, President Langford, Kim, and the rest of the Rock team had been moving carefully across some sparsely treed slopes to get the president back to his headquarters. They had traveled mostly at night to avoid the spy drones that now seemed to be everywhere. The Reds were still frantically searching for any survivors of the convention.

  The Doomsday Warrior looked quickly around for any cover. He hoped the choppers hadn’t seen them yet. Here, on the very top ridges of an almost barren mountain, they would be sitting ducks. If it had just been Rock and his crew, he wouldn’t have felt so concerned—but with Kim and Langford along . . . If the Reds caught them all, they would have the biggest haul they had ever made. Medals and vodka would be flowing for months. His alert eyes saw the shadow of a cave several hundred yards down the decline ahead.

  “Double time it,” the Doomsday Warrior yelled out, wanting them all to feel the edginess in his voice. There was no time to play it cool. The party o
f Americans flew down the slope and into the dark spiderwebbed cavern. They all prayed that there were no grizzlies or other cave dwellers inside who would want to dispute ownership of the dark rock home. But a quick scan with a mini-flashlight by Chen showed nothing more than some bats seemingly unconcerned, hanging by the hundreds from the back roof of the nearly eighty-foot-deep cavern.

  “Defensive alignment,” Rock spat out and the team quickly went into one of their many battle modes that had been worked out and practiced for years. McCaughlin pulled out the folding fifty millimeter machine gun from its satchel over his right shoulder and moved it up to a low rock just inside the cave. Chen took eight of his exploding star-knives from a hidden pouch inside his black ninja suit, fitting four into each hand.

  Detroit tightened his grenade bandoliers that crisscrossed his linebacker-sized chest, taking off two of the metal pineapples and gripping them tightly in his black hands. Archer grumbled out an untelligible word or two and slipped his crossbow from around his back. He loaded it with an exploding arrow as he fit five more into the quick-fire mechanism that he had built in just below the steel death-dealer. The team was ready—as ready as they’d ever be.

  Rockson edged forward, pulling out his dust-coated field glasses and lifted them to the far sky. He saw what he feared: The choppers were coming straight ahead, right at the mountain peak. There were nearly twenty of them in a V-formation, big MS-20 jet helios, armed to the teeth with missiles, radar, and Rock knew from past experience nearly twenty elite combat troops in each, ready to drop down at a moment’s notice on long nylon ropes. He could see the big Red stars on the sides—signifying Red Army. At least they weren’t KGB. The regular army was usually a lot less enthusiastic about engaging in firefights with the freefighters.

  But as the squadron of choppers continued unerringly on its straight course, Rock’s heart began beating faster. They’d been seen—he could feel it. His sixth sense told him that some overzealous asshole aboard one of the craft had been looking through one of the super-scanners or perhaps one of the infrared scopes that could pick up any living thing for miles. The choppers would be upon them within a minute or two. Rock turned around, sliding back into the cave.

  “We’ve got problems,” he said, with a slightly sardonic grin. “Big problems.” He glanced over at the pale Langford and Kim who looked back at the man she loved with big blue-green eyes, wide in fear and concern.

  “We can take ’em, Rock,” McCaughlin said. “Let me open up the fifty-five. If we can just get a few of the lead choppers the rest will pile up and—”

  “Not this time, pal,” Rock said. “There’s too much at stake here. If President Langford should get captured, it would set our new government back for years, maybe decades. The morale of the freefighters would be dealt a heavy blow.” The Doomsday Warrior had already made his decision. He knew they’d protest, but Rockson was the leader and there was nothing that would change his mind once it was made up. “We’ve got to create a diversion. They know there’s someone here, but I’m sure they don’t know how many or who. I’m going to be that diversion. It’s our only chance. And I need someone with me—someone noticeable.” He glanced over at Archer who had been listening intently to Rock’s words. The near-mute who could utter only several words understood things perfectly. He grunted back at Rock.

  “Archer—Archer come.” The seven-foot-tall man had no fear of death or danger. Besides he owed his life to Rock who had saved him from a gruesome death in a quicksand pit.

  “No Rock,” Kim blurted out, jumping up and rushing over to him. “You can’t go out there—you’ll be—”

  “I’m not ready to die yet, baby, I promise.”

  She flashed angry eyes at him. It was easier for him—he would just be gone—to wherever the dead go. She would be left alone, mourning for him, desiring him the rest of her life. She looked down at the moldy cave floor strewn with bat droppings and closed her eyes tightly, holding back the tears. There was nothing she could do, nothing she could say.

  “Archer and I will make sure they see us. There’s some woods down at the bottom of the far side of the mountain. If we can just get inside I’m sure we can loose them. Don’t fire! You hear me. Sit tight! Don’t do a thing, make a peep unless the bastards are actually coming into the cave.” He looked at them sternly, knowing they were itching to get into the fray. “Get to the very back. If the Reds look in here and see nothing they probably won’t even want to search. They hate dark places.”

  The men snickered. They all knew of the great courageous fighters of the Red Army—draftees who were zonked out on drugs half the time—just biding their time until they could head back to Mother Russia and out of this godforsaken land where everything was out to kill them.

  “Give me some of your grenades,” Rock said to Detroit. “Maybe we can do some jamming ourselves.” Detroit quickly pulled off six of the hardball-sized explosives and handed them to the Doomsday Warrior. Archer walked over to him and slapped Rockson on the back, laughing with a grunt of disdain. “Kill!” Archer said. “Rock and Archer kill!” The rest of the team looked on in amazement. They had never seen the woods creature so loquacious.

  “He’s making a goddamned speech,” Detroit said with a smirk.

  “Take care,” Rock said, abruptly starting forward with the giant Archer at his side. He didn’t look back. Kim reached forward involuntarily with outstretched arms and then quickly pulled them back, realizing how absurd the gesture was. A single tear formed in the corner of each eye. The Rock team pulled back into the innards of the cavern, lying on their stomachs behind a small drop in the cave floor. They shooed some bats away who moved, setting up sleeping quarters further up in the darkness. The freefighters lay stock-still, their weapons ready. The president and Kim were at the very edge of the back wall. The men would give their lives to protect them.

  Out on the steep rocky slope the Doomsday Warrior and Archer began flying downhill. Rock knew there was no way the Red chopper sighters could miss a man as big as a goddamned ox. Archer took huge flying steps, landing every ten feet or so, while Rock took shorter more fluid steps, hardly sinking into the soft pebbly slope before jumping again. The choppers came in from the eastern sky like a swarm of hawks ready to draw blood. Their dim buzz turned into a deafening roar as the twenty helios beelined for the two moving figures.

  “Don’t fire yet,” Commander Wilenski in the lead MS-20 ordered through his throat mike. “I want to see what we have here.” The fleet of attack choppers which ironically had been heading toward a suspected Free City that one of their spies had reported, had just happened to catch the freefighters’ movement on their new Kinetic Scanner—one of the few recent technological innovations that Russia had produced—a device capable of picking up any motion over a certain kinetic energy at a range of up to twelve point five miles. The jet helicopters switched off their jet engines and went to rotor blades for lift. Their speed dropped within seconds from nearly three hundred fifty miles per hour to just under one hundred, then down to fifty. Slowly they zeroed in on their prey like a falcon descends on a rabbit.

  Rockson turned around in motion and saw the twenty black engines of death just above the peak, coming in on him. Suddenly he dug his feet into the loose pebbles and stopped on a dime. He spun around and pulled the pins on two grenades. Archer, tearing down the slope like some sort of lumbering elephant, saw Rockson’s plan and tried to stop himself the same way. He dug his heels in and flew face forward, traveling another twenty-five feet on his arms and stomach before he could stop. He jumped to his feet with a roar of humiliation and raised his crossbow. Rock released the first of the grenades, flinging his arm forward with the arc of a discus thrower. It soared into the sky straight up the mountainside. Archer sighted on the lead chopper and fired a three-foot-long steel shaft with a small charge of explosive plastique mounted on the tip. It shot through the air with an ominous whistle, moving at nearly two hundred fifty miles per hour.

  The fre
efighters’ weapons made contact with the fleet at the same instant. The grenade detonated just yards ahead of the forward copter, flaming grenade fragments ripping into the fifty-foot craft. A roar of metal turning to liquid and flesh to bloody mud screamed down the slope, sending rocks and pieces of glowing shrapnel in every direction. The chopper burst into a fireball as its munitions section detonated with the force of two tons of high explosive. The fireball reached out in all directions, an expanding circle of fire and metal as sharp as razors. The choppers immediately to the right and left of the leader took bad hits, both bursting into flame, then veering wildly down from the sky.

  “Run!” Rockson screamed out above the thundering maelstrom above. Archer heard him and, after quickly slipping another arrow into its firing groove, took off after the Doomsday Warrior. The two freefighters catapulted down the rock-strewn hill toward the sheltering woods below. There were only yards to go. A hail of machine-gun slugs ripped into the dirt just ahead of them, warning the two to stop or die. Rock pulled the pin from another grenade and used his forward motion to suddenly spin and, without looking, fling the sizzling pineapple backward, instantly taking off again. The pilot of the closest chopper saw the motion and twisted the metal bird to the right and up, trying to dodge the explosion. The grenade flew up just below the belly of the soaring Red chopper and went off. The brunt of the blast lifted straight up and into the bottom of the helio severing the fuel line. The MS-20, all ten tons of it, went up in an explosive puff of smoke, almost vaporizing the craft, so intense was the heat of the detonation. The choppers behind it flew forward, now under command of Captain Voshkov, having taken over from the lately deceased Wilenski who had died in the first explosion, Wilenski’s craft just a pile of twisted metal wreckage near the top of the slope.