Doomsday Warrior 09 - America’s Zero Hour Page 9

  Life must have been simpler then, Vassily thought. There were too many conflicting, constantly shifting forces in the world today. Not only were there rebellions in Afghanistan and China, but now even in the U.S.S.A. The Soviet forces were divided into two camps—the KGB Blackshirts versus his Red Army.

  Vassily cursed himself for the hundredth time for leaving those missiles hidden in America. He cursed himself for not having disposed of Killov when he had the opportunity many years ago. His nephew, Zhabnov, though in general a fool, had repeatedly warned him that Killov was getting too powerful. Vassily had ignored him—putting it off to jealousy on Zhabnov’s part. How could he have been so wrong? He was too old for all this. His life hung by the sheer slender thread of his willpower. But how long would the thread hold? One thing he vowed: he must last long enough to see Killov destroyed. Then he would gladly sink into the abyss.

  Rahallah, Vassily’s black manservant, appeared at the doorway carrying a red phone. The Premier looked up at the descendant of African kings and wondered what he would ever do without him. The strength emanating from Rahallah’s sculpted face with its high cheekbones was more than physical—it was character. The kind of character that had made him Vassily’s most trusted aide and adviser. “The operator has finally reached Washington,” Rahallah said quietly as he placed the phone on a little table beside Vassily. The Premier of all the earth nodded as he placed his book in his lap and pushed the little button that activated the phone.

  President Zhabnov was handed a steaming cup of demitasse by Gudonov. He leaned back in the restored and enlarged JFK rocking chair, which had somehow survived the KGB invasion, and took a relaxing sip. The low winter sunlight was streaming pleasantly through the Oval Office’s casement windows. This was more like it. He felt fully relaxed for the first time since he’d arrived back in Washington.

  Suddenly the red phone rang. Vassily. It was Vassily! Zhabnov’s trembling fingers put down the cup. Gudonov brought the phone over and handed him the receiver. Zhabnov, sitting at attention, placed it to his ear. “Hello?”

  “This is the Premier, Nephew. How are you?”

  Zhabnov replied, “Just fine, Uncle. You should have seen the trememdous welcome I received here. The people love me; they showered me with flowers . . .” he lied.

  “Yes, yes, Nephew. I know it must be gratifying to receive such a welcome. I am sure everyone is glad that you are back.” Vassily said—the tone of his voice revealing he didn’t believe his nephew for a second. “Have you read the orders I placed in your briefcase before you left Moscow?”

  Zhabnov paled. What orders? His mind groped for words.

  “Oh, those. Of course I read them,” Zhabnov lied, wondering what could be so important in them. Bureaucratic things, no doubt.

  “Well, what have you done to implement them?” Vassily asked with growing impatience.

  What in Stalin’s moldy face was he talking about, Zhabnov thought anxiously. “Why, everything possible . . . under the circumstances,” he answered hesitantly.

  “What circumstances?”

  “The White House is a shambles. Leaks are everywhere. We’re operating with a skeleton staff . . . and, and my rose garden is ruined and—”

  “Stop whining, you fool. This is a matter of extreme importance. Intelligence has reached us that there may be KGB agents left in your area. They must be wiped out. You must reestablish your leadership over your scattered army—before there is a counterattack.”

  “But Uncle, Killov is dead! He died when Rockson blew up the Octagon prison.”

  “Nephew, you are forever misinformed. Killov lives and has stolen five Megon missiles. He is now somewhere in Canada.”

  “Tell me but where, Your Excellency, and I will instantly destroy him.”

  “Fool. I’m already taking care of the matter. I don’t need your inefficiency to gum up the works.”

  Zhabnov turned red, and after a pause, to control his blood pressure said, “I am sure, Uncle, that you will handle the matter most efficiently. But if I could be of any assistance . . .”

  “I will let you know. But you will be of most assistance to me and yourself if you rally your troops, if you secure the eastern United States once more, round up the fragments of KGB traitors that still exist. Get your house in order, Nephew, before it crumbles around your head.

  “If this is beyond you,” Vassily continued, “I can replace you with a smarter man . . . Rahallah, for example?”

  “That witch doctor!”

  “Ah, Nephew. It would be wise to watch your tongue. Rahallah is my invaluable assistant and adviser.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” Zhabnov answered resignedly. He heard the click as Vassily hung up the receiver.

  Zhabnov groaned. “There must be a way . . .” he muttered.

  General Barishkov sat panting in a storm drain on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. He’d been on the run ever since Zhabnov, commander-in-chief of the U.S.S.A. Red Army, had announced on TV that he wished to meet his officers at the Capitol Building the next day. Rain mixed with sweat fell off his brow. God! it’s cramped in here, he thought. Meet! That’s a good one. Barishkov would be stripped of his rank and thrown in the brig. Spetsnaz Commandos in their green uniforms were probably arresting generals all over the city. He’d be lucky if he got demoted to private. He deserved to be shot for skulking away when the going got rough. He knew it. He felt ashamed. He never even knew what hit him. He had been taking R&R on the Silver Bullet when it was commandeered by the Freefighters. When he’d begged for mercy, he was forced to strip to his underwear and then squeezed with two officers into a reinforced nylon mail bag. He and two others had been left swinging on a hook of the train line’s mail service somewhere in Indiana.

  That would have been hard enough to live down. But when his troops were defeated at the Washington train station by KGB Blackshirts, he’d snuck away, hiding for his life. He’d kept secreted in his apartment—until he heard the knock on his door, then he’d slid down the rope to the alley and then here.

  He glanced out the entrance to the storm drain. Barishkov thought he’d heard a noise—perhaps a cat? No, he heard martial footsteps outside the drainpipe.

  He made a run for it to the other side of the culvert—but too late. There were two guards on the other end of the tunnel. It was no use to resist. He crawled out, his arms waiting for the bullets to tear into his flesh. One of the Spetsnaz troopers motioned with his automatic. Barishkov walked between the two guards until he was roughly shoved into the sidecar of a motorcycle. “Got another one,” said the guard ominously. “It’s getting late. Better take him directly to the Capitol Building.”

  “Yes, sir,” saluted the driver. As the motorcycle shot off leaving a burning trail of rubber behind, Barishkov bounced in his seat. He stared at the leather-jacketed driver as the bike sped through the city streets. They sped up Pennsylvania Avenue past the Grant Memorial to the Capitol Building front steps.

  “Get out,” the driver said. Barishkov slowly stepped out of the sidecar and noticed that a half-dozen other generals were being dragged, kicking and screaming, into the building. He had more pride left than that, he thought. He walked up the steps between guards like a man. He’d die on his feet, not begging on his knees.

  When they reached the rotunda, Barishkov’s heart skipped a beat. It was decorated with streamers. Banquet tables had been set up laden with food. Elaborate food, at that. A band was playing on a bandstand. Zhabnov’s got a macabre sense of humor, thought Barishkov. He’s going to make a party out of stripping stars off us. The bandleader struck his baton on the podium. “Pomp and Circumstance” was played. Zhabnov, resplendent in medals, stepped out to the podium.

  “Gentlemen, please be seated,” he said as soon as the music stopped. The crowd settled down into their seats. Zhabnov cleared his throat. Several nervous coughs could be heard throughout the rotunda. He stroked his greasy wisp of a beard. Suspense built as he looked around with a fat smile plastered
on his jowled face.

  “As you know, I’ve had you brought here for a purpose.” He bided his time, letting his words take effect. Several officers squirmed in their seats. Some pulled at their tight collars or fidgeted with their neckties. “I wanted you to know how I feel about your performance during the recent sieges of Washington . . . I’m going to . . .” The generals braced themselves. “I’m going to give you all medals and special privileges, and raise your salaries,” finished Zhabnov.

  An audible gasp filled the rotunda. After a few moments of silence, one of the generals began to clap. Then another. Soon the entire assembly of officers were clapping their hands. A roar of approval and relief spread through the crowd. Zhabnov held his hands up for silence. He took a medal off a green felt table near him and called out the first name. General Barishkov. General Barishkov walked to the podium. He could hardly believe this. Was it a dream?

  “For your feats of bravery at the Washington train station, I award you with the Distinguished Medal of Valor.”

  General Barishkov was speechless as Zhabnov pinned the medal on his chest and then saluted him. “You really ought to have your suit pressed,” Zhabnov whispered. Barishkov returned the salute and went back to his seat.

  When the medal awarding was over, Zhabnov clapped his hands. A servant pulled back a purple curtain and several dozen beautiful slender American women in evening gowns entered the room. The band started to play a waltz and soon everyone was dancing and drinking—from imminent death to hedonistic bliss in minutes.

  A successful party, thought Zhabnov as he drove away from the Capitol Building in the back seat of his Zil limo, toward the White House. That should take care of it, he thought. The officers are back in my corner. Grateful for their very lives. They will get their men back in order, destroy the remnants of the KGB.

  Thirteen

  Under Tinglim’s close supervision, the quiet Eskimo community turned into a bustling beehive of activity. Men were put to work preparing hunting equipment. The women were sewing warm sealskin clothes big enough for Rockson and his men. The rest of the village was occupied gathering the necessary items: portable stoves, fuel, blankets, tents, quantities of meat—narwhal, walrus, caribou, seal, and lesser game—that had already been accumulated in the Eskimo camp for the long winter. All were brought to the trading igloo to be loaded on the sleds. The sleds chosen were the lightest and strongest in order to maintain the greatest speed to catch up with Killov. The huskies were the most reliable and well-trained.

  Rockson stepped out of the comfortable igloo into the bitter-cold, but clear, outside world. He flipped down his slit snowglasses to prevent snow blindness and put up his fur-lined parka hood. The sleds, which were always turned sideways off their runners when not in use, were set upright ready to be loaded. The huskies were ready to be harnessed to them—six dogs to a sled, hitched up much the way a team would be hitched to a wagon. Tinglim and Rock walked around inspecting each dog. They were fine creatures, furry healthy huskies—not-so-distant relatives to the wolves that stalked the snow-wrapped hills. Each weighed about eighty pounds and had footpads of coarse black skin that tracked snow with surprising grip. Their ears perked up the minute anyone walked over to them, and they seemed to enjoy when they were petted. Rock also noted that they had pretty good canine teeth—they were meat eaters and didn’t care what sort of meat it was. He filed that away for future reference—just in case.

  “This here’s Niqytl, the biggest of the dogs,” Tinglim said, as he hitched the lead dog to the team of Rockson’s red sled. “I think you will want him because he is such a good leader and responds well to the whip.”

  In short order everything was made ready. Rockson and his men—Chen, Archer, Detroit, McCaughlin, Scheransky, Robinson, Pedersen, and Farrell helped load the sleds and harness the dogs. Nine sleds were loaded with two hundred pounds each of expedition supplies. The tenth sled carried the antimatter detector, which Scheransky would continue to monitor from time to time to keep them on Killov’s trail.

  The ’brids, unbridled and corraled to the south of the Eskimo village, were given some evergreen branches to chew by their attendant, a young boy. Rockson said a special “So long but not good-bye,” to Snorter. “I’ll be back for you, old pal.” He handed the ’brid a piece of candy that he had secreted in his pocket. Snorter whinnied in joy and took it. Rock patted him on the forehead and went back to the dog sleds.

  The dim sun went behind a hill. The day was ending long before it really began; the sun would be down for twenty hours. In the dimness, everything looked ghostly: the moundlike igloos, the slit eyes of the villagers watching the preparations, even the dogs seemed to glow in the half-light.

  Some villagers lit torches to make the trek’s preparation area more visible to them.

  Tinglim said to Rock, “You know, I am glad you have come to us. It is time for adventure.” He smiled. “That is the Eskimo way. It is fitting for men to go far and risk death!”

  As the expedition party were putting on their skis one of Tinglim’s wives hurried out of the igloo carrying a tin. “Don’t forget tea!” she said emphatically. The Eskimo husband took the tin from his wife and rubbed noses with her. “Take care of Tinglim for me,” she said to the Doomsday Warrior.

  “I will,” Rockson replied. But he knew he was the one who’d have to rely on Tinglim and his special knowledge. Rockson had to trust Tinglim’s choice of food, for one thing. Tinglim knew what wild plants and lichens were edible and how to stalk the northern animals. They had to rely on game to feed the dogs and themselves on route. The Eskimo knew how to build an emergency igloo and a hundred other different ways to survive in this arctic wasteland. Most of all, Tinglim could navigate in this uncharted wilderness when compass and sextant failed, and could find the fastest and safest route over difficult terrain. But he was a strong-willed man, unused to taking orders. This could pose a threat, Rockson knew, to his command.

  There were three ways to run such an expedition. One was to be an absolute dictator and decide everything for the others. Its opposite was to vote on everything. But a dictatorship would invite revolt and total democracy got too unwieldy in times of extreme danger. Rockson would have to steer a fine line between the two—ask opinions and then make the final decision. But there could be only one leader. He had to find a way to show Tinglim who was boss at the outset without seeming to do so. In a few moments, the opportunity arose to solve the matter.

  Tinglim said loudly, “We must all stow our skis and ride with our feet on the skid-ends of the sleds.”

  “But that weighs down the sleds,” Rockson objected. “We must move fast, Tinglim. We have to wear the short skis and glide behind the sleds holding on. It would take some weight off the dogs.”

  “It won’t work,” answered Tinglim, “because our feet will get cold from the transference of temperature from the snow under the skis. Also, the skis tend to get fouled up in the sleds. I know this from experience.”

  “But these are special skis,” replied Rockson. “They’re not only shorter than regular skis, but they’re made with an insulating alloy. Care to put them to the test?” challenged Rockson. “Your method against mine? We race a mile or so with the sleds. Okay?”

  Tinglim couldn’t refuse such a challenge. He figured that with his years of experience driving the dogs, it was a cinch to win. “Okay. We race from this igloo to that hill over there and back. It’s about two miles round trip.” Before the men could prepare their respective sleds, word had passed through the entire village.

  Chen cut a starting line on the packed snow and made sure that both contestants lead dogs were right on the mark.

  The excitement in the air was catching and the dogs strained against their reins. Rockson wished he’d had more time to learn how to run the dog sleds. He didn’t have time to worry, because suddenly Idluk, a man from the village, gave the starting shot—and they were off.

  Both men shouted and cracked their whips. Tinglim’s lead
dog leaped into the effort. The Eskimo crowd roared. Rockson cracked his whip, too far over the dogs to make them move. But he remembered Tinglim’s advice: It’s all in the wrist . . . Soon he hit the mark just inches over their ears. As his team headed down the slope from the village, Rockson began to gain speed, catching up to Tinglim’s early lead. Shortly thereafter, they were hidden from view by the night. Rockson’s men and the Eskimos placed bets with each other as to who would win. Detroit took down the bets. “I’ll bet five .9mm bullets on Rockson,” McCaughlin said heartily.

  “I’ll match that bet and raise you ten that Tinglim wins,” retorted Idluk, Tinglim’s stocky cousin.

  “Put me down for Rockson winning by two sled lengths,” yelled Chet Robinson, stroking his red beard lor good luck.

  “We bet a bottle of seal wine that Tinglim wins by four lengths,” said the two Eskimo dog handlers, “versus ten .9mm bullets. Okay?”

  “Done,” said Robinson, peering into the distance.

  Detroit was surrounded by a pushing, shoving if friendly crowd yelling out their winner and holding bullets or goods in their upraised hands trying frantically to place their bets before the race was over. After ten minutes, someone’s voice screamed, “They’re coming back!” All betting ceased. They strained their eyes to take in the winner. “I see them,” someone yelled. “It’s Rockson.” Yes, Rockson was in the lead, his team moving like a racing machine. However, under the whip, Tinglim’s lead dog, Balto, was not to be outdone. Tinglim’s team pulled inches ahead. Then it was Rockson, then Tinglim. “It might be close,” Detroit yelled.

  Idluk and Chen got on opposite sides of the finish line in case it was a photo finish, but Rockson and his team won by a length. It was a decisive victory for Rockson’s leadership. While Detroit was deciding who got what as far as the bets were concerned, Tinglim and Rockson put down their sleds and moved off to the side, out of the light of the orange-flamed torches.