Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare
Page 2
“Looks like I’m about ready for a Section Eight,” Rock muttered, referring to the military regulation regarding discharge for psychological instability.
The jeeps were no more than fifty yards off now and Rock could hear the Russians laughing and jeering at him.
“Running dog,” they laughed, peppering the ground around him with bursts of fire. He tried to stand, flopped back.
Within seconds they came screaming by, firing their weapons inches from him as he crawled and stumbled, the jeeps’ fat tires inches away. They began circling the distressed Freefighter, laughing and screaming like cowboys of old.
Rock spun on the verge of panic and delirium. He couldn’t believe it would end like this. Knocked off by a band of KGB renegades in the desert, his body left to bake in the sun while scorpions scurried through his rotted cranium. In a final surge of effort he spun with a scream and heaved a rock he picked up at the windshield of one of the circling jeeps. He saw the glass shatter and the jeep spin out of control, then a fierce thud cracked his skull from behind and he was out.
Rockson awoke to find himself in a windowless, circular room. Metal walls laced with catwalks rose some sixty feet upward. He was strapped on his back to what appeared to be a large metal spoked wheel, his arms and legs stretched tight and secured with metal shackles. All around the spacious enclosure he could discern a variety of strange contraptions, vaguely familiar but unrecognizable. He shook his head to clear his vision and struggled weakly against his bindings.
Peering upward into the huge cylinder, his senses began to return.
“A silo,” he whispered, “a missile silo.”
“Correct, my friend,” replied a voice from above and behind him. “Emptied of its contents in the nuke war one hundred and three years ago.”
Rock craned his neck but could not see his adversary. Suddenly the wheel spun halfway around with a sound of electric gears, and Rock could see the man who had spoken. It was the man from the lead jeep, seated before a control panel on a platform about fifteen feet up on the wall. Five or six of his cronies clustered around him, and footsteps on the myriad of metal walkways up and down the silo told him there were others.
“Welcome to the Bastille. Formerly a missile silo, used to house one of the A-bombs your forefathers dispensed on my country in the great war. A house of death, if you will.” The gold-toothed man smiled an evil grin. “A temple of the devil, is it not?”
“What . . . what do you want from me? . . .” Rock gasped, feigning fear. In tight situations, making the opponent underestimate you is a useful strategy. In truth Rockson was not afraid.
The charade brought a hideous laugh from the Soviet lieutenant. He set the control to a slow spin and descended the stairway to the silo floor.
“Why, I’m surprised at you. An esteemed Freefighter such as you styling yourself quaking in fear at the sight of a mere lieutenant.”
“Freefighter?” Rock replied, continuing the ruse. The wheel was spinning slowly, causing Rock to twist his head back and forth as he watched the officer approach. He and his henchmen began counter circling the spinning wheel.
“Freefighter. yes. Come now, Mr. Rockson, Mr. Ted Rockson, self-styled leader of the American Resistance movement. Surely you haven’t contracted amnesia along with your other predicaments?”
“Rockson? Please . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about. My name’s Alvin. Alvin York. I’m a prospector. I don’t mean no harm. What do you want from me?”
Streltsy stopped the wheel with his hand and came face to face with his prisoner.
“Don’t play games with me, Rockson,” he said low, deadly serious. “We get news dispatches even here. Any Soviet officer worth his salt has seen your picture a hundred times. I must say, Mr. Rockson, I’m grateful you chose to stumble into my web.”
“And who are you?” asked Rockson.
“Streltsy. Lieutenant Lev Streltsy, KGB. Remember the name. If you are fortunate enough to survive your impending ordeals,” he said, waving to the collection of contraptions around the room, “you will undoubtedly hear much of me.”
“I’ll ask you again, Lieutenant,” said Rock, “what do you want?”
“Answers, my friend. Answers,” replied Streltsy, releasing the wheel and continuing his strut, his tall gaunt countenance passing Rock’s field of vision every five seconds or so. Rock saw he had the traditional dueling scar crossing the length of his left cheek, lending an ominous aura to the man’s gaunt face, his insolent sneer.
“Your friends, your plans, your weapons, supplies. I am a profoundly curious man, Mr. Rockson, and I believe there is much you can tell me. Providence has placed you in my hands. It is another indication of my destiny. You can provide me with enough information to ferret out and virtually eliminate the core of resistance in America. You, my dear friend, are just the opportunity I have been hoping for. You see, Mr. Rockson, besides being a curious man, I am an ambitious man. I see great things in my future. Like you, I am not altogether satisfied with the power structure of the world in its present state. In a sense, we are allies, Mr. Rockson. You are fortunate in that respect. A lesser man would have quickly turned you over to his superiors where your fate would have been sealed. The Premier himself would be most anxious to interview you. Have you ever seen Red Square, my friend?”
“No,” said Rockson, immediately regretting the lie. He knew he was in a psychological game, one that was almost sure to end in his death. Answering any question was a dangerous precedent.
“Ahh, very good. Very good. And there is no need for you to make this trip. We are similar men, Rockson. I am well aware of your prowess and abilities. Perhaps I might even have a place for you on my staff.”
“Great,” said Rockson. “Do I get an office with a window and a key to the Kremlin’s men’s room?”
Streltsy chuckled and switched the wheel to a stop, ending Rock’s dizzying spin.
“Enough idle chitchat, my friend. Now, on to business. Where were you heading when we picked you up? Who were you planing to rendezvous with?”
“I was on my way to Capistrano to meet up with a regiment of swallows in search of worms, not unlike yourself.”
Again the lieutenant chuckled, and again the wheel began a slow spin. Streltsy picked up a thick leather strap and slapped it against the palm of his hand.
“This device is called a knout,” Streltsy said. “It was a favorite device of the ancient tsars. They found it most useful in extracting confessions. Look about you, Mr. Rockson. I am most proud of my collection of torture devices, most constructed with my own hands from designs that have been in my family for generations. Now, we can avoid mutilating your sound body if you cooperate. These devices reach beyond the realm of pain, Mr. Rockson. I assure you, you will not be harmed if you talk. I have told you I am your friend. A kindred spirit. You can rest assured you’ll be given a chance to join my growing revolutionary army. Together, we will throw off the yoke of oppression and establish a new state based on the ancient principles.”
“A fine speech, your lordship,” Rock mocked. “Now, shall we get on with the torture and get it over with? I’m growing weary of your lectures.”
Streltsy landed a blow across Rockson’s chest, cutting through his sealskin vest and leaving a painful welt across his body. “I will release you from the wheel for now. Perhaps a few hours with Comrade Relsk, the Bear, will make you cooperate,” Streltsy said. “We shall talk again soon.” He muttered something in Russian to his men, then left, pattering quickly up the steel staircase to the catwalk.
Rockson heard a metal door creak open, and turned his head to see a bare-chested, smoothly bald figure the size of a sumo wrestler waddle out of an adjoining room. The man smiled a toothless grin, approached with heavy, ponderous barefooted steps.
To say the least, things didn’t look good.
They weren’t. He was beaten senseless by a bearlike Relsk. The monstrously beefy torture-chamber attendant knew what he was doing, hav
ing done it so often. Rock was pummeled until he showed signs of passing out. He was doused then, with cold water, and injected with chemical stimulants to keep him awake. But Rockson’s mind-training kept him partially numb.
When Streltsy returned he found Rockson hanging from two fingers while the big Soviet worked the vicious knout across his back. His legs had been tied ankle to ankle then chained to a ring in the floor. He hung from his two index fingers, his feet six inches off the ground, swaying to the rhythmic lashings of the heavy leather. Relsk worked up and down his back, each blow falling just below the other, leaving a trail of welts.
“Cut him loose,” said Streltsy as he descended the stairway.
His man obeyed, cutting Rockson’s finger bindings. When he fell down, they put him on a wooden chair while Streltsy marched to a small table and began preparing two syringes.
“Revive him,” he said.
They doused him with icy water and pulled his head back by the hair, slapping his face viciously. The Doomsday Warrior groaned.
“Now,” said Streltsy; advancing toward Rockson. “We shall see what our friend had learned in the past few hours.”
“He’s a tough one,” said one of the men. “Not a whimper from him.”
“Perhaps this pentothal will help,” Streltsy said, shooting a heavy dose of the truth serum into Rockson’s arm. He was placed on a cot. Rock, barely conscious, was dimly aware of the proceedings. He had undergone torture before, even truth-serum injections. Mustering his iron will, he knew he’d have the strength to resist. He wouldn’t give away Century City’s location.
Streltsy gave the drug a few minutes to take effect, then added a healthy dose of adrenaline to Rock’s bloodstream to bring him fully around.
Rock felt the surge of energy shoot through his system and raised his head.
“Let’s talk,” said Streltsy calmly, pulling a chair up in front of the Freefighter. “Are you in pain?”
“Yes and no,” said Rockson, fighting the effects of the drugs. “We know how to block pain, make it feel like tickles.”
“Tell me about yourself,” Streltsy continued. “You must have led a fascinating life. Where is your base, this fabled Century City?”
“I used to dream about cowboys,” Rockson said, unable to keep from talking, but trying to dwell on irrelevent topics.
“Ahh, cowboys,” said Streltsy, grabbing the string. “The old American West. Yes yes. A fascinating period. Tell me, what fascinated you about cowboys?”
“Rugged. Tough. Men who rode the open range and slept under the stars. The country must have been . . . so beautiful . . .”
“Yes yes. True,” replied Streltsy. “But their lives were not always pleasant. They lived in an untamed land, with no law. Not like Colorado.”
“Yes,” said Rockson. He sensed the flow of the conversation.
“Century City is in New Mexico, where the Grand Canyon makes a right turn into Arizona,” Rock lied. “The Indians lived there once.”
Streltsy’s face turned red. “You lie,” he snarled. “We know that Century City is in Colorado somewhere. We know that much. So this gentle method doesn’t work on you, does it, Rockson? Well, then, there is only the wheel. We will strap you to the wheel and watch you spin until blood spurts from your eyes, your nose, your mouth. But maybe before you die, you will tell us what we need to know. Take him to the wheel!”
The soldiers did as Streltsy ordered. Soon Rockson again was face-up in the middle of the circular room, strapped hands and feet to “the wheel.” The wheel was just that: a huge metal wheel with flat spokes wide enough to place a body on. Rockson’s body. Since the wheel had a twelve-foot diameter, it was possible to place Rockson’s feet at the center of the wheel, and his head at the wheel’s edge.
When he was trussed up so that he couldn’t move an inch, Streltsy came over to him and leered down at him. “Perhaps you understand the pain you will soon endure. I ask you one more time—where is Century City?”
Rockson gathered some spittle and ejected it straight in the Russian’s face. “Go to hell, you bastard.”
Streltsy punched him in the face and snapped out the order to let the wheel begin turning.
As the wheel began to turn, Rockson saw a table at the far end of the room—a card table, one of those snap-open kind. And on the table was a chessboard and pieces. The chessmen were all lined up on their original squares. No game was in progress. The Russians were zealots for chess.
“Wait,” Rockson called out. “Streltsy, I have a proposition for you—better than seeing blood spurt out of my ears. You know,” he said as the room spun around faster and faster, “I will never reveal Century City’s location by means like this. But stop the wheel. I’ll play a chess game with you—if you win, I’ll talk!”
For a dreadful half minute the wheel continued accelerating. Rockson felt the blood collecting in his head, his legs going numb. If this kept up, he’d burst a blood vessel any second . . .
Suddenly Streltsy shouted, “Stop the wheel! I want to play this man.”
Rockson was unstrapped and escorted to the chessboard. He could hardly walk, his legs were so numb; and his head was still reeling from the wheel. Streltsy sat down opposite him. “Let’s get this straight. If I win, you give me your word of honor—I’m aware it’s good—that you will tell me what I want to know?”
Rockson paused, waiting for the room to stop spinning. “Yes,” said Rockson, “and if I win—I go free.” Rockson was careful not to mention that he was the Inter-Free City chess champion.
Streltsy’s eyes lit up, going for the deal. “I’m the number two ranked grandmaster of the Western Hemisphere. I will polish you off in minutes. It’s a deal. I accept your offer. I give you my word as an officer.”
Rockson nodded. “Good. Let’s play.”
Rockson had counted on his fantastic memory of past chess games he had studied to carry him through. But Streltsy, if he was a grandmaster, would know those games too. Still, there was nothing to do but go on with the game.
Streltsy said he wanted red, Rockson would play white. They sat down at the table and Rockson said, “First, could I have a little water?”
Streltsy laughed. “After we play.”
With all the guns pointed at him, Rockson had no choice but to play by Streltsy’s rules. No water being one of them. The Soviet generously—no, overconfidently—let Rock make first move, which Rockson knew gave a slight advantage.
The game began, the soldiers huddled in a circle around the board, cheering on their leader.
Rockson didn’t play his best game by far, but Streltsy was worse!
ROCKSON
STRELTSY
1. P–K4
P–QB4
2. N–KB3
N–QB3
3. P–Q4
PxP
4. NxP
P–K4
5. N–B5
KN–K2
6. N–Q6 Mate!
Rockson had defeated the Soviet grandmaster in a mere six moves!
“Impossible,” gasped the Soviet lieutenant.
“Obviously it isn’t impossible, Streltsy. Now I want my glass of water, and then I want to be freed, as you promised.”
Streltsy smiled. “I say you cheated. You forfeit the game! But you will get your wish to be outside. I think I would like to see you dragged behind my jeep for a few miles. The apt punishment for cheating.”
Rockson had had only faint hope that the Soviet would keep his word. Streltsy had given it freely only because he was convinced he couldn’t lose. But now, to cover up his fallibility to his men, or just because he was a bastard—it didn’t matter—he was going back on his word.
They tied Rockson’s hands together and led him up the spiral stairs to the surface. He had to hop because they tied his ankles too.
Once up on the desert, Streltsy jumped up into the back of a jeep. “Ivan, attach a rope to Mr. Rockson’s hands. Tie the other end to the rear bumper of the jeep.”
Rockson twisted and spat as the gathering desert winds kicked up a powerful blast of sand, almost blinding him.
“It looks like a storm building up,” one of the Russian soldiers said to Streltsy. “Perhaps we should head back to the silo.”
“Nyet,” Streltsy barked. “This is my pigeon. I won’t turn over a prize like Rockson to that sloth General Dommsky. Why let him get credit for the capture? Don’t you see what we have here, you fool? If he collaborates with us, we can use the information to our own benefit. If he is foolish enough to resist, I personally will turn his body over to Premier Vassily. Start the engine.”
The jeep thrust forward with Streltsy standing in the rear and Rockson skidding painfully over the rugged desert floor. Rockson was in a near-delirious state. He had never fully recovered from the effects of the poison fruit he had eaten, and the succession of torture and drugs his body had endured had only increased his distance from reality.
But it was cooler, much cooler. The storm!
He saw a glimmer of hope in the burgeoning storm that was beginning to encompass the entire horizon. The wind was growing fiercer by the minute, reducing visibility and improving his chance for escape—if he could loosen the rope.
The jeep moved slowly at first and Rockson managed to position his body so that the ropes on his wrists scraped the surface, wearing the fibers thin and allowing him to hope he could break them.
He bounced painfully across the sand as the jeep detoured through beds of cactus and rocky outcroppings wherever they appeared. Rockson twisted and writhed in pain, but could see that the Russians were becoming preoccupied with the gathering storm. He pulled himself up to where the rope attached to his wrists and began gnawing at it, sliding along on his side.
Streltsy, standing in the back of the jeep, could barely see his victim through the sandstorm. Rockson, dragging some sixty feet away, had successfully reversed himself and grasped onto the rope with his hands. He tugged frantically at the fraying fibers, pushing fist against mighty fist.