Doomsday Warrior 01

by Ryder Stacy

  Rock held his fingers to his lips as the men opened the door to Level M. This would be the most securely guarded section of the center so they had to proceed with extreme caution. Rock and Jergins slipped on the jackets and caps of the security patrol and, without looking back, opened the stairwell door and walked right up to the security entrance. Here, there were thick, bulletproof glass panels on each side of the black steel doors. A guard sat nearby, absent-mindedly reading a book. Rock, his head tilted down and away, with his hand to his mouth as if coughing, waved casually with the other at the guard, who glanced up and then looked down again, unconcerned. Rock slipped the card key into the slot and pressed the code. The door clicked and he pushed it open. The guard glanced up, then his eyes widened in alarm as he saw the two men behind Rock come surging forward. Those guns they were carrying—they weren’t Russian, they were—

  The Red guard reached for his pistol. A big mistake. Rock, using his shotgun pistol for close-in fighting, blasted him right off his seat, three feet through the air, where he slid down a wall, leaving a messy trail of smeared blood behind him. The twelve technicians and six KGB officers in the vast computer room spun around with a start at the gunfire. Two of the Blackshirts went for the Kalashnikovs slung around their shoulders. But Rockson and Detroit, firing simultaneously, turned the Red torsos into so much hamburger. The others didn’t move from their frozen positions.

  “Anyone else?” Rockson asked, quickly scanning the group.

  “No takers, Rock,” Detroit snickered, turning over a dead KGB body with his foot. “Ugh, those .12-gauge shells of yours really make a mess.” Half the corpse’s face was gone, revealing a ghastly smiling skull.

  Rock and the Freefighters lined the surviving KGB personnel up against a wall that faced the hundred-odd feet of computer terminals, keyboards and whirling spools of magnetic tape that clicked on and off, sending out automatic commands to the building’s light controls, heat and air conditioning, door locks and just about everything else that ran on electricity. Detroit frisked them quickly, but most were unarmed. They had gotten a good haul, several of the Red officers wore stars on the shoulders.

  One of them spoke up brusquely. “Whoever you are,” he said, looking at Rockson, “we’re technical officers—noncombatants.” The man had a swarthy, debauched look. One glance at his big lips and deeply creased face and Rock knew that this man had committed countless acts of torture and murder. It showed. The blood of his victims had seeped into the Red officer’s very pores.

  Rock noticed something familiar about the two-star, silver-haired officer. It had been a long time but he suddenly flashed back to that day when he was a child, watching from below as a KGB Death Squad swept through his family’s cabin, torturing and killing everyone but him. The blood rushed into his head. For one of the few times in his life, Ted Rockson felt himself about to totally lose control of his emotions.

  “What’s your name?” he snapped loudly at the arrogant Red brass.

  “Veliky. Major General Veliky.” He reached slowly in his jacket pocket and pulled out a wallet. “You can see by my papers that I’m a—”

  Rock knocked the wallet to the floor with a swipe of his .12 gauge. “Were you ever a combatant?”

  “Of course not,” the Red answered, but there was a definite quaver in his voice.

  “Ever been in Tremain or anywhere around there?” Rock still wasn’t positive. The face seemed so familiar, but it had been nearly twenty-five years ago.

  “No! Absolutely not! Who are you men anyway?” He raised his voice, pulling himself up to his full height. “Why are you here, why—”

  “Shut up,” Jergins said, lifting his Liberator. “You don’t ask the questions here.” He spat angrily just to the side of the officer’s foot.

  “Remember a little cabin?” Rock continued, watching the man’s eyes with every word he spoke. “A woman and a man named Rockson. A dog? Think back—twenty-four years ago.”

  Another Russian spoke up. “Spare me and I will—”

  “Shut up,” snarled the officer, his face growing livid. “I’ll have you shot if you—” Jergins smacked the muzzle of his Liberator across Veliky’s face, opening a gash several inches long.

  “I told you to keep that fucking Red trap of yours shut. Next time you’ll eat lead.” Jergins stepped back. The other Freefighters—Pasqual and Detroit—kept their rifles trained on the increasingly nervous computer personnel.

  “He was a combatant. He was.” The Russian lackey spoke out, turning to Rockson, pleading, “Just don’t kill me. I never hurt any Americans. I swear. I just handle the maintenance of the computer.”

  “Maybe I’ll let you live,” Rock said, turning to the sniveling, thin, white-smocked technician. “What sector did this man patrol twenty years ago?”

  “I don’t know, I swear,” the squealer said. “But I know he did combat duty. I’ve heard him talk—brag about the women he had and the power he used to have out in the field. They all do. They all love to talk about killing and burning. I’m sick of it. I—”

  “No, I never was in that area,” the Red general cried out. “It’s all a lie.” He glared at the betrayer, with blood lust in his narrow eyes.

  Rockson’s mind flashed back to the man he remembered ripping the flesh off his mother as she lay tied to her bed. Ripping her flesh with a long knife, scalping her pink, pale skin as she screamed. It was this man! Suddenly he knew it.

  “I remember your words, scum,” Rock said, turning back toward the Red officer, his eyes blazing with the fires of hell. “Ah, you said, ‘a pretty mutant woman with thick skin.’ Then you raped her and then you peeled her flesh like I’m going to razor your skin to the bone.”

  “Rock, we haven’t got time,” shouted Jergins.

  Rockson turned to the Russian who had betrayed the Red murderer. “If you want to live, tell us how to override the door controls on every level with the computers.”

  “Program 45-A. It seals the doors in case of a radiation leak. I won’t just show you, I’ll do it.” He walked slowly over to the terminal under the watchful eyes of his disbelieving comrades. Jergins raised his Liberator but Rock gave him the No sign. The Russian squealer pushed a series of keys and then stepped back. “Done!”

  “Good!” Rock looked at the other Freefighters. “Well, we’ve performed the first part of our job. Take all these bastards into that room and lock ’em in,” he said, pointing to the tight-lipped crew of computer personnel. “But not this one.” He looked at Veliky. “I want to be alone with this man.”

  “What about me?” the Red betrayer pleaded, rushing back to Rock, nearly falling on his hands and knees. “I helped you. They’ll kill me if I stay. Let me come with you. I could reveal everything I’ve learned in my two-year stay here. I hate these bastards, I swear to you I do. They drafted me from the Ukraine. They’ve made me work for them. But they haven’t taken my mind—haven’t made me a murderer.”

  The Freefighters looked at the man as if he were mad. None of them had ever seen a Red who didn’t seem to love his work. Rock nodded silently. “But tie him up, till we know we can trust him,” he muttered to Jergins. He looked back over at the Red officer who could no longer meet his eyes, staring nervously down at the floor. Rock glanced at his watch. “We’re two minutes ahead of schedule, man,” he said. “I need to do something.” He pushed Veliky ahead of him, toward a second room filled with blank magnetic tapes and supplies. “I’ll only be a minute,” Rock said. “Only a minute.” He pushed the Red general ahead of him, holding his knife loose in his hand. They heard the door close—then they heard the screams begin.

  Nineteen

  McCaughlin and Smith reached the top floor—a pool area for top KGB officers. They burst through the stairwell door into a scene of horror.

  “Now, isn’t this cozy,” McCaughlin said, finding four naked officers standing around a tied and spread-eagled teenage girl. They had been taking turns raping her and pushing their pistols into her sex,
which was bleeding and ripped apart. Her breasts and thighs were covered with dark, charred cigarette burns. Tears ran down her young cheeks.

  “Please,” one of the Reds choked out as the others stood frozen in place, their tools suddenly hanging limp between their pale legs. “Please, you don’t understand, she—”

  “What’s to understand?” McCaughlin sneered and squeezed the trigger. Three-round bursts caught first one, then another Red torturer, slamming them backward, their arms whipping wildly. The two other KGB officers dove toward the pool. McCaughlin hit one with a neat line of shots up the backbone, severing the Red’s spine so that he fell to the pool walkway at an odd angle, his body broken like a rag doll. The fourth Red made the water and began swimming along the bottom to the opposite side.

  “Shoot him when he comes up for air,” McCaughlin said to Smith, as he went over to untie the girl. Before he had untied the last knot, he heard the sound of a body breaking water followed by a burst of fire. Blood slowly filled the pool, spreading out in scarlet ripples.

  McCaughlin looked in the girl’s mouth—she was trying to say something. He almost gagged. She had no tongue. The bastards had cut it out as part of their sick pleasure. She was in bad shape though she seemed thankful for her rescue. She couldn’t walk and they couldn’t carry her. He leaned over the teen and whispered in her ear, “You know how to use one of these?” He handed her one of the Reds’ revolvers, from a holster hanging by the bottom of the bed. She smiled grimly. “Take a few out for us—and yourself. We have to go. I’m sorry.” Her eyes said, Don’t be sorry. She pressed her lips to McCaughlin’s cheek.

  They left her there, her pistol pointing at the door—the door to the sauna from where the next bunch of torturers would soon emerge to have fun with her body. She held the gun up with both hands, waiting. She hadn’t expected to die so well. She was grateful to the big man and his companion for the chance to go out this way—instead of the cross, for the pleasure of the bastards. Now, she would have her pleasure as well. The pleasure of their blood.

  McCaughlin and Smith strolled out onto the roof, trying to look nonchalant as they walked past the crews of several choppers lazing around, and headed toward the needle-shaped control tower. They were almost halfway across the roof when someone yelled out, “Hey, you two, there’s no helicopters over there. Where are you going?”

  In crisp Russian, McCaughlin spoke the only words he had ever memorized of the foul language, “Special orders from Commander Killov, Priority One!” They kept walking. They were about fifty yards from the tower and speeded up ever so slightly.

  “What special orders?” They broke into a run. “Stop them! Stop them!” voices screamed behind them. Gunfire broke out; Red slugs ricocheted off a thick antenna only a foot from Smith’s head.

  “Break for it,” McCaughlin yelled. The fleet-footed Smith ran like a bastard, even with the heavy EQ in duffel bags around his shoulders. He covered the fifty yards to the tower in seconds, dodging back and forth every few steps. McCaughlin knew he couldn’t outrun bullets. He dove to the black tar roof and began firing full auto with a hip-high sweep of the landing pads and the Red crews. Russian knees and thigh bones broke and shattered and chopper tires blew out as McCaughlin’s slugs found a home. Shit, he had only two clips left on him, everything else was in his canvas equipment sack. The Reds ran for better cover—but he knew it was only seconds before they opened up again and this time they wouldn’t miss. He edged backward and bumped against an aluminum vent, one of several at this part of the roof. He hid behind it and looked in. Some kind of hatch or air vent with just a thin mesh screen over it. He reached out a meaty fist and ripped the partition away. The Red slugs began tearing up the tar top like pairs of scissors cutting a path toward his gut. He had nothing to lose, that was for sure. Moving fast for a man his size, McCaughlin leaped up into the square shaft and immediately felt himself tumbling end over end. Jesus, he was falling! He threw his thick arms out but they just bounced off the sheer, smooth metal walls. He plummeted down, praying that when he hit he would go out fast.

  Smith saw his chance as the Reds fired on McCaughlin. The big Scot could handle his end for a minute, at least until Smith could gain control of the tower. He slid in the door and latched it shut behind him. A row of steep, circular stairs led straight up to the tower about fifty feet above him. He pulled out his army-issue, .45, a prewar antique that he always carried, as it had saved his ass on numerous occasions. Above him, he could hear Red voices talking frantically. His Russian wasn’t great, but he understood. “Attack on Center. Yes. Reinforcements immediately. And choppers. Good!” So they were going to send in the whole damn Red army from the other side of Stalinville. He’d have to get in and set up fast.

  He came around the top of the stairs, trying to sense from their animated conversation just how many there were. Two just to the left of the stairs, one to the right. But there were more listening, in the back. Well, there wasn’t time for computer analysis of that. The Freefighter, drenched with sweat and blood, hefting 175 pounds of arms, charged around the top bend of the metal staircase and blasted the .45, pulling the trigger over and over and turning slowly around the room. Six shots later three unrecognizable Red corpses, leaking vital fluids profusely, fell to the floor and didn’t move.

  Smith threw his gear down and immediately began setting up. So far, so good, he thought, kicking two of the bodies through the floor-level entrance and down the stairs to make room for himself in the cramped quarters of the needle-nosed structure. He glanced out the 360 degree window at the roof below where the Reds continued to fire away. But where the hell was McCaughlin? Smith got a sinking feeling in his gut as he scanned the roof and couldn’t find the Freefighter anywhere. There’s no missing that big body, he thought, feeling his throat tighten up. So they’d finally gotten McCaughlin—the men wouldn’t believe it. He was alleged to have a charmed life. Shit!

  What had been a cold act of professionalism on Smith’s part so far in the attack mission suddenly became a raging need to avenge the Reds’ killing of one of the best men that he had ever known. He threw the latches on the windows of the tower and pulled them all open to give himself an unrestricted firing range and shoved the muzzle of his RDP machine gun out the opening. 7.62mm shells migrated toward Red flesh at 650 rounds per minute. The Russians who had been firing on McCaughlin suddenly were being hunted. They ran frantically toward the chopper some fifty feet behind them, but were cut down in a hail of smoking death.

  Smith looked down at the pile of twisted bodies. He had surprised them. The fools had still been firing at McCaughlin. Score one for you, buddy, he thought. Even when you ain’t around you keep fighting. From the control tower he could see down two sides of the building, toward the main entrance, forty stories below. He had a view of the surrounding air lanes, suddenly realizing with a laugh that he was now Stalinville Air Control. He glanced around at the radar screens and radio headsets that lay everywhere. Even from across the room he could hear pilots screaming for instructions. The large, green radar monitor was aglow with dots all sweeping inexorably toward each other.

  He was at the very top of the needlelike tower and could feel it swaying in the wind. Christ, I hope the Reds don’t figure some way to chop this thing down with a rocket. But then he’d see them coming and get them first. He could lay down all kinds of fire from up here—pin everyone down outside the building while Rock and the others sealed the bastards up inside their steel holes downstairs. And now, he had their weapons as well as his pack of rockets and the grenade launchers. The Kalashnikovs and AK-47s on the floor would do when he ran out of clips for his own Liberator.

  He opened upon a group of Blackshirts who tore out the roof stairwell door, heading toward the tower. He splattered one brain, then caught two in the groins, their balls dripping down onto their shoes. That would take care of that for the moment. He pulled the RDP out from its ledge cradle and carried it to the other side of the room. Norton and Sanford, the e
xplosives’ men, should be making their move right about now toward the armory. He sighted down the 7.62mm machine gun and saw regular Red troops pulling up at the barbed-wire front gate. He let loose with the full belt, sending hot casings spinning to the right. From forty stories up, it looked like a bunch of ants suddenly running from a rainstorm. Only this was a deathstorm and the Red bodies fell in droves to the ground. A screaming round found the gas tank of the big troop transport and it exploded in a yellow halo of fire, blocking the road to any further movement of personnel.

  Suddeny Smith saw the two Freefighters weaving their way across the smoke-filled concrete lot to the left of the building. The armory, a long, low, concrete-sided, metal-roofed structure, lay at the other end of the lot. They just needed a few more seconds. A fusillade of shots rang out from far below and one of the running Americans went down but, just as quickly, rose and hobbled on with the other. Smith aimed the RDP across the fence just outside the compound and sent a mailgram of death streaking down to the APV which was sniping at the munitions men. He razed the vehicle twice, sending the occupants flying from their perches in a tornado of blood. The firing stopped. Smith watched with satisfaction as the two Freefighters disappeared into the long storage depot.

  When Smith set up his covering fire, Norton and Sanford, who had been waiting in the security checkpoint room just inside the entrance to the KGB Center, flew out the door toward the armory. They could see troops pulling up across the road, but they’d have to trust the man above. That’s the only way an operation like this could work. They’d gotten about halfway across the truck parking lot that separated the Center from the armory when Sanford went down, a ripping pain in his right calf. He stumbled to his feet. He could walk. Hurt like the devil but still functional. That’s when he saw the transport truck go up in a snap, crackle and pop. They made it to the corrugated metal door held with only a padlock which Sanford shot off. They rushed inside, throwing themselves to the ground, pistols ready to take blood. But only silence greeted them. The cavernous dump stretched off into gray, lit by rows of ancient, flickering light bulbs in long, even rows. Everywhere were the implements of death. Rockets, mortar shells, grenades, rows after row, stack after stack of shells, case after case of ammunition for every revolver and rifle and machine gun in the Soviet army. Norton whistled.