by Ryder Stacy
“Thank you, Rock,” Willis said as the Ultimate American stepped back from the podium and down onto the chamber floor. “Now, Dr. Shecter, could you come up here please and describe this new weapon that Rockson has mentioned. Tell us your evaluation of its military potential.”
Dr. Shecter rose slowly and walked to the front of the filled semicircular chamber. A hush fell over the members—Dr. Shecter was the most revered man in all Century City. Single-handedly his inventions had transformed the Free City from a primitive village to a bustling modern city with every comfort. Shecter’s arctic eyes took in every face, every friendly or malevolent glance, as he walked slowly, his arthritic leg acting up, to the platform and then up the steps to the podium. He faced the Council members. He didn’t have to call for quiet. You could hear a pin drop.
“Good day, Council people. I haven’t been here for a while but somehow I’m sure I haven’t been forgotten.” Several members chuckled at the memory of his last visit when he had engaged in an extremely heated argument for hours over the need for increased manufacture of the Liberator rifle so it could be shipped off to other cities. Shecter saw himself and his work as being bigger than just the needs of Century City and therefore often found himself in disagreement with the councilmen who were looking out just for the city’s interests.
“My technical team and I have been working feverishly trying to uncover the secrets of the Particle Beam pistol. And frankly, I’ll be damned if we’ve gotten anywhere.” The aging scientist, dark spots and moles covering his long, narrow face, looked perplexed. He wasn’t used to not being able to decipher scientific mystery. The doors of science and technology had always opened wide for his piercing analytic mind. “But, we do know that it’s a particle-beam technology. I’ve read notes on the experimental work that was being done on them before the Great War. Apparently both the Reds and our own R&D men had been making great strides in the military application of such energies, then the war and— The bitch of it is, gentlemen,” Shecter said, looking at his audience with fiery eyes, “we can’t get inside the damn thing. It’s made of a plastic synthmetal that’s virtually impenetrable, I could blast it open with a laser probe but that would surely fuse the insides. No, Council members, whoever made this weapon has a highly advanced technology. I’m impressed.”
“And what of the military applications, Dr. Shecter?” Willis asked respectfully from the side. “Are they worth justifying the expedition that Rockson proposes?”
Shecter was quiet for a moment as if trying to suppress great anger. Then he said simply, “Without question! If my intuitions about this weapon are correct it would make all conventional armaments instantly obsolete. The firing tests we’ve performed so far have produced astounding results. Range—up to five miles. Kill proportion: one hundred percent. Ammunition: none. The damn thing seems to have some sort of infinite energy source. That’s what I’d like to figure out.” His eyes lit up like shooting stars. “But, yes,” he went on impatiently, “give Rock what he wants, for Christ’s sake. We’ve got to get more of these and whatever else is out there and find out what makes them tick. If I had to make some damn fool statement to impress on all of you just what the power or worth of this pistol is, I’d say one Particle Beam Disintegrator is worth about, oh, say ten thousand Liberator rifles.” He turned without waiting to answer more questions and made his way on slightly unsteady feet back to his chair at the front of the large chamber.
Willis looked out on the thoughtful Council members, fingering his wispy white goatee absent-mindedly. “Well, I think Dr. Shecter has answered our questions. Now is there any more debate or can we vote?” Several members grumbled, knowing that Shecter’s forceful pronouncements meant unquestionable passage of the expedition. Willis called the vote. It was thirty-nine affirmative, eight opposed, three abstentions.
“Well, Rock, you have our full confidence,” Willis said, looking over from the podium at Century City’s top military commander, who leaned against the parchment-colored wall. “Good luck, Rock, and God be with you.”
By midnight, Rockson had already picked his team. The basic Rock Squad, of course—Detroit Green, Al Chen and McCaughlin—and Berger, the explosives man. He had gone through the central files, sitting at the computer for three hours. He wanted this expedition to be thoroughly documented—and he wanted to be prepared for anything. Perkins would come as the city’s most knowledgeable archaeologist. Rockson wanted someone who could decipher any of the artifacts they uncovered. Harris was one of the best trackers and climbers around and tough as nails. Slade was a sharpshooter and a linguist, which from Brady’s description of the strange man’s language might well be needed. And Rock picked Erickson, the Swede. They might be gone for months. And well, Erickson was one of the best cooks in the whole Rocky Mountains. What that man could do with cactus or rat’s feet was truly a miracle. And he was a good, battle-hardened fighter. A man Rock wouldn’t ever have to wonder about. Finally, he chose Lang, the kid. Tough, brash, somewhat of a troublemaker. He was only nineteen but Rock saw in him the makings of another Ted Rockson. The kid was a mutant like Rock—tall, with the star pattern on his back, dark blue eyes, like the seas in gale, dark skinned and strong as an ox. Someday he would be a leader—if he survived.
That was it. Rock signaled the End Search code and switched his monitor off. The computer fell to a dim hum as it rested its circuitry. Rock had his team. Now for the supplies and weapons.
At 5:00 the next morning, Rock and his nine-man team pulled up with their pack and riding hybrids in front of the back loading platform of Century City, a large concrete-walled warehouse from which Liberators were shipped out all over America. Shecter was standing there impatiently, his arms folded across his chest in that ever-present gesture of disgruntlement. Five of his weapons team had just finished loading the supplies in cartons and out onto one of the raised loading platforms.
“Howdy,” Rock said, tying his hybrids to a tethering post. “Hope we’re not up too early for you.”
“Please, Rockson, I’m always up at the crack of dawn. As you get older you need less and less sleep. At the age of seventy-four I find I must obtain only three to four hours a night to be sufficiently refreshed.”
“So what have you got for us this time?” Rock asked, smiling. Dr. Shecter was always coming up with strange new gadgets and weaponry that he wanted the Freefighters to test out for him.
“The usual mountain-climbing equipment, slip-on cleats, thousand-pound nylon test, pulley equipment. I think you’ll find them much more efficient now. Acid-rain tarps and this time, Rock, I’m giving you all an alumasynth reflective poncho which should keep both the sun and the high-rad ground soil off you. We’ve improved the reflective capability of gamma radiation by eighty-three percent and dropped the weight by nearly half.”
Rock remembered the old aluminum blankets Shecter had had them try once. The things were heavy, cumbersome and tended to wrap around arms and legs when riding. The men had just dumped the things without a word. If Shecter had really perfected the shields they would be able to travel through the day even in the desert. The other members of the Expedition Force stood along the landing bay loading the supplies that Shecter’s men handed them onto the ’brids. The backpacks were ingeniously devised to allow tremendous amounts of material to be stored in forty different pockets, twenty of them expandable. And the hybrids, at least half again as strong as the horses of old, could easily carry an additional 150 to 200 pounds of field equipment.
Men behind Dr. Shecter began bringing additional wooden boxes filled with exotic devices out from the inner laboratories. “Some things we’ve been playing with for some time, Rock,” he said with that odd grin he wore whenever attempting to get Rock to try his most recent creations. “And this expedition is the perfect time to try them out.
“First,” he said, reaching down with that long, bony arm of his into a large wooden crate and pulling out a cylindrical flashlight-sized metal object with air vents at bot
h ends. “A solar-cell-driven condenser that collects humidity from the air and makes water. Depending on the moisture density in the air—anywhere from zero to a quart an hour.”
“I’ll give it a try first time we run out of water,” Rock said, hefting the device and loading it into one of the side pockets on the back of his pack hybrid. He had chosen the palomino for his riding steed, largest of the ’brids that were going on the expedition. Rock had used the strong animal in Bear Valley and it had acted calmly. It seemed a highly intelligent animal. The horse looked at Rock as he swung back around to face Dr. Shecter. Large and broad shouldered, it had the markings of the palominos of the Old West. Stark black spots on a flawless white hide. A trail of reddish hair hung just below the stomach—a trait of all the hybrids, as were its pinkish tipped ears, almost flesh colored. The hybrid moved constantly as if anxious to start the journey while Rock loaded one after another of Shecter’s supplies into the various packs he had cross-rigged over the back of both ’brids.
“Here, Rock,” Dr. Shecter said, reaching into another crate. “An ultralight rad suit, not much bigger than a pack of cigarettes.” In a line, moving from the right of Rockson, the other men of the team were receiving the same supplies and instructions from Shecter’s assistants. Dr. Shecter always felt it incumbent upon himself to personally explain details to Rock. “I know you men don’t put much faith in rad suits,” Shecter continued, “and it’s true that most Freefighters have extremely high tolerance for radiation. Still, Rock, there are hot zones out there that would fry any living thing. Even you. So please.” He looked at Rockson with concern. The man wasn’t exactly foolhardy but he didn’t fear death at all. And that made him take few cautions.
“Positively, Doc,” Rock said, slipping the small container holding the suit into his saddle pouch for quick usage.
“Now, this is something we’re extremely proud of, Rock.” Shecter beamed, pulling up another device. “An atomic cell inertial sextant navigation computer.” He handed Rock an oddly shaped half-globe with various lenses affixed every few inches. “Just place it on any surface, adjust the small, expandable legs beneath it until these four bubbles on top come together and line up. Easy to use, works off either the sun or the stars. Can be programmed for locations, directions, distance between points. And under a pound.” Shecter was positively glowing.
Rockson took the device. “Here, McCaughlin,” he yelled out. “You’re the sighting man. Here’s a toy for you.” McCaughlin walked around several hybrids, pushing them rudely out of the way and took the sextant, looked at it bemusedly and walked back to his own riding ’brid and four pack brids. He was responsible for all their larger supplies. Erickson, the cook had to contend with his own four packers, who seemed to be resisting taking on the mini-stoves and cooking supplies that Shecter’s men were helping the Swede load up.
“Now, Rock, you like to use one type of shell in your .12-gauge pistol, the X-pattern heavy shot, but I’ve got something that I think could have numerous uses.” He handed Rock a handful of loads. “Gas, Rock. Explode and release an invisible cloud of MR-3 gas. Anything within twenty feet will go out like a light. And it’s non-lethal. Might feel sick as a horny dog in August for several days but definitely survivable. Just make sure you’re at least thirty feet away. The winds break it down molecularly within seconds. Bio-degradable nerve gas.” Shecter chuckled.
“Now this sounds interesting,” Rock said, loading the shells into his cartridge belt around his waist. “How many you got of these?”
“Just a dozen for testing, Rock. The damn nozzle on the gas injector broke last week. All we have is these experimental samples. But they work.” He handed Rockson the rest of the ammunition.
“I’ll be sure to use one on the first killer dog pack that finds me appetizing,” Rock said.
“Here’s the emergency pack, as always,” Dr. Shecter mumbled, handing Rock a small canvas pack about five-by-ten inches and just over an inch thick. “Poison tabs, anti-venoms—with serum, in hypo ready to use. These poison things here, by the way, are much more potent than the old ones, Rock,” Shecter said ominously. “We’re using shellfish toxin. Takes three seconds. Just a jab of the needle and—no pain.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Rockson said, throwing the emergency pack into his forward saddle pouch. “I’ll take a dozen.”
“And last but not, as they say, least,” Shecter said, picking up a lunchbox-sized container. “The medikit—has spray-bandage, plastisalve, seal-gauze, antizones, a mini-fluoroscope for locating bullets or shrapnel and, oh, etc., etc. You know what’s in there, for Christ’s sake,” Shecter said abruptly, growing suddenly impatient with the whole procedure.
“Indeed I do,” Rock grinned. “And have had cause to use all of them.” Rockson had been skeptical of Shecter’s doohickeys at first. But after they helped him out of numerous tight situations and saved his mutant hide again and again, he was a believer. He mentally memorized the location of everything he had just loaded. Once Rock placed something firmly in his consciousness, it was never forgotten. He glanced around at the other members of the Expeditionary Force Six. They were all loaded up, mounting their ’brids. McCaughlin still struggled with several boxes on his last unloaded ’brid. “Damn box!” he yelled, trying to balance the thing on the hybrid’s curved back. Every time he reached for a piece of rope to tie it, it began slipping out of his hands. The others stared on, suppressing belly laughs.
“Well, Doctor, I hope we see you again soon and that we’re all still alive.”
“And I hope that your mission is a success, Rock. I can’t overemphasize the importance of this strange race’s weapon. Their technology must be incredible. These kinds of weapons would make mincemeat of Russian armor. Even fortresses could be directly attacked.” He shook hands with the warrior. “God and science be with you, Ted Rockson,” Shecter said.
Rock swung his booted leg up over the palomino’s wide back and pulled the reins ever so slightly to the right. The hybrid responded instantly, giving off with a little snort by way of comment.
“Freefighters, we move,” Rockson said, holding his arm in the air and letting it fall slowly until it was pointing straight forward. The horse walked slowly through a long, ten-foot-wide concrete road, its hard hoofs echoing like shots from the flat walls. The other men fell in, single-file behind Rock, talking, joking, looking back at McCaughlin who sat twisted around in his saddle, yelling at the pack ’brids as they juggled the supplies on their writhing backs, moving jerkily along behind him.
The multilayered weaving of netting, branches and leaves was pulled aside at the end of the square tunnel by automatic motors. Rock and his men emerged into the cool night air of the Rocky Mountains in the middle of thick woods. The branches closed behind them. The men ceased their chatter so as to be alert to every movement and sound of the night. Their hybrids picked up speed as they came to sloping fields until they were moving at a brisk trot. The half moon, misted over with the high purple clouds of the stratosphere, peeked from behind openings in the puffy layers from time to time as a billion twinkling stars rayed down from the heavens onto the mounted force.
The night was beautiful, Rock thought, letting his head drift up across the infinite sky. He rocked gently back and forth atop the powerful hybrid, its thick muscles tightening and relaxing as its legs pushed the ground past. Rock let his eyes drop again until they were peering directly ahead into the gray darkness of the hills and woods. What was ahead? Only God knew that. But he, Ted Rockson, would find out.
Twenty-Five
President Zhabnov read the reports of the massacre of the KGB flamethrower squads in the Little U.S.A. sector of Stalinville with mixed emotions. He was glad that the KGB had looked bad, but did it mean that there was a serious problem in the American sections? And what was he to make of the attack on the KGB headquarters there and the blowing up of a major munitions dump? The natives were growing restless. Too restless! There had been a munitions depot blown up before he
came but that had been years ago. What the hell was going on?
And the letter from Premier Vassily disturbed him. He had expected that the premier of all the world would at least chastise Killov, give him a slap on the wrist for his unauthorized use of N-bombs on the hidden American city. But the old coward had knuckled under to Killov. The colonel’s faction on the Politburo must indeed be powerful. And Killov didn’t like him one bit. Put the two together and Zhabnov could see that it all spelled, Goodbye presidency—or worse.
I must make my mark, Zhabnov said to himself after mulling it over for a while. The two Negro waiters who stood next to his desk in the Oval Office remained silent while he paced the room. They poured out new glasses of brandy when he stopped in front of them.
“I need to do something to impress the premier that I am as powerful as Killov, that I can do an even better job in keeping order than he.” He spoke at the black servants, immaculate in their white tuxes, but looked at them as if they were chairs, inanimate objects who couldn’t understand a word he was saying. “I’ll also act to show that I’m more of a friend to Killov, more in sympathy with his plans. It’s time to bury the hatchet with the colonel—to save my own skin when Vassily kicks off. Yes! It’s a good idea.” He downed a shot of the brandy and reached for another. The liquor was working its way into his blood stream, making him feel woozy and powerful.
