Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style

by Ryder Stacy

  “Good, good,” Zhabnov said, rubbing his small hands, surprisingly small on such an obese body. “You have the lists of each delegate’s favorite—shall we say—diversion? I trust you will see that they are properly realized.”

  “I understand completely, Excellency. You can rest assured that all will be carried out. And reported back to you in full detail, with video surveillance of all important personages’ sex acts.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Zhabnov chuckled, rubbing his hands together. Sometimes it was so much fun being President. Fun made it all worth while. All the years of being in this hellhole of a country—with its radioactive wastelands, its Freefighter counter-revolutionaries, its mutants crawling through the fogs. He hadn’t ventured out of Washington for years, not even in the “sealed vehicles,” which he didn’t trust worth a damn, since any time a really strong wind blew up he could see the sand blowing in beneath the seals. No, he stayed here, inside D.C.—in his totally sealed and purified White House and Capitol Building, or in his limousines where his Elite Guards could accompany him everywhere. So that he could carry out his pleasures. For here he had complete control over pleasure. It came to him from everywhere. Food, sex, booze. And the power of life and death.

  “And the best ones?” Zhabnov asked slyly as they got off the elevator on the second floor of the White House, the antique wooden plankings beneath their feet gleaming with the ancient golden shine of a floor that has lived, has seen the centuries, the feet of the world’s most important men.

  “The best, Excellency, we have of course saved for you,” Gudinov answered conspiratorially, so that Zhabnov broke into an even wider smile. “The three-breasted virgins you love so, Excellency? We managed to trap a band of them out in the wilds of Kansas. Wild ones they were, roaming free. Stark naked, like animals out there. Cost us plenty of troops. The mutants fight like—”

  “Oh don’t worry about the cost,” Zhabnov laughed. “It is a trifle. The important thing is that you carry out your tasks so well. If you have any mansions along the Volga in mind for yourself—they may be closer than you think.”

  “Excellency, I am touched,” Gudinov said, bowing slightly toward the portly man who waddled away down the carpeted floor.

  This particular hall always gave Zhabnov a sort of shiver down his spine. For it was lined with immense oil paintings of the great Presidents of the past. Before the Great War. Before the Russians had moved in and taken over everything lock stock and barrel. And that included the White House and everything that was in it.

  The damned paintings stared down at him. Zhabnov swore they stared. Like those black market pictures he had seen of Christ, whose eyes followed you wherever you went. One had been presented to him once by some slovenly dignitaries from the mountain tribes as a gift. That had amused him—but these were not friendly eyes. Lincoln, Washington, Jefferson, their faces so grim and dead. More like zombies than men, like things ready to leap down from their canvasses. Their eyes seemed unusually alive today, almost throbbing with power. It was just the sun—that was all. It was very bright today, the rays streaming through the closed windows of every room in the place, lighting the golden floors, the rugs, the antiques, the tapestries.

  Zhabnov tried to stare the paintings down, turning back and forth nervously at both walls, trying to exert his will over the canvasses, as if over a dog. But the paintings won, after just a few quick angry stares, and he pulled his head straight forward, not daring to look anymore, to fall into those accusing eyes, eyes that said “YOU HAVE STOLEN MY COUNTRY AND I WILL NOT REST UNTIL IT’S RETURNED.” Zhabnov had wanted to have them all taken down, destroyed—or at least painted over with mustaches, scars, ridiculed down to size. But the Premier would have none of that! Years earlier, hearing that just one of the precious paintings had been damaged, he had sent strict orders to Zhabnov not to harm an oily hair on a single one of their painted heads. Or it would be his head. For the Grandfather was a great student of history. He respected the past, the greatness and power of tradition, of faded glory. Soon his picture would be hanging in some Kremlin spire somewhere. All that was left of him after the flesh rotted in the ground. He didn’t wish to have crudities drawn on his image, and not on these images either.

  But if Zhabnov couldn’t touch the “heritage of America,” he could at least add his own favorites. When they reached the Blue Room on the first floor, he relaxed as his pigeony eyes took in his own collection—small children with huge, doelike eyes, so moist and large they were like lakes of overcooked sentimentality into which one could fall and drown in sugary sweetness forever. Keane paintings. Original Keanes. He had been one of the U.S.’s top painters a century and a half ago. Zhabnov had read that the man hadn’t met with great critical acclaim in his own time—though he had become rich. But the President couldn’t understand why the artist had not been acclaimed for the perfect blend of art and emotion. Besides, they were all of young girls. The thing Zhabnov loved most. He wondered if Keane had done any nudes, and made a mental note to have his art collector check into that.

  It had been sunny, fortunately, for days, and Zhabnov, who had been tied up with state affairs, longed to see his garden, too. He went to the door, flung it open.

  He could see instantly that his garden was flourishing—his Rose Garden, which surrounded two entire sides of the White House, hidden beneath barbed wire just in case any of the riffraff ever got through the elaborate security precautions. Roses—row after row of them. Roses—the most beautiful things on the face of the earth, as far as Zhabnov was concerned. Red ones and blue ones, violet and pink. Mixed breeds, hybrids that he himself had bred. It was perhaps the one thing he could actually do well, though half of his crops died of rad-disease. He treated those flowers that survived like his children, walking around the rows, talking to them, patting them, spraying here and there as servants walked behind him handing him gardening implements as if he were a surgeon performing emergency surgery.

  “Ah, the Rosa Carolina, a hybrid tea rose. I have named it President Eisenhower, after the line of succession, as these seeds originally came from his stock. Did you know that, Frederick?” Zhabnov asked the stooped old gardener who bowed to him now. The gardener would wring his hands anxiously at every visit, afraid that he had done something dreadfully wrong—that Zhabnov would find one of his favorite roses dead, and would consequently have the gardener disposed of as well. There had, after all, been six vacancies in the position in the last eight years.

  “What, Excellency?” the Official Gardener asked, hardly hearing the question as his heart was beating so fast.

  “I said, did you know that Eisenhower, President Eisenhower, was a rose breeder, too? Even wrote about it. Why, I have his essay on interbreeding cross-continental strains right in my library. I’ll even let you read it someday, perhaps,” Zhabnov said, as if giving some honor to the smocked man.

  “I’m very grateful, Excellency,” the Official Gardener said, bowing and sweating profusely. “Very grateful.”

  Ah, yes, things were going well, Zhabnov thought as he patted his round belly. He reached down and stroked one particular mix of yellow and pink and red, an odd mix of hybrids that made it look aflame. It was beautiful. And just to show what a generous man he was, Zhabnov would give that flower to Ted Rockson when—and if—the man showed up. The Grandfather would like that, would think it was more subtle than Zhabnov was usually capable of. Yes, maybe he was getting more clever after all. And he’d show his cleverness when—if—the Peace Conference convened.

  “Put an armed guard around this one,” he commanded the gardener, pointing down to the flaming flower. “I want it guarded twenty-four hours a day—until I cut it. Any man touches one petal, scars or mars it in any way—” Zhabnov looked skyward and the gardener gulped audibly, as did four of his tool-toting lackies, who had left a trail of the implements all along the rows of brilliant flowers.

  Zhabnov burped as if to emphasize the idea and then turned and headed back toward t
he White House. He was getting bored again. And angry. He knew it was anxiety. Anxiety over the coming Peace Conference. It was so important to him that he not appear the fool, that he impress the Grandfather instead of making himself into a dunce. Zhabnov had bitter memories of past meetings where somehow, no matter how carefully he tried to avoid it, he had done something stupid. And all eyes had looked toward him, and though none had dared show it, he knew they were all laughing at him inwardly.

  He let his mind drift back to the perfect rose he had cultivated. He was an artist. An artist of the greatest skill and power. The world didn’t know it. But he did. And it was that which enabled him to withstand the ennui of life in America. “Roses and virgins, virgins and roses,” the President of the U.S.S.A. hummed to himself beneath his breath, hardly aware of the words he was subconsciously muttering like some kind of paeon from his infantile libido.

  “Breasts and roses, thighs and roses.” And in his mind, as he mumbled the words and headed for his bedroom to see what little squirming prize awaited him there, Zhabnov knew suddenly why he loved the flowers so. Because they were so pure and clean. Virgins, ready to be plucked, deflowered.

  Five

  In Yalta, U.S.S.R., the Premier of all the Russias was being wheeled down a long dock covered with red carpet—from his sleek black limousine to the immense ship that awaited him. The fanfare was loud, crowds lining both sides of the area kept back by chain-link fences. Signs hung from wires were strung up everywhere. PEACE IN OUR TIME. THE PAX SOVIET. THE PEACE THAT WILL RULE THE WORLD. Vassily had been telling them all on television and radio for weeks. He would stop all the fighting. The Russian Army would not of course withdraw from its territories. But some autonomy could be granted to the occupied countries. It could all be negotiated. Reasonable men could work out such things. You give a little, I give a little. Or such were the ideas. Such the phrases uttered, the banners drawn, over the Black Sea’s dockside.

  “Tired, Excellency?” a deep voice asked, looking down with concern at the frail and aged Premier. Vassily’s face was so covered with liver spots that he looked like he had the measles; foam flecked each side of his mouth. Yet the voice that answered back was somehow firm and clear.

  “Yes, fine Rahallah,” Vassily replied, looking up for a second and away from the crowds that cheered him. For the Grandfather was genuinely beloved by many. A benign man, he had limited torture, had allowed a live-and-let-live attitude to prevail—at least a lot more than some of his predecessors had. Thus, some of the cheers were even real. But many eyes recoiled at the Premier’s servant—a black. Tall and broad shouldered with the look of a prince about him, which, in fact, he was—descended from African royalty of the Masai. He wore a white tuxedo with black bow tie and spotlessly buffed black shoes. They had heard of the “blackie.” The rumors were rife that a Rasputin-like man had heavily influenced the Premier—and was nearly in control of the Kremlin. They didn’t like at all his princely, almost arrogant air, not even deigning to look at one of them, but just pushing the Grandfather in his wheelchair straight ahead, moving like a leopard down the long red carpet that led right to the water’s edge.

  And there, looming over them, stood the largest fighting ship on the planet earth. The Dreadnaught, battleship/aircraft carrier/missile launcher—the largest military craft that had ever been built. It had been fitted out originally in the days that first followed World War III, when the Russian navies had sailed the world, owned it. But now it had been refitted, modernized; only its 2,567-foot length of three-inch thick armored steel remained from the original—the rest was now filled with electronics, computers, communications centers, and an array of nuclear and nonnuclear weapons systems. All this in addition to a 50-plane megaforce that could take off its long deck and bomb within a range of 1,000 miles.

  The Dreadnaught was a floating armada all by itself—a death ship. Even Premier Vassily felt the sheer power of the gleaming steel ship. It was Death—death incarnate. The man who controlled such a ship could wipe out a country, let alone another fleet. Vassily—his was the hand that could do it. He felt the sheer power of being supremely potent rush through his veins like a drug, and a small smile escaped from his usually tight and hidden lips. The feel of the pure power was better even than the morphine that Rahallah occasionally injected in him when the pains of his failing body racked him too hard even to sleep. But not today. Today the drug was the knowledge of his vulnerability, his mortality.

  Rahallah slowed down the Grandfather’s wheelchair as they came to the ramp, also red-carpeted, which ran up on a slow angle to the mountainous ship. Elite Guards lined the sides of the ten-foot-wide ramp, every hand snapping to attention as the Premier’s wheelchair hit the bottom of the incline. The chair was heavy, even on wheels, loaded down as it was it with sensors and protective devices, should any assassin try to eliminate the Premier—and many had tried. But for Rahallah, the black manservant whose powerful physique lay hidden beneath the loose white tuxedo he wore, the task was not worthy of breaking a sweat. He slowly and evenly pushed the Premier up the two-hundred-foot walkway, and then onto the deck of the Dreadnought itself.

  The ship was a monster of steel and cable. Radar domes turned like vultures’ beaked heads everywhere around the bridge. The perimeters of the immense flat deck were crammed with anti-aircraft guns. Vassily could barely focus on the far side. Cannons and missile silos, explosive cannisters for subs, rows of attack choppers for quick strike-and-take-out missions, with their crews standing at attention, waiting for the Premier, the Grandfather.

  Over two thousand men lined the decks and doorways of the great ship, waiting for a look at the Premier. All were proud to be going on this historic mission. The Peace Mission, as it was called in the Soviet papers and television. The mission that would ensure Premier Vassily’s place in history as the greatest of all Russian leaders. The Premier who had ended the insurrections.

  Rahallah wheeled the Grandfather past the waiting rows of admirals and sub-admirals, of captains and war heroes and every damned body who was anybody connected with the operation of the ship. They wanted their momentary glory, to bask in the eye of the Supreme Ruler and perhaps even be noticed. Promotions had been promised for every man on the ship—if all went well over there, in America.

  The Premier’s personal Palace Guard followed closely around and behind him. They were everywhere, a dozen of them within fifteen feet. But disguised as non-coms—unfitting for the Grandfather to be guarded so closely on his own ship, even if there was the possibility of assassination. And there was always that. The Elite Corps looked nervous, as they always did when the Grandfather was out and around. Here, he was more vulnerable than ever. And would be for the next two, even three weeks, as the Dreadnought cruised the bounding main across the Atlantic to the United Soviet States. It was Vassily’s great sacrifice, that he would personally come all the way over. A concession he felt showed all concerned that he meant business. Show Ted Rockson.

  If there was a vehicle to travel on—this was it. For not only was the super-modern battle craft equipped with enough weapons to fight World War Four by itself, it had been likewise equipped with every possible convenience and luxury below. After all, those who manned such a ship should be treated as what they were—the upper echelons of Soviet society. There were three immense restaurants, each serving a different type of cuisine, from the three main racial mixes of Russia’s vast territories. There were movie houses, dental clinics, swimming pools.

  Vassily remembered that he had okayed the project years earlier. And now, as he was rolled down from its open, windy deck into the calm, temperature-controlled air of the main passenger entry hall, he was glad that he had.

  “This ship is a witness to Russian engineering superiority,” Vassily said, half turning his head to Rahallah, who looked somewhat less than enthusiastic. Though he loved and cared for the Grandfather as if he were his own father—Vassily having saved Rahallah as a child and treated him almost as an equal ever
since—he didn’t care for all his ideas. Although it was a master/slave relationship, still Rahallah had had a tremendous influence on the Premier—perhaps even softening him somewhat over the years. After all, Vassily had relaxed his grip on many things, even Rahallah’s own tribal lands of Tanzania and Kenya. And someday, someday, the Premier had promised him, they would even be freed. Rahallah was free to leave, but stayed on, caring for, influencing Vassily. He read poetry to the leader of all the world, or heard his worries of leading, of fighting the endless wars that blazed like sparks ceaselessly throughout the world. And Rahallah had been a good influence. He knew it, and that was why he stayed. He hoped that this Peace Conference-to-be would be the good result of all his work with the Premier.

  But as for the death vessel beneath his feet . . . that was another matter. Rahallah could feel no love for the great weapon of Russian origin. All it would do was kill. Kill better than anything. Kill in the blink of an eye. He knew all too well the immense power that was hidden behind every tube, every wall. It made him vow to influence the Premier that much more, to never fire the weapons within. To seek lasting peace.

  “Beautiful, just beautiful,” Vassily said, addressing the commander of the Dreadnaught who walked alongside him, his rows of medals gleaming from fluorescent lights behind frosted plexiglass in the ceiling above them. “I must say I’ve very impressed by the work your men have done getting the ship into this kind of state. It’s good to see that our money is well spent—expenditures that I have to fight for every year, tooth and nail.” Premier Vassily grinned through half-rotted teeth at the admiral, who smiled back so wide his upper lip nearly slammed into his nose. “Yes, it’s going for something worthwhile. And I’m sure the rebels will be quite impressed when they see the likes of this floating down their damned Potomac.” Vassily began coughing and couldn’t stop for nearly twenty seconds, as Rahallah stopped the wheelchair on a dime and gave the Premier some sparkling mineral water with a dash of vodka.