Doomsday Warrior 13 - American Paradise

by Ryder Stacy

  Archer smiled and let rip a giant fart—his only comment.

  “That good luck, too!” the irrepressible native added.

  “Archer—stow it!” Rock snapped. “Good luck or not, don’t fart—that’s an order!”

  Leilani pointed out the flying fish off the starboard, their scales of blue and green catching the sun like sequins on an Arab woman’s dress. “See, the sky-fish too give us direction. The fish tell me the bad men came this way.”

  “How do they say?”

  “The way they wiggle, plus—I feel with them. Oh, look—see that foaming place near the ship?”

  “I think so,” Rock replied.

  “That’s the turtle again. Mirogoga is ancient, older than the ocean itself. He learned to swim from the giants that first swam when the rains fell and made the big pools—before the ocean. The god-turtle want my present!” Leilani took off and threw one of her flower leis in the water. “Oh, Mirogoga, don’t fear,” she said. “We will not harpoon you—if you show us the way to the crystal, to the island of bad men!”

  The third day out, Leilani grew somber. “The Gnaa is closer now, much closer,” she said emphatically. “It calls to me, says it is afraid, and that we must hurry!”

  “The crystal is afraid? Does it think? What is it afraid of?” Rock, despite his openness, found a psychic weapon dubious.

  “Gnaa fears being used for evil. It knows what is in the mind of the evil man that possesses it.”

  Rockson chewed on that as dolphins came jumping up high near the ship. Was Leilani imagining all these messages?

  Rock kept tracing their course on the maps. He was glad to occasionally see their companion’s ship, the Surf City, on the horizon, keeping the Dragon company.

  On the fifth day out, Chen came to Rock as he stood at the ship’s wheel. “Rock, you gotta see this.”

  “What is it, Chen?”

  “Just come up atop the mast and see.”

  The Doomsday Warrior climbed behind Chen into the little crowsnest. He saw on the horizon what looked like an amber, glinting eye high on a lattice-work, metal tower! Rockson’s worst fears were realized. “That’s it,” he mumbled.

  “Are you sure it’s the crystal?” Chen asked. “What else can it be?”

  Rockson met with Knudson, Leilani and Murf at the helm. They decided to drop the sails and signal the Surf City to do likewise. They would wait until dark, then approach Killov’s island.

  When the sun set, lights came on under the “eye,” making even clearer the Eiffel-like spire holding the crystal.

  “I can’t believe,” complained Rockson, “that Killov has already built a tower like that. The evil bastard works fast.”

  “Or maybe,” said Chen, “Killov’s found some ready-made tower!”

  On that suggestion, Rock carefully checked the maps. “We’re looking at the island of Bikini—does that sound familiar to you, Chen?”

  “Yes, it’s the place the hydrogen bombs were tested in the 1950’s and 60’s. The island was so radioactive that the natives who evacuated it for the tests never were allowed to return. It was part of the U.S. trust territory.”

  “Do you suppose,” asked Detroit, “that there was an old nuke test tower there, and that Killov’s mounted the crystal weapon atop that?”

  “I doubt such a tower would have survived until now.” Rockson took up the binocs. He trained them on the ten-mile-distant tower. A thousand electric bulbs on its structure showed its entire three hundred plus meters height. There was a building in its core. As Rock studied it, Leilani cried out, “Oh—PAIN! PAIN!”

  “What is it?” he responded, putting the night glasses down.

  “The crystal calls to me. It—feels—pain. It doesn’t want to be used for death. It says it must kill. Soon!”

  “How soon?” Rock pleaded.

  “Just soon, it says.” She slumped, exhausted, in his strong arms.

  As the ship edged carefully closer in the dark, they found the whole island ablaze with lights.

  “It’s a goddamned metropolis,” Detroit said, handing Rock the binoculars. “We can bet Killov didn’t build all that! There, a reef—and a bay.”

  Rock ordered, “We lay anchor. Signal the Surf City by semaphor lights. We will send a party ashore in a canoe.”

  A peaked form like a volcano appeared out of some clouds in the distance. And somehow—it looked familiar. “I want a look-see at this island. I want to find out,” Rock stated grimly, “What gives before we go charging in on Killov.”

  Eleven

  Colonel Killov got into his black Subaru limosine and relaxed his gaunt frame into the cold leather seat. He had decided to leave the tower and get some fresh air, even if it was cool midnight air. He had been reading the engineering reports for hours, and it made him feel ill. Not because the reports were bad, quite the contrary. The crystal was nearly wired, and soon he would be master of the world! But the excitement was too much. He needed to calm his nerves.

  He tapped on the glass that divided his domain from the cramped front seat of the limo. The window rolled down. “Nakashima,” Killov said, “take me on a tour of Little Toyko. I wish to see if my orders to restore all the buildings that were damaged in the takeover have been carried out.”

  “Yes, Killov-san,” the muscular, slit-eyed driver said. “Where shall I begin?”

  “I trust you, Nakashima, to set the itinerary. You know me well; just end up back here at the tower. I want to see the historic sights. They say that this city incorporates the best of old Tokyo—right?”

  “Yes, Killov-san,” said the chauffeur, pulling out into the clean, well-paved street, “all exact copies of old Tokyo sites.”

  The strange city of New Tokyo spread out before him—a city of 12,000 souls going about their busy ways in the shadow of New Mount Fuji.

  The city was actually only twenty square blocks—a 1990’s re-creation of the Tokyo that was destroyed in the Nuclear War. It had been painstakingly constructed by survivors of the sinking of Japan in the war-induced great earthquake, who had sought refuge on the island. Homesick for their land, they had sought solace in this rebirth at the foot of a new volcano. They had lived here, preserving their old ways in peace, until Killov’s renegade Soviet army arrived.

  Killov had picked this island as his base because aerial recon had revealed the tall Tokyo Tower structure, ideal for his crystal deathbeam weapon.

  The limo pulled up to a low, tile-roofed temple. Killov, who had become fascinated with the strange mid-Pacific Japanese civilization, recognized it as the Sengakuji Temple where the grave markers of the “47 Ronin” were located.

  “Good choice,” he said. The driver got out and came around to open Killov’s door.

  Nakashima went up the flagstone walk to the big oak door and rapped heavily upon it. “Open up,” he shouted, “open up for Colonel Killov, ruler of this island. His Excellency wishes to see the temple and the graves. Open up, or face a firing squad!”

  There were hurried footsteps inside, and then Killov heard a crossbeam being slid laboriously aside. The door creaked open. Inside, a diminutive bald monk in a grey Zen robe bowed and scraped and bade them enter.

  Killov strode in, his blackjack boots clicking on the polished wood floor beams, and Nakashima trailed him. “Can we have some damned light!” the gaunt colonel demanded.

  The monk scurried off, and a moment later, several electric bulbs scattered about the wood-beam ceiling came on glaringly. The colonel realized they were in a high-vaulted shrine room. He saw a golden statue of the Buddhist god of compassion “Kwannon” sitting in contemplative passivity at its far end. There were several lit joss sticks smoking in a brazier before it. He frowned. Religion and compassion were nonsense.

  Killov looked to Nakashima for guidance. “This way, master,” Nakashima responded instinctively, leading the colonel down a corridor. “The courtyard contains—what you seek.”

  They left the temple by an open rear door and came out
into a darkened garden. Killov could hear running water. “The Fountain of Death,” Nakashima explained. “It runs to honor the Ronin.”

  The chauffeur shouted out in Japanese, and arc lights lit up the garden. It was only an acre, Killov knew, but the landscaped garden looked larger. It was cleverly designed to give the appearance of a vast outdoor space. There were beds of delicate small flowers amid a trickling streamlet; the gentle breeze waved flower bushes.

  They walked together crunching down a gravel path around a mossy boulder and came to a set of weathered stone pillars about waist height.

  “The forty-seven Ronin’s ashes are enshrined in these monument stones,” Nakashima explained. “The only things remaining of old Japan.”

  Killov said nothing. He had a sense of something beyond here; a feeling of profundity permeated the silent night air. It was—something he seldom experienced. Yes, it was here; that vibration that Killov so loved: The triumph of death over life. Yes, here in this semi-dark garden, before these monuments to the forty-seven fallen samurai!

  He paused to reflect on their awesome deeds as Nakashima told the tale:

  “The 47 Ronin were warriors for the Lord Asano Naganoni. In A.D. 1703, their Lord broke etiquette and drew his sword on Imperial ground when he was attacked and wounded by a scoundrel named Kina. Only by ritual suicide could Lord Asano atone for his breach of good taste, and so he commited seppuku—ritual suicide. His forty-seven Samurai no longer had a master and became “ronin,” which meant “purposeless.” They plotted and waited to avenge their master, pretending for months to have accepted his fate. One night the Ronin burst in on Kina and beheaded him and placed his head on their master’s gravestone. And of course, because such an assassination was a breach of etiquette—despite being of great honor—they all committed suicide like their master, tearing their guts out with the ritual daggers, then being beheaded.”

  “Master?” Nakashima asked, touching Killov’s cold left hand, “are you all right? You are so still . . . it’s been—hours!”

  “I am fine. I was just thinking—about death.”

  “Good, then now I will take you to—”

  “No more tour, Nakashima. I feel—I actually feel hungry. I actually want food, not more arthomethanine pills!”

  “That is good master, for you seldom eat, and one must eat to live.”

  “I know, but I subsist on vitamins and drugs because of my many responsibilities. My work taxes me completely, and so I abhor pausing for meals, Nakashima. But these Ronin, their spirit has given me a hunger.”

  “Then . . . if I may, could I suggest a typical Japanese Inn—a first-class one of course—for an authentic dawn meal?”

  “Lead on, Nakashima,” Killov said.

  They headed across the garden for the limousine. Killov felt a great energy and talked to Nakashima as they rode. “Nakashima, you know what I build up there in the tower?”

  “No, Killov-san. If you do not wish me to know, I understand. It is a secret, is it not?”

  “You are my chauffeur; I need your understanding. I like you, Nakashima.” He paused. “Nakashima—you like me, too, right?” Killov almost swallowed the words. What had come over him?

  “I do, Killov-san.”

  “I believe you’re sincere. If you do like me, Nakashima, you’re the only person in the world except my mother—until I killed her—who ever liked me.”

  When they reached the Tanpopo Inn, the chauffeur pulled in front, sliding the long sedan into a driveway and stopping. “Shall we go in, master?”

  “Yes, quickly! I am famished.”

  A geisha bowed to the floor at the entrance to the ornate thatch-roof building. Killov had to bend under some black curtains emblazoned with calligraphy and found they were in a pleasant, spacious room with perhaps a dozen tables. The windows streamed with the sun rising over New Mt. Fuji.

  Killov smelled something fishy and asked, “Is that seafood?”

  “Yes, master.”

  Quickly seated, they were served a wooden board with many different types of raw fish on rice with horseradish. Killov had no trouble—for a change—convincing his palate to accept the succulent tidbits. He felt like a new man when he pushed the plate away, quite empty except for one small leftover.

  “Would you like my octopus sushi?” he offered Nakashima.

  “Thank you, yes, Killov-san.” Nakashima took it, then poured them each a ceramic cup of warm saki. “To death,” the chauffeur toasted.

  “Ah yes. To death.” The liquor burned into Killov’s drug-sopped esophagus, mixing and melding with many exotic stimulants. The result was a rush of euphoria.

  “Ah, a wonderful liquid!” Killov put his cup down. “And we have common interests. We understand each other. You, too, appreciate death, the poetry of extinction! I have despaired because death was never perfectly expressed. Then, when you came to me, Nakashima, and offered your services, I saw it in your eyes. I saw the appreciation for extinction, the ultimate way, flickering there!”

  “You embarrass me with praise,” Nakashima said shyly. “You are my master—the most excellent master of destruction the world has ever seen. The bringer of the extinction that we all secretly yearn for. That is why I sought you out, Killov-san! I am proud to serve you, and learn.”

  “I see. Then you, Nakashima, are my only pupil, my only disciple. I will make you a Death-Master, like myself. Even I need a companion. Hades had Charon, I shall have you—forever!”

  And for the first time in a decade, Killov reached out, not to kill, not to depress a button to send up a nuclear missile, not to squeeze a trigger, but to touch another human. His cold, bony hand wrapped tightly around Nakashima’s. “Friend,” Killov said softly.

  “Friend,” Nakashima stated, his eyes adoring.

  Killov, drinking more saki, now poured his heart out. He related how he had been a hunted fugitive, hiding for a whole year in the Moscow Library, living like a troll among the dusty stacks, doing research. “I knew that research would be the answer. Knowledge is power! And I found what I had been looking for—the secret lost KGB file on the American military base at Johnston Island in the Pacific. I found the secret files on Project ZILCH, the weapon that would be my new servant. I gathered loyal men—ambitious men—for my new KGB force, promising them the moon—anything—to join my cause.

  “We journeyed to Johnston Island—now called Rarapani—and took the crystal weapon from the savages there. We came here to Bikini by a whaler. My ship’s chopper found this island with its tower and its power source. Soon I will use my weapon to bring death worldwide, to make all nations bow to death!”

  “Yes, Killov-san.”

  “One thing puzzles me, Nakashima . . . Why did the survivors of Japan’s destruction build this replica city of New Tokyo?”

  “Loneliness, Killov-san. The volcano—it looks like Mount Fuji. They wanted to feel at home.”

  “Fools! But the duplicate of Tokyo Tower has been useful . . . Well, that was a hearty meal—my best in years. Let us walk back to the car. I must see how my weapon is progressing!”

  Twelve

  As they turned a corner into wide Takanaga Street, New Tokyo Tower’s gridwork of red steel came into view. It was 333 meters high, and dwarfed the Tanaka Department Store’s twelve stories. In the center of the Eiffel-like tower was a 60 by 60 foot marble shaft with small, green glass windows—the building that held Killov’s luxury suite and his control room. Sparks flared at a dozen points at the tower’s apex, below where the amber twelve-foot-high crystal weapon caught the morning sun on its million glistening facets.

  Good, Killov thought, the sparks meant the workers were welding the power cables into place.

  Nakashima drove to the sand-bagged KGB checkpoint at the west leg of the tower. A pair of spit-and-polish KGBers carrying submachine guns, recognizing the car, saluted and waved him on. They knew that the ZILCH crystal was the world’s most powerful weapon and therefore that Killov was the world’s most powerful
man.

  High above, soaring on the winds that were rising from the east, a large peregrine falcon looked down at the two men walking toward the tower entrance. It saw their forms appear and disappear in the lattice work below. Its keen eyes sensed that they were like itself. They were not prey. They, too, were hunters.

  Nakashima said, “See that falcon! See how it flies to its nest in the cornice near the very top of the tower.”

  “You have good eyes, Nakashima. I barely see it. My eyes cannot take such bright sky.”

  “It is such a big falcon, and it nests on the tower!”

  “Then I will have it shot. I will not have a bird interfere—” Killov shook his fist.

  “No, don’t,” the chauffeur interjected, “the falcon is a good sign, a symbol of power for you, master. It won’t interfere; it is nesting below the crystal.”

  Killov smiled. “Is that so . . . a good omen? Then I will let it be!”

  They went past the rows of saluting KGB guards and into the marble-walled lobby of the tower. Boot heels clicking on the polished floor, they walked to a bank of elevators. The first brass elevator door was marked “staff,” the second “engineers,” and the third—the silver door—had no words. Just Killov’s death’s head insignia embossed on the shiny metal.

  Killov twisted his gold key in the special elevator’s button. A red arrow lit up above the door, pointing down. The elevator was descending from the 71st floor—his suite—where it always automatically returned.

  “Do you go to your control room?”

  “No, Nakashima. We go to check the work on the roof—a surprise inspection.”

  On the windy narrow roof, technicians worked feverishly to complete their master’s design. They were of two races. One race—the stolid pale Russians in black coveralls—handled the bulky electrical cables and welded the structural steel in place, altering the tower’s peak to accommodate the crystal. The other race—the Japanese—was smaller, more delicate. They were the highly skilled technicians in orange coveralls, doing the delicate systems work in many fuse- and transducer-boxes that were dotted about the red-leaded steel frame. Slowly, the Japanese grasped what the whole project meant. After the immense crystal was lifted by cables into its “saddle” ten feet over the core building, and the power-grid laid out, they could tell by the megawatts involved that such power could destroy a city.