Doomsday Warrior 04 - Bloody America

by Ryder Stacy

  “See—button there.” Archer got up from the floor where he had been tying a tourniquet around his bull-sized thigh and looked at Rockson with incomprehension. Fighting he could handle, but controls, buttons, dials, they were things that frightened him—a world of science and machinery beyond his ken. But for Rockson he would try.

  “Big boom-boom,” Rock said by way of explanation, pointing to the firing controls of the tank’s immense .125mm cannon. Archer grunted back, standing over the controls. At least he understood that. There was no way that Rockson could handle everything at once. The tank usually carried a five-man crew, each handling a different facet of the operation of the T-82. Rockson would have to train the giant of a man in about ten seconds how to fire the most complex tank in the world.

  “I say go—you push. Okay?”

  “Ho-gay,” Archer shouted back above the vibrating roar of the tank’s engine, proud to have understood the instructions. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard after all. Rock sighted the cannon of the T-82, nearly twenty feet long cannon, swiveling it around until the closest of the two other tanks was centered between two glowing circles in his attack monitor. Men were climbing into the black death vehicle, just pulling the hatch closed. The tank was already screaming to life.

  “Push,” Rock yelled. Archer slammed his huge thumb on the red firing button, and the tank shook with an earthquake-like vibration. Seventy-five yards away the T-82 took a direct hit, exploding a jagged hole in the armored vehicle. Flames poured out as the tank suddenly erupted into a powerful explosion, her munitions ignited. The big murder machine ripped apart at the seams, sending pieces of white-hot metal off in all directions. Archer let out a growl of satisfaction and looked over at Rock with glowing black eyes.

  “Good, very good.” The Doomsday Warrior grinned back. He swiveled the turret ten degrees to the right and tried to get a fix on the second tank which was already moving its own cannon quickly around toward Rock. But the American made target acquisition first. In the game of high explosive shells, a tenth of a second could make all the difference between survival and total destruction. The sighting circles hadn’t even come together, but Rock could see that the other weapon was zeroing in on them.

  “Push man—push the fucking button,” he screamed out, and Archer again stabbed forward with his thumb at the far side of the control room. The tank shook again and the shell tore forward, smoke whipping out behind it, a mini-missile searching for its destiny. It bit into the treads on the near side of the enemy tank, blasting them apart in a hail of dust and steel. The tank tipped over on its side just as the Reds got their shot off. But the tree-sized cannon was already facing down, only yards from the concrete below it. The shell tore out from the smoking muzzle and hit the hard ground within a hundredth of a second. The explosion tore a crater into the foot-thick cement, and the back fire shot up into the cannon. Rock could see the other tank shaking wildly inside as electrical systems ignited. The next shell into the computerized feed line erupted. The tank blew up from the inside. One second it was there, the next it was gone—unrecognizable as the death-spewing steel colossus that it had once been.

  Archer gave Rock the thumbs-up, and the Doomsday Warrior returned the gesture with his own raised hand. “At least our tank friend’s brothers won’t be following us,” he said, patting the control panel. He swiveled the cannon so it was aiming directly forward and slammed the control rod forward. The tank’s two-yard-wide metal treads turned, slamming down onto the concrete. Ahead of them the Reds had formed a defensive line at the edge of the installation, setting up machine guns and mortars. Rock bore down on them like an angel from hell, not even bothering to waste any more ammo. He’d need every bit of it for the journey ahead. The tank smashed into the line of men, grinding them up in its treaded teeth. Blood oozed out from beneath the tank, leaving a trail of red paint on the easel of concrete. The T-82 slammed through a link fence, knocking it down as if it were made of balsa wood, and the tank tore off through the dark fields as flames rose behind it, licking up toward the clouds as if trying to burn the very heavens.

  As they plowed through the countryside, Rock took the chance to examine the rest of the tank’s arsenal: twin 12.7mm machine guns, radar systems that could pick up air traffic for up to ten miles—and something else—a search while tracking radar and FLIR (Forward Looking Infra-Red TV) with laser guidance and range finder. It was capable of firing, as far as Rockson could tell, ten laser-targeted missiles. Jesus, the thing was a mini-fortress. If he could learn how to use the stuff without blowing them up in the process, they just might make it. Rock glanced over at Archer who stood, his thumb perched just above the firing button, with a wide, idiotic grin on his face.

  “Puuush?” he asked through wide brown teeth. Rockson couldn’t help but laugh at the seven-foot man, his head squeezed down by the low steel ceiling.

  “No, not yet pal—but stay ready.” Archer nodded and looked down at the button again as if it were a glowing ruby. He had joined the technological age.

  Using the T-82s navigational system, Rockson tore through the fields and forests to the north of Moscow, slamming down trees, ripping through gates and fences as if they didn’t exist. Far behind them the lights of the Kremlin and the towering spires of the city twinkled with a million flashes of light. Rock knew that somewhere inside, sitting at thick oak tables, surrounded by wall-sized maps, generals pounded their fists down on the wood and screamed out his name. They wanted him—wanted him bad.

  After about five minutes of carefully studying the instrumentation panels, with the tank on auto, Rock was confident that he could at least fire most of the complex weaponry. Whether or not he would hit anything he was about to find out. A ruby red light blinked on and off in the center of the controls—words flashed across a display terminal. His Russian was good enough to understand the message. Enemy craft approaching at 12 degrees south. Rock flipped on the air, radar, tracking, and guidance system and didn’t like what he saw. A V-formation of choppers, nearly twenty of them were coming in fast. He clicked on the engage controls and a message flew across the panel. Firing mode on.

  “Archer—get over to that other wall,” Rock said, pointing to a second control panel several feet away from him. Archer walked over and again poised his thumb—and waited. Rock watched the copters close in as they dropped from the sky like a flock of hawks, firing their air-to-ground missiles from beneath their black metal bodies. The Doomsday Warrior waited until the panel flashed—Enemy sighted—Guidance system on—Fire when ready. He prayed that the things actually could home in on the helicopters on their own since there was no sighting device other than flickering dots moving in above them.

  “Fire!” Rockson yelled to Archer who slammed his thumb down hard. The tank quivered slightly as two mini-missiles shot out from small portals on the top of the T-82. They streamed up toward the advancing fleet, little slivers of silver fire, smoke trailing in a tight stream behind them. The laser guidance system automatically guided the missiles in on their targets, hitting two of the lead choppers dead on. Both roared into flame, disappearing from the night sky in flaming balls that plummeted instantly to earth. The shrapnel from their concussion ripped off in all directions, disabling two more of the black helios, slicing one’s fuel line which sprayed out burning gas, hitting another’s top rotor, severing one of the spinning blades in half. Both of the craft fell from the screen that Rockson watched anxiously. The damn thing worked. He wished he had a few more of these back home.

  Small missiles and rocket fire slammed down around the T-82, sending up explosions of dirt and weeds. One made contact with the upper rear portion of the tank. But aside from making the T-82 shake violently for a moment, it seemed to do little damage. The war machines had been heavily armored with double thick titanium-steel alloys. It was going to take a hell of a lot more than a small rocket to take it out. The Reds had never figured on anyone’s firing at them from inside the state-of-the-art war wagon.

  They
came to a thick grove of trees, and Rock floored the T-82, hoping it could handle the thick trunks. But the tank smashed through them without hesitation. It seemed capable of almost any feat of strength. Trees shattered and snapped in half as if a bull elephant had gone on the rampage, tearing up the forest in a fit of frenzied madness. They emerged again out onto a roadway. According to the dissidents’ maps and Rockson’s calculations, he figured it was the main thoroughfare leading to the airport. Time was all important. Once they had MIGs on their tail, with their more powerful missiles, even the T-82 would find it rough going. He turned the accelerator grip on the top of the forward/reverse control rod, and the super tank shot forward, gouging deep tracks in the asphalt two-lane road, cruising along at nearly forty miles per hour. But their reemergence into the open also gave away their position on Red radar screens. The choppers closed in again, barking commands back and forth over their radios which Rock was able to pick up on tank’s telecommunications circuitries. The conversation went something like, “Get the bastard!” They swooped down for the kill, dropping from the cloud-covered night sky, the strontium blanket of smog dimly visible high above glowing a luminous green.

  Rockets suddenly rained down from everywhere, exploding around the tank. Two made contact. But still the T-82 seemed to survive, although Rock could feel the temperature rising inside from the sheer heat of the blasts. Except for two deep shudders and Archer’s wide eyes and growing claustrophobia at being confined in such a small space, the death machine kept right on going. Through his video consoles, Rockson could see two of the choppers dropping low and keeping pace with him. They hovered directly overhead, and a cargo door at the bottom of each dropped open. Whatever they were going to heave down on him, he didn’t want to be on the receiving end. Rock set the auto-guidance on the missile system again and yelled across to Archer to fire. As simple as the motion was, Archer seemed to get a kick out of just pushing the button and causing so much effect. He was used to slugging it out face-to-face.

  Two more of the laser-guided missiles shot from the tank and headed straight up, making contact with the bellies of the choppers in less than a tenth of a second. Whatever the Reds had been about to release down onto the tank never got there. The helicopters exploded into twin balls of screaming metal and showered down onto the T-82, bouncing off its armored back. Still the choppers left in the formation closed in, sending down rocket after rocket, leaving the road around the T-82 a flaming mass of jagged yard-wide craters. They no doubt had orders to get Rockson or not come back at all. An explosion suddenly lifted the tank nearly off the ground. One of the rockets had made contact with the lower portion of the tank, slamming into the right steel tread, knocking three of the steel teeth loose. A light in the center of the systems display panel flashed quickly on and off, and the display monitor blinked on with the words Tread hit—Tread hit—Tread hit—

  The T-82 slowed to about half speed even with Rock twisting the accelerator to the limit. But it kept going. He had to steep more to the left now as the tank kept wanting to veer off to the right. But the steel cables that held the treads together had evidently not been severed. The immense war wagon lurched forward, grinding even deeper into the asphalt, this time leaving a plowed trail nearly a foot deep from the torn treads. But the choppers were closing in again—and this time for the kill. Rockson suddenly saw a tunnel ahead. The road disappeared inside a granite hill, and the darkness inside indicated that the tunnel went on for several hundred yards or so. It was time to move. The tank shot ahead into the gouged-out crude rock passageway, and he slowed the T-82 to a crawl.

  “We’re jumping ship,” Rock said to Archer who was overjoyed at leaving the war tank. Rockson set the controls on “autopilot” and then the laser guidance panel to fire at any airborne target that approached within six hundred yards. They’d have some surprises ahead, that was for sure. Rock crawled back up the steel-runged ladder and opened the hatch, quickly jumping out onto the top of turret. Archer stumbled up and the two freefighters hit the road, tumbling over several times. The tank charged forward, dragging its torn tread in the semi-darkness. The choppers waited ahead at the other end of the tunnel, hovering just a few feet above the ground. Nearly fifteen of them—waiting for one.

  Rock and Archer tore off toward the mouth of the mountain tunnel, reaching the front just as the first of the missiles from the T-82 shot up. Behind them they could hear explosion after explosion as choppers fell from the sky like meteors, and rockets rained down on the unmanned war machine. Let them battle it out, Rockson thought. Red machine against Red machine. There was a certain irony to it all—an irony that would make heads roll when the truth was finally sorted out.

  Twenty-One

  From his top floor window, Premier Vassily could see the fires of the Moscow prison and the Satellite Control Complex burning out of control. Flames reached hundreds of feet in the air, twisting and writhing like snakes as they consumed every bit of burnable substance. Vassily sat in his wheelchair, his black servant Rahallah behind him, impeccably dressed in white suit and spotless gloves. They both watched the fires silently, the premier’s eyes tight and filled with hate.

  “I should never have trusted him,” he said at last, almost in a whisper, as if still not wanting to admit that his gambit to ally Rockson and the freefighters against Killov had gone wrong. He had made few errors in his rise to the top—one didn’t make mistakes in the Red hierarchy and last very long. But this had been a bad one. A disaster. The destruction of the prison was a trifling matter, the fiasco at the gladiator games, more of an amusement to him than anything else. The death of Commissar Dubrovnik meant little to him. He had never like the man anyway.

  But the Satellite and Missile Control Center—that was another matter. That one man could wipe out the Russian’s ability to strike across an ocean, if necessary, at rebels and uprisings—it was unbelievable. The complex would never be rebuilt, he knew that for certain. It had been well kept up. Money poured into it endlessly. But the Russian technicians could no longer create such miraculous structures. Their abilities, their factories to produce the computers, the tracking optical and radar systems were no longer functional. No, it would be bombers and land-based missiles, now already within the slave countries borders. If the need came they could still inflict terrible devastation. But it would be harder, much harder. And they would be vulnerable.

  He had misjudged things, but Rockson would be the one to pay the price. The Doomsday Warrior was a hundred times more dangerous than Killov. Now he saw it all clearly, like a blueprint of doom laid out before his weary eyes. And Rockson was just one of many freefighters. Perhaps Killov was right. He had tried to tell the premier many times—the rebels were growing in strength and boldness in America. And if this single man was any indication of that power, the Russian Empire was in deep, deep trouble.

  Premier Vassily felt tired. Tired to the point of wanting to die. He had faced many challenges and survived, nay, emerged victorious. When he was struck by his opponents, his instinct was to strike back—harder—to destroy those who would challenge him. He felt emotions stirring within his breast that he hadn’t felt for years. Poisonous feelings of vengeance, of torture. Rockson would have to pay for this. The American freefighter had made an error, too. For now the Reds would strike back more viciously than anything the Americans had experienced in the last century. The entire planet must know, must be shown, what the penalty was for challenging his rule. Every general on his staff, every American from freefighter to peasant farmer plowing his radioactive field—all would feel the wrath of the premier.

  Vassily felt suddenly changed. His poetry books, his long subtle novels seemed like jokes now. It was a game of power and the strongest would win. Survival of the species was always won by the toughest, the most ruthless. Perhaps he should read Darwin. On the endless evolution of the strong over the weak. Yes Darwin—he might get some ideas on just how to wreak his vengeance.

  “Rahallah, bring me the Origin o
f Species. It’s somewhere in my bookcase in the library.” The black servant walked quietly and quickly from the room, leaving the old man and his trembling hands to plots of death and blood and madness.

  High above, far beyond the scope of the naked eye, the Russian killer and spy satellites began acting strangely. They had stayed aloft for a hundred years, constantly corrected in their angle, their rotation and orbit. Only a few of the technological marvels had failed, plummeting to earth in fiery balls that crashed into the ocean or an uninhabited forest somewhere on the surface of the planet. But already, with their guidance systems no longer receiving instructions from earth to correct the slight flaws of their trajectories, they were beginning to veer out of control.

  Little things at first—a slight wobble, a drop of just several miles from a thousand-mile-high orbit, a blinking light flashing a problem in hydraulic pressure or solar battery collection. But the little things would escalate, would grow, making a mistake of an inch turn into miles. The slight vibration of a speeding-up spin became a violent shaking that would tear the balls and triangles and octagon-shaped satellites apart, sending them into more and more erratic flight paths. They danced madly beneath the stars, mindless pieces of steel and nickel, titanium and fiberglass molded together into a vacuum-resistant package. They were marvels of communication, of tracking, the very top of the ladder of man’s mechanical ingenuity. But with all their computers and miles of circuitry and wiring aboard, they had no intelligence, no way of righting themselves. But they knew something was wrong—their internal sensors frantically sent back signals to earth requesting assistance, correction of their obital problems. The air burned with telecommunications as the coded signals traveled down through the atmosphere. But only flames were there below to receive their messages. What had been the dome was now a garbage pit of burning rubble. It would take weeks, months for some but soon they would all drop from the skies, flaming balls crashing down from the heavens. Not one would survive.