Doomsday Warrior 04 - Bloody America

by Ryder Stacy

  Twenty-Two

  A long spread-out line of Red troops was marching across the nearly barren fields just to the south of the Military Air Field. Rockson and Archer stood at the end of one of the runways, hidden behind thick thorn bushes as a huge Intercontinental Iliyushin transport jet came swooping down just over their heads and touched onto the concrete runway ahead. Its forward thrusters burst into screaming life as it screeched to a halt nearly a mile down the airfield. Behind the two Americans the Russians marched forward, nearly a thousand of them, their Kalashnikovs at chest level, bayonets attached, ready at a moment’s notice to fire or send the long blade into American flesh. There was a reward of one million rubles for the man who captured either of the escaped freefighters—direct order from the premier. The Reds looked behind every shrub, examined the branches of every tree, scrambled inside sewer pipes and ditches—not a square inch was passed by. Overhead, choppers flew in concentric circles—all of them searching, searching for just one man—Ted Rockson.

  “It’s nice to feel so wanted,” Rock quipped to Archer. The big freefighter grunted out a noise that sounded like “yes.” They had only minutes, perhaps seconds before they would be spotted. Rock had to be bold, move fast—there was nothing to lose. That was clear. Should the Reds get hold of them again their fates would be quite terrible, even for him who had withstood pains beyond human imagination in his lifetime. And this time the new Mindbreaker would be used. Even Rock knew he couldn’t stand up to that. He might not talk, but his brains would be scrambled like a henhouse of eggs thrown into a bonfire.

  “Let’s move,” Rock said quickly. “This may be our last footrace together.” The two freefighters began running down the field straight along the middle of the runway. Their feet slammed onto the hard surface lit up by floodlights posted along the far sides of the field, lighting the four landing beds for the planes that were constantly arriving and departing. Another jet soared down just over their heads with a deafening roar. The wheels seemed to almost touch their heads as the draft of the immense Iliyushin, ferrying a shipment of jeeps from a far-flung northern factory, nearly knocked them to their knees.

  Just ahead Rockson could see three jets—MIG 99s, from the look of them, sitting just off the main runway. If they could just . . .

  Rock felt the whisper of bullets flying past, one just inches from his ear. Above, at the top of the control needle, he could see faces peering out from the tower windows, pointing at the two freefighters, yelling out in confusion. The three MIGs stood in a line, one after another, obviously ready for takeoff. The second two were empty, but the first held a pilot, checking out his instrument panels, fuel gauges, and other functions in preparation for takeoff. His cockpit cover was open, standing nearly straight up as the pilot had apparently just sat down inside the jet fighter.

  Rockson felt a sudden sharp sting in his lower back as a Red slug passed clear through the right side of his body. No time to stop and check it. He could still move that was all that mattered. He’d live or die according to the decision of the gods. He approached the jet from the side, the pilot obviously still unaware of all the commotion around him, so intent was he on his flight prep. With a single leap of his catlike legs, Rockson was halfway up the detachable ladder that hung at the side of the MIG. With two quick steps he was at the edge of the cockpit. He leaned over the side, holding his submachine gun in hand, and pointed it at the Red officer’s chest.

  “Surprise!” Rock yelled out. The pilot turned and his face went instantly pale as he saw the blood-spattered, grime-coated American. He reached suddenly for his pistol, strapped beneath the seat, and drew it up. That was his last mistake. Rockson pumped half a clip into the man, and the body slumped down in the seat, the flesh riddled with countless little red holes, the head falling to one side like a lifeless rag doll. Rock stepped inside the cockpit and quickly unstrapped the Russian. He hefted him over the side of the plane and dropped him down onto the concrete runway where the corpse landed with a sickening thud. Rock sat down in the slanted leather seat and strapped himself in, his back beginning to throb painfully. He reached around and looked. Blood was seeping through the Red sergeant jacket that he still wore. But it wasn’t pulsing—that was a good sign. And his spinal cord obviously hadn’t been damaged or he wouldn’t even be able to move. Maybe he’d make it yet again. Archer stumbled up the ladder, dragging his wounded leg behind him, and dove into the copilot’s seat just behind the Doomsday Warrior.

  “This is going to be the fastest takeoff in recorded history,” Rock yelled around to the gigantic freefighter. “Strap yourself in.” He pointed to the seat harness, and Archer, with a look of enlightenment, slammed the small metal clasps together on the belt. Rockson had never flown this particular jet before, although he had piloted several stolen jets over the years. But he did know about its workings. He made it a point to familiarize himself with every scrap of information that came his way on Russian arms and craft. The Doomsday Warrior had spent weeks at the Century City computer screens, going over every captured manual of operations. He had been the first in line to examine stolen Red equipment and documents. Survival in America 2089 A.D. meant knowledge. The ignorant perished like match flames squeezed between the fingers of death.

  Rock pushed the Systems On button. He’d just have to hope that all the equipment of the jet was functional. The cockpit cover slowly lowered itself above the two Americans and clicked tightly shut. Oxygen Systems On flashed on a computer screen in front of him.

  “Put on the mask,” Rockson yelled back to Archer who seemed quite confused and unhappy about trading one claustrophobic situation inside the T-82 for another, even smaller squeeze inside the MIG. The seats were not designed for seven-foot-plus four hundred fifty pounders, and the American’s legs and knees were propped up behind Rock’s plastic-backed seat. The Doomsday Warrior pushed the ignition switch just as the first ranks of Red soldiers got within firing range. The exhaust flame of the MIG spat out nearly one hundred and fifty feet down the runway incinerating those who had been most eager to win the reward for Rockson’s head. Dials and lights flashed on everywhere inside the cockpit, lighting up the instrument panel before him, but Rockson didn’t have time to contemplate their meaning. He pushed the control wheel, really more of a triangular shape, forward, and the sleek olive-colored jet lurched forward. He headed the craft out onto the main runway as frantic Russian commands snapped over his headset.

  “Stop what you are doing! You are not cleared for takeoff,” a gruff Russian voice bellowed over and over. Fat chance, Rock thought. He could see the rows of troops shooting at him from down the runway, their bullets whizzing all around the jet. An occasional slug ripped into the side of the MIG, but it was armored as well, plated with alloys to survive shots from .55mm machine guns. It would take more than the spinning slugs from the Kalashnikovs to do major damage, and Rockson wasn’t about to wait around for the big guns to show up. He turned the plane suddenly, the back wheels skidding around with a screech. The moment the jet was aimed straight down the long takeoff path, Rock slammed the control wheel forward at the same time he pulled a lever by his side to full power.

  The MIG jerked and rushed forward, shot like a ball from a cannon. He suddenly realized that he was going the wrong way as all the big yellow arrows painted on the concrete runway were pointing at him. But they’d just have to send the ticket via freefighters, Colorado, U.S.A. A jet tore down from the skies for a landing, a passenger flight, thank God, instead of another fighter. But seeing Rockson’s MIG coming straight down its landing path, it veered sharply up and to the right.

  “Almost there, pal, hang on,” Rock yelled over the thundering roar of the engine. Archer had turned a ghostly shade of white and turned his head away from the curved glass of the cockpit cover, unable to look at the ground rushing faster and faster past him. Far ahead on the runway Rock suddenly saw a whole convoy of trucks being driven onto the airfield. Emergency and fire trucks were roaring toward him, bearin
g down from the opposite end of the field. The dial on the airspeed panel in front of him read two hundred thirty kilometers per hour. The jet felt like it wanted to rise. There was no time like the present. Wasn’t that what Dr. Shecter always said? The lead vehicle trying to cut him off was a bright red fire truck, with soldiers hanging on for dear life on both sides. They fired at him with one arm, trying to get a clear shot at the jet, ready to die themselves to take out the humiliator of the Russian Empire. Rock pulled the wheel back as far as it would go, and the super jet shot up into the air at a forty-five degree angle, the wheels passing just inches over the heads of the firing troops. He couldn’t hear their screams as the long jet exhaust flame reached out and burned the entire crew of the truck to a blistering mass of molten flesh.

  Rock climbed and climbed into the sky, taking the jet up in as steep an angle as it could handle. Within a minute he was up into the slow-moving, mountainous clouds where he leveled off. Now what? He saw a small sign with a blinking purplish light below it reading Computer Assist and pressed the Enter button to the right of the screen.

  What Course? The words flashed on a narrow six by twelve inch screen. Great—it wanted to help him, but how the hell did he answer the thing? The computer waited twenty seconds and then a second set of words appeared. Instruction Sequence Mode—Push Button A-3. Rock found and indented the nominated button, and almost instantly more words blinked onto the screen. Use Keyboard Console Controls To Type In Instructions. Rockson glanced frantically around for the Console Control Switch and at last found it. A keyboard about the size of a book popped out from the control panel and clicked into a horizontal position just in front of him. Rock typed in Course America—USA—North.

  The computer digested the information and then spat out. Airport? Again he keyed in, hoping he could bluff the assist system. No Airport—Special Mission—Top Security Clearance. Will Advise Later. The computer again digested the somewhat strange information and then a green light blinked three times. Course America—Await Advisement. The jet shot forward, banking sharply to the left. They were on their way.

  “Just sit back and enjoy the trip, hey Archer.” But Archer wasn’t enjoying it at all. He looked green around the gills, looking out the window at the clouds rushing past them and then, just as quickly straight ahead, trying to focus in on the back of Rock’s seat and not to think too much about what was happening. Rock hoped the Russian Air Force supplied paper bags. The night grew clear after about ten minutes as the big puffs of moisture pressed ahead into the heartland of Mother Russia. Above them the stars twinkled like a billion billion eyes looking down on the strange planet Earth, a world of so much violence and death. Rock wondered if it was the same out there. Were there worlds where people loved instead of hated, where they evolved instead of tearing each other and their planet apart? Somewhere, somewhere out there in the infinite reaches of space, there must be at least one civilization that had learned to quench its violent instincts and produce rational beings. Perhaps creatures like the Glowers.

  Suddenly an amber light sparked brilliantly to life directly in front of him. Radar Picks Up 3 Fighters Locking In With Missile Tracking Equipment. Instructions? Rock quickly typed in through the keyboard—Options?

  The computer didn’t hesitate this time. Impossible To Destroy Enemy With Onboard Equipment. Then it seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if unsure about questioning its controller and asked, Why Is This Fighter Being Attacked By Craft Of The Russian Air Command? Rockson gulped. He had lied to humans with some success in the past but a computer . . . He keyed in Top Secret. Unauthorized Information For Any But Code Red Clearance. Direct Orders of Premier Vassily. The computer again assimilated the data, its various command imperatives struggling furiously against one another, trying to sort things out. Rock looked at the radar screen. He could see the three small blips of the jets closing fast. They were a mere fifty miles away. Within a mile they would be within air-to-air missile range.

  His eyes snapped back as the computer screen flashed on again. Data Accepted. Evasion Mode Only Possible Method Of Nondestruction Of Craft. Rock instantly typed in a command, his fingers dancing across the keyboard. Carry Out Evade Mode. The jet dropped from the sky like a stone, falling almost straight toward the earth, the nose pointing at the hard mountains far below. Behind him, Rock could hear Archer gurgling softly. His own stomach wasn’t taking too kindly to the maneuvers. The MIG dropped for what seemed like an eternity until it at last leveled off a mere one hundred feet above the ground. Then it accelerated to nearly fifteen hundred miles per hour. Rock glanced out the cockpit window. He could see the vast Russian forests flying by below, mere blurs of gray. Every few seconds a reflection of some isolated village’s lights would glint up and then just as quickly be gone. Sonic booms shook the ground behind them, leaving a trail of broken windows and fallen branches. Rock glanced back at the radar screen. The three MIGs in pursuit were breaking out of formation, each flying off in a different direction, searching for him. It had worked. They couldn’t track the jet down so close to the ground, their radar unable to distinguish between the ground and moving piece of metal lost in the immensity of the solid earth below.

  Rock took the breather to check his wound. His back ached painfully, but the blood flow seemed to have stopped. He could see a small swollen wound in the right side of his stomach as well. The slug had passed right through him. All the better. He didn’t have to concern himself with taking it out. He keyed into the computer console. Medical Supplies? The computer immediately shot back with a long list of onboard medicines, bandages, drugs. Rock chose two—Coagulant and Antibiotic Injections. The memory took in the request, and then a small compartment swung open at the right side of the cockpit panel. A stainless steel tray containing two hypodermic needles filled with a thick, clear liquid whirred forward on rollers. Rockson took them out and emptied the load around the edges of the entry and exit wounds. Just as he finished injecting himself, he had the sudden paranoid thought that perhaps the computer was trying to poison him. But then grinned, realizing the absurdity of it. In a strange way one could trust machines: They wouldn’t double-deal or stab you in the back. Man’s best friend.

  They flew for hours, the world below the MIG totally indecipherable to anything but the computer—just blurs and terrain melting together, moving by too fast for human perception. Occasionally, as they approached a mountain range or a towering forest, the jet would rise sharply and then just as suddenly drop down again to the lowest possible altitude.

  Suddenly there was blue below them—flickering tips of waves and the glistening reflections of the galaxies of stars lapping at the top of the water’s surface. The ocean, Rock realized. They were out of Russia, off the continent entirely. America lay ahead. The Doomsday Warrior felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. He hadn’t slept for days. So much fighting and blood. At last his head leaned over onto his shoulder and he fell into a deep sleep. Archer’s loud stuttering snores mixed with the roar of the jet’s engines as they flew across thousands of miles of empty ocean.

  Rockson was in a field of lillies, tall and white. They moved slowly from side to side in a soft breeze. The sun was pure and yellow, sending down streams of soothing warmth. He heard a voice and turned—it was Kim, her golden hair falling softly around her silky shoulders. She rushed toward him and pressed her soft breasts against her chest. Together they dropped to the fertile earth and kissed softly. Robins and nightingales sang out sweet harmonies around them.

  “Oh Rock,” she whispered in his ear. “I love you so much.”

  “And I you,” the Doomsday Warrior replied, his heart bursting with passion. He felt his soul opening like the soil itself to receive her love.

  “Rock,” she said again. “Rock, Rock, Rock.” But the voice was growing louder, screaming in his ear until it hurt.

  He awoke with a start and shook his head a few times until he remembered where he was—in the MIG. The dream disappeared like a ripple across a pond, t
hough his heart ached to return to the fantasy. The computer screen was blinking, and an alarm was sounding over and over, shrill and frightening.

  Fuel Is Nearly Gone—Fuel Is Nearly Gone—Fuel Is— Rock typed in Can We Reach The United Soviet States?

  Destination Unclear. Possible To Reach Land. No Airfield Within Landing Possibility.

  Make Land, he keyed in, and the alarm shut instantly off. He looked out the cockpit’s curved glass. They were still above the ocean but close—close to home. He could feel it in his bones. Far off to the north the aurora borealis twisted in rainbow curtains of color, stretching off into myriad shades of blue and gold and violet. The magnetically excited light writhed in constantly shifting patterns of the most subtle gradation. But as the dawn sun broke behind them, the multi-colored waves slowly faded into the pale blue skies.

  Suddenly Rock saw land ahead—America. How long had they been away? Weeks—months? It seemed like forever. An endless procession of enemies trying to destroy him. But he had survived yet again. The gods were still on his side, perhaps on America’s side.

  The computer alarm went off again and the screen lit up.

  Fuel Remaining—Two Minutes. Ejection Process Beginning.

  Ejection Instructions? Rock typed in.

  Parachutes Below Front And Rear Seats. Push Button For Manual Release. Otherwise Ejection Will Occur Automatically At Moment Of Zero Fuel. The jet began slowly rising to three thousand feet, the minimum altitude for a jump.