by Ryder Stacy
The flush-faced fellow who had first waved to Rockson walked quickly back over to the patiently waiting force of the Freefighters.
“Ah, but this must be a strange sight for your eyes to behold, mateys. Am I bloody wrong or right?” He laughed with such childlike abandon that the rest of the Freefighters couldn’t help but join in.
“Allow me to make my formal greetings.” He snapped rigidly to attention and saluted Rockson in the English style with the palm facing nearly upward. “Lieutenant Boyd from Down Under. Aussieland—Australia to you yanks. We took quite a walkabout to get to this bloody bush, I’ll tell you that, chum.”
“Ted Rockson,” Rock said, returning the salute. “And why, if I may be so bold, are you here?” He lifted an eyebrow.
“You may be so bold, chum. We of the Free Fighting Aussie Forces have rid our homeland, every bloody billabong, of the Russian bludgers. And in the spirit of international freedom and remembering the ol’ days when the U.S. and Australia was close mates—we all volunteered to come over here and help you boys out.” The Rock team seemed stunned by the news and stood there, mouths agape. Archer’s face looked like a piece of raw pizza dough left hanging off the side of a table as his jaw fell lower and lower, so that his tongue hung out. He had never seen a camel before, not even in any of the picture books he liked to look at in Century City. The huge whining double-backed animals seemed to both fascinate and repulse him. He reached out a hand toward one of the snarling beasts, which moved its neck with the speed of a snake and bit the near-mute square on the back of the hand, pulling away just as quickly. Archer yelped and yanked the hand back, wiping off the slime deposited from the thing’s mouth and checked to see if its teeth had broken skin.
“Oh, stay away from these loveys, chums,” Lieutenant Boyd said, slapping the camel in the side of the face so that it jerked its whole body in the opposite direction. “They’re the meanest bloody beasts that God ever created in all his mysterious wisdom. At any rate,” the Aussie leader went on, turning back to Rockson, “my men are bivouacked, the camels are calmed. How may we be of service? We wish to join in the ol’ blood and guts over here.” He leaned close to Rock’s ’brid, resting his wide strong arms on the animal’s side and said with a confiding expression, “We figured you cobbers were in a bit of a wicket, hey what?”
“So you flew all the way from Australia in the transport?” Rock asked, pointing off in the direction the huge Soyuz II had flown.
“Bloody right,” the Aussie lieutenant said proudly, slamming his hand against Rock’s ’brid so that the animal nearly reared. “With the Reds or the “poofs” as we call them down under, kicked right back of Bourke, they left in kind of a hurry.” He laughed again, joined in by some of his fellow Australians who had gathered around him. They were all dressed in the same outfit from head to toe—ankle-high laced brown boots, khaki shorts and short-sleeved shirts, red bandannas around their necks tied in some sort of complex knot, and the Ranger hats, squeezed at the top and worn so the ridge faced forward, with ostrich feathers around the bottoms. Around their waists were huge nickel-plated .45’s stuck in long leather holsters and around their necks were some sort of V-shaped weapons in zipped canvas pouches. “So when they departed, they left a lot of swag behind. When we found some of these big ol’ transports here—well, we all figured what the bloody hell, let’s do something good with ’em—not just be a bunch of groggy hungers and sit around on our rolls. All the mates here volunteered to join the Australian/American Freedom Brigade. And low and behold—here we are.” The Australians raised their hands in salute to Rock and his men, and again broke into cheek-to-cheek smiles. They appeared to the battle-hardened, dirt-coated American Freefighters like some sort of cross between the Boy Scouts and a parody of the British Soldiers of the ancient Imperial days of the Empire when Britain had ruled the world. Yet all the Freefighters felt an immediate affection for the enthusiastic Aussies. There was something infectious in their humor. It was as if the entire world was a big joke, even death. There was a youthfulness, an innate courage in the men that the Americans couldn’t help but be drawn to.
“Well, sorry we don’t have a parade or a band,” Rock said with a grin, “to welcome you more officially to our great land.”
“Oh, no bloody need for that,” Lieutenant Boyd said, waving his hand in the negative. “But we did bring our own refreshments for celebration—didn’t we, boys? Get the Foster.” The Australians hooted and hollered at this command, and several of them rushed over to one of the camels which had already been loaded up with cases of supplies. They pulled open the top of one of the wooden boxes and grabbed can after can, throwing them down to the waiting men below. Boyd took several of the cans and offered them to Rockson and his men.
“Here you go, mates—all the official stuff done the Aussie way. Have a tinny—it’s Foster’s—gives us the nutrition, courage, and stupidity to fight. Ay, mates?” The Aussies held up their cans, pulled the pop tops and chugged them on down.
The Century City Freefighters had a policy of never drinking while in the field. What man in his right mind would even want to? The dangers were so unending that to be even slightly out of control of mental focus was equivalent to suicide.
“I don’t think so,” Rock said, shaking his head at the Aussie, whose face began to fall.
“Rock,” Detroit whispered in the Doomsday Warrior’s ear. “Remember all our lectures from the anthropologists back in Century City about never insulting a strange race’s customs. You never know what people will do if they feel offended. We could each take a sip—you know, like smoking the peace pipe.”
Rock looked over at the Australian force, which was beginning to look decidedly depressed that their beer ritual had been denied.
“Sure,” the Doomsday Warrior said with a laugh, reaching out for the proffered beer in Lieutenant Boyd’s hand. “We’d all be delighted to share a sip of your native brew with you.” He leaned back atop his ’brid and took a big gulp. A smile appeared on Rock’s face like a crescent moon suddenly floating from behind a cloud. “Hey—this stuffs great. That’s the best damned beer I’ve ever drunk.” The Australians cheered. Rockson had made friends for life.
When the Freefighters had each had their own can and everyone was looking markedly relaxed, Boyd looked up at Rock and asked, “So what is the situation, mate? You all off to be doing a bit of Red bashing, hey?”
“Something like that,” Rockson said, crushing the can with his palm against the ’brid’s saddle and putting it in his saddlebag as a souvenir. He rarely collected things on his journeys, unless they were of particular scientific interest—but this—this would have to go in the Century City Museum.
“Well, how’s about we join up with you? All my men are killers trained to the highest degree. We may look like a bunch of lollywoggers to you mates—but we ain’t no dills, we’re ’ockers ready to knock some bloody squatter poofs right the hell to the outback.”
“I can’t do it—I’m sorry,” Rockson said, looking squarely into the eyes of the Aussie commander. “I’m not insulting you, and believe me, I’m sure I speak for every man here when I say we’re all deeply moved by your volunteering to come over here. But we’re on the highest priority mission and haven’t got time to waste with teaching newcomers the tricks of the trade. Besides, we’re moving fast. I don’t know how well your camels would do where we’re going.”
“Well, not meaning to insult your mules over there—but I would rather imagine our ‘bitebacks’ could give your stubby creatures a run for their money.” Boyd looked quite satisfied with that statement, and stood a few feet from Rock, resting his arm against one of the still-whining camels.
Rockson searched his mind for excuses that would sound reasonable. “We’re probably going to take on a whole goddamned Red Fortress—you chaps are just carrying .45’s.”
“Not armed, are we?” Lieutenant Boyd said indignantly, his tanned ruddy face deepening to a flush. The Aussie reached over w
ith his right hand and unzipped the carrying bag on his chest. He extracted a V-shaped object made of metal and held it up. “It was these blokes here what kicked the Russkie arse right outta Down Under.”
“What the hell is that?” Detroit asked, pointing at what looked like nothing more than a piece of bent metal.”
“This ’ere’s a Boomer—boomerang to you American mates.”
“Yeah, I’ve read about them,” Chen piped up. “Works like the star-knives—spinning their way around. Used to use ’em for hunting, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Can do a lot of things, I’ll be telling you,” the Aussie commander grinned as he manipulated a small switch on the thing’s smooth shining side. The front edge lit up with a dull whooooosh, and what looked like a tiny plastic window appeared along the front of the V, glowing a luminous blue.
“Lasers,” Rock whispered as he watched in amazement.
“Yes, lasers, chum,” Boyd said, fitting his hand around one end. “It’s an old hunting tool. The boongs—Aborigines to you—invented ’em thousands of years ago. We just added a little technology—and we ’ad ourself a bloody knocker the poofs couldn’t match.” He hefted it in one hand, slapping it into the palm of the other. “It’s small, light, deadly. Here—want a demo?”
“Sure,” Rock said, “but at night?”
“The bloody ripper is filled to overflow with superchips. It can see at night, can . . . ah, but a picture is worth a thousand tongues of lingo, ain’t it now, Mr. Freefighter?” Lieutenant Boyd pulled his hand holding the boomerang back like a baseball pitcher, and then with a low whistle the Boomer was flying through the air, spinning like a helicopter rotor. It traveled a good two hundred feet, altering its course slightly to zero-in on the target that Boyd had sighted up just before he threw it. The two-foot-long V of computerized alloy steel sliced dead center through a purple cactus, cutting it in two. The top seven feet toppled over like an old tree struck by lightning, slamming into the sand. The boomerang sailed effortlessly on, and then suddenly changed angle and came tearing back as fast as it had charged forward.
“Hey, Lieutenant Boyd,” Detroit said, looking a little nervously at the approaching whirling blade, “don’t you think we’d better take cover before it—” But the instant before it reached Boyd’s outstretched arm, the lasers went dead and the thing plopped down in his hand as if the engine had been shut off.
“And it can do so much more, can’t you, little nipper?” Boyd said, cradling the thing as he eased it back into its pouch. “Well, satisfied we can be of assist, guys? We ain’t no bloody wowsers or surfies now—but the real milko. And with these little lollies—the Reds are gonna be right out in the dunny scratching their dinky-dis.”
“I think I get the drift of what you’re saying,” Rockson mumbled as Archer stared on, scratching his huge head as if he were listening to Martian. “But as impressive as these boomerangs of yours are, I’m afraid our mission is of such ultimate importance that I just can’t risk it. If it was anything else, perhaps I’d bring you, but—”
“Ah, shove it, matey,” Lieutenant Boyd said, crumpling up his can of Foster in one hand and throwing it to the ground in an angry gesture. “What the ’ell do we care that we’ve flown 18,000 miles, nearly got shot out of the bloody sky a ’alf dozen times, and parachutes ourselves right into a sunbaked billabong where the bloody Yankee cacti are ripping our butts into pillow stuffing—and then the bloody head Yank tells us we ain’t wanted and can just head on home again—camels and all. This bloody country is not only not a nice place to live, it’s not even a nice bloody place to visit.” With that, Lieutenant Boyd and his men retreated, holding their cans of beer high, and began singing patriotic Australian songs of resistance on the far side of their angry howling camels.
Nine
“Are they still following us?” Rockson whispered to Detroit, who rode several yards away on his chestnut brown ’brid.
“Trailing us like a snar-lizard stalks a deer,” the black Freefighter replied, swinging his head back around. “That Lieutenant Boyd is about thirty yards behind McCaughlin and the kitchen ’brids. The whole Aussie crew is just piled up on top of their camels there, keeping a perfect pace.”
Rockson couldn’t resist turning, even though he didn’t want Boyd to catch him looking at them, didn’t want the man to think that the Doomsday Warrior was even taking notice of them. But it was hard not to look—not with thirty camels all trying to bite their riders, the camel in front of them, or the camel behind in no particular order. They were piled high with crates of food and weapons—and the amber ale—and were all swaying from side to side with their mountainous backs threatening to send their cargo flying at any moment with an extra-hard shift of weight. Their riders whipped at them with short sticks and screamed out bloody murder, using every curse that thirty Australians had picked up over their combined nine hundred and thirty seven years of life. It was as if a continuous argument was going on between human and animal about just who was running the show, each trying to outshout the other. Why anyone would want to ride the foul-smelling awkward creatures in the first place was beyond Rockson.
“Give me an old flea-bitten hybrid any day of the week,” he grinned at Detroit, who was staring straight ahead, his warrior eyes taking in every shadow, every dropping quill.
“Amen,” the sweating black Freefighter replied, not shifting his head. “But what the hell are you going to do about the Aussies? They could attract attention—all that noise and everything. I know they’re well-meaning and all, but . . .”
“I know,” Rockson said. “It was a noble gesture. I’m praying that their camels just won’t be able to keep up and they’ll drop behind. We’ll go all night—won’t stop until dawn—and if they’re still with us, we won’t stop at all.”
“Those lumbering things won’t be able to keep pace with these sweet mutant babies,” Detroit said, patting the head of his slowly accelerating hybrid horse. “Not a chance.”
But four hours later, the camels hadn’t fallen an inch behind. In fact, as they adapted to their new terrain and realized they weren’t going to be shoved out of any more planes, the huge ungainly beasts settled into stride and not only kept pace with the ’brids but seemed to get stronger with each passing hour.
But Rock suddenly had more pressing problems confronting him.
“I don’t like the looks of those clouds up ahead,” he said to Detroit, who rode lead alongside of the Doomsday Warrior.
“I been keeping these ol’ eyes on ’em too, Rock,” the bull of a black man replied. “They don’t look good. Have that mean twisted look of black rain.” Both men had their eyes fixed on a writhing mass of purple-black clouds about ten miles dead ahead. Clouds that moved like a pit of snakes, changing color and shape all the time and dropping down toward the land below. The Doomsday Warrior took out his binoculars and quickly sighted up. Up close, the mountainous clouds were even more terrifying, like black holes, sucking everything into them in whirling tornado winds and then spitting it back out again. The northern sky seemed to fill with the dark ocean of descending death as the air around them took on a translucent greenish tinge. The atmosphere around Rockson’s head suddenly crackled with static electricity and he felt a strange tingling sensation in the center of his stomach.
He threw his hand straight up and turned the ’brid sharply, nearly colliding with two of the Freefighters riding just behind him, and yelled out at the top of his lungs, “Acid Rain—dismount—deploy Magnasheets.” The Rock team had been through this before but some of the newer members of the Attack Force—Ashton and Douglas, especially—looked on in confusion, reining in their ’brids but not dismounting. Rockson ran over to them and pulled them right down from their saddles.
“Here, in the saddlebags, the metal sheets, get them out immediately!” There was no time for instructions or polite requests for action. They might have only minutes—or seconds. The Rock team—Chen, Archer, Detroit, McCaughlin—quickly unzipped the
thin but super-strong metal/plastic alloy, which was one of Shector’s more useful inventions, and attached them to thin fiberglass poles, building instant tents. The sides of the metal blankets could be attached to one another by Velcro edgings. Within three minutes, a large square tent, nearly forty feet in diameter and six feet high, had been erected.
“In, get the animals in first,” Rock screamed out to the Freefighters who were standing in front of the entrance, holding their ’brids.
“Rock, what about—” Chen pointed to the Aussies and their camels, who had pulled to a stop about forty yards off and were just staring at the whole mad scene with wide grins, as if the Yanks had gone a little bonkers from all the travel.
“Oh shit—I forgot about those crazy bastards,” Rockson spat, feeling one of the rare headaches he got beginning to slam into his brain like a karate chop. He waved his hand frantically, signaling for the Aussies to come forward.
“Get over here, you limey maniacs,” Rock yelled out, cupping his hands together and screaming at the top of his lungs. Lieutenant Boyd tapped his guide stick against his Biteback’s neck and it started instantly forward, followed by the rest of the motley crew.
“Taking a bit of an afternoon snooze are we?” Boyd asked, looking down at Rockson from high atop the mangy brown beast. “By the way, just for your files, Cap’,” Boyd added, “limey’s are English—we’re Aussies—and you’re the Yanks. There—everyone knows just ’oo he is, don’t we now?”
