Doomsday Warrior 09 - America’s Zero Hour

by Ryder Stacy

  “Don’t break radio silence,” Rockson ordered the tech, “I’ll take care of this. It’s a military matter. Confidential.”

  “Sir,” the man snapped, and tore off back to his post.

  Schecter fairly ran down the corridor, a most peculiar jerking, leaning sort of run for an old man. But he didn’t have regular legs. They had been half-blown-off by a blast of Nazi fire three months ago. But the injury had just propelled Schecter’s brilliance in a new direction—servomechanical limbs for paraplegics. He invented his own legs—a fantastic breakthrough in technology that had spelled hope to many Freefighters crippled by the damned endless war with the Sov occupation forces.

  Rockson turned the corner and saw Schecter barreling toward him yelling “Out of the way, out of the way” like a schoolboy on a skateboard. They entered the conference room together.

  Rath was already seated, Shannon at his side. He looked up from his papers, his eyes magnified behind his strong pince-nez reading glasses, the nostrils in his large nose flared, and he frowned as a way of greeting. Rockson didn’t bother to say hello, instead, nodding to Shannon when she looked up, he slid a chair out for Dr. Schecter who seemed to be having a bit of difficulty with the maneuver.

  “Don’t help me,” Schecter insisted, “Just a little adjustment problem. I’ve solved walking and running—but the damned servomechanism doesn’t want to shuffle, which is what you have to do with your feet to pull your own chair out.” With those words Schecter opened his shirt and revealed a control panel on his belt buckle with more buttons on it than a pocket calculator. He began pressing in instructions with his fingers, and his legs kind of vibrated his feet back. He put the chair in, slid it out from the table again. Then his legs sort of hummed over to the side, shuffled against the chair, and his knees bent, slowly and perfectly lowering him into the seat. Then a dozen shuffling movements of his electrofeet slid the chair forward to the table.

  Dr. Schecter smiled broadly, “See?”

  “Can we begin?” Rath said. “Although you didn’t notify me, Rockson, I was told of your secret message from Vassily. That’s what I want to discuss at this meeting.” Rockson found the remark rather offensive, but let it go.

  “Heck,” said Schecter, looking pleased. “The legs will remember those instructions now whenever I want to sit at a table like this. The memory chips—”

  “The meeting, the meeting!” Rath half-snarled. He looked back at Rockson. “It would certainly appear from the contents of this message that Vassily expects you to agree to an alliance with his forces versus Killov. Only the council can vote on such a thing. It’s written in our city’s very Constitution. Are you holding yourself above the politics of the citizens of this greatest and freest of America’s hidden cities?”

  “It is a military matter, Rath—you know that. We might have to coordinate with the Red Army to fight the worse enemy—Killov and his KGB. That battle is not yet over. Killov has escaped.”

  Rath was unimpressed. “Rockson, you call it a military matter, but I call it a political move. You cannot act without a debate in the council, and I will oppose you tooth and nail.”

  Rockson replied, “There was a vote from the council. Rath, before I left for Fort Minsk I was given the authority, in advance, to carry out any course of action I chose to make, to win the damned battle against Killov. The council agreed with me that it was a military matter. We’ve already carried out our part. Vassily is now going to carry out his. All the nuclear weapons in America are to be taken away. It’s a tremendous victory.”

  “All the nukes, except five,” Rath said icily. “It’s all a trick—that’s what I think. A plot between Premier Vassily and Colonel Killov to get us. Somehow, someway—to get us, and destroy us.”

  Rockson looked hard at Rath. The man had been invaluable, if a bit gloomy, until the past few months. Now he seemed to have gone off his rocker. Rockson had no more time for the man’s personal problems. No one had time anymore for bullshit. He said as much.

  Rath grabbed the letter and put on his pince-nez reading glasses. He read it and tossed it back on the table. “Democracy is being usurped by the military, just as I said—Rockson tried to hush this up. I know the intent behind it.”

  “I hardly think that’s the case,” Dr. Schecter said as he lit up his pipe. He had taken to smoking again lately. “I’ve seen Rockson work with the council. He has great respect for them and for the source of their power—the people. As I remember, Rock was given authority at the military convention of all the Freefighting cities to make his own determination about any link-up with the Red Army. Such a council, according to our bylaws, would supersede any Century City council.”

  “Technically correct,” Rath said, looking displeased. “But that convention body is dissolved. Our city’s council must be the source of all decisions again.”

  Rockson sat down again, exhaled some breath, and said, “Regardless of the ‘technicalities,’ a decision has to be made now. I propose to contact Vassily from a safe location some distance away from Century City. Rath, how about it?—for the sake of the freedom you cherish . . .”

  Shannon put her hand on Rath’s arm as he was about to respond hastily. “Dr. Rath,” she said, “for me. Please, this once, go along with Rockson.”

  The old man seemed visibly moved by her plea. After a moment, he exhaled a breath and nodded.

  Dr. Schecter said, “Now that it’s settled . . . Rockson, is the relay station a hundred miles north of here—the one you previously contacted Vassily from—still in operation?”

  “I don’t know. We ripped it up a bit.” Rock raised an eyebrow. “If Intel Division could supply us that information . . .”

  Rath took a small looseleaf notebook from his suit jacket, and started thumbing through it. Rock had seen the book before. It was Rath’s little dictionary containing constantly updated information from spies, mountainmen, and Russian radio broadcasts deciphered from their complex codes. The intel chief looked up when he found what he was looking for. “It’s out of operation. The Reds moved everything out. But there is a radio base about fifty miles further on.” He smiled triumphantly. “At least you see that I am up on my job, even if you and I don’t always have smooth sailing.”

  “Sure,” Rock said, trying to dredge up a smile. “Well, that’s still on the way to Idaho, where the missiles were stolen from. Perhaps we could pick up the trail there. Where exactly is it?”

  “Coordinates K-23 on our Soviet field map,” Rath said dryly.

  “Yes, K-23. If I radio Vassily from there, it would save time, and not give away Century City. Time is of the essence. I know Killov—he will not hesitate to use those weapons as soon as he can. And I think the Rockies are going to be their target. There’ll be nothing left.”

  “Killov’s position makes him doubly desperate,” Shannon added. “He has lost everything. Just a few supporters among KGB sympathizing officers in Siberia and the men that helped him steal the cruise missiles remain of all his huge KGB force.”

  “Let’s get cracking,” said the Doomsday Warrior. “I have a hunch—call it mutant’s premonition—that Killov is heading way into the north. Perhaps he wants to be in range of Vassily as well as us. We have quite a job ahead of us. I’m glad we’re at it united.”

  Working as a team, Shannon, Rath, Schecter, and Rockson took out the maps and discussed the route to the K-23 radio station and beyond. The Doomsday Warrior’s mood was infinitely better than just moments before. Americans, working together for the common goal, Rockson knew, had been the strongest force for freedom in history. It was only when they were divided, discordant, that they were ever beaten.

  Rockson went to his room and meditated. It always helped in tough decisions. His mind cleared, he took pencil and pad up and started the list of men he would need.

  Rockson wanted to bring the smallest force possible with him, knowing that a large team couldn’t hope to catch up to Killov. A small, highly trained, tough group, men who cou
ld endure bitter cold and possibly long periods without shelter or food. Men who would be psychologically as well as physically fit for the rigors ahead. Men, in other words, ready to die.

  Of course Detroit Green, the black Freefighter with the best grenade-throwing arm in the city. Archer, with his crossbow and myriad types of arrows, for an arrow could do what a bullet could—with a whisper. Chen, the martial arts master. The Chinese man with pencil-thin drooping moustache could move silently as a cat, could take out ten men in a flash. McCaughlin, with his great strength, nearly as great as Archer’s. He tended to slow things slightly, but he had a knack for keeping up morale that more than made up for it. That would be critical. Besides, McCaughlin could make a palatable meal out of anything, from snake tails to thorn bushes.

  But he needed more. Rock expected to go on from K-23, to follow Killov to the North Pole itself if that was where he was heading. He went down to the computer room which had been one of the first sections repaired after the near destruction of Century City. Five of the ten computer terminals in the far end of the room, filled with banks of futuristic machines and blinking lights, were fully repaired. Rockson went to the console he preferred to use—the last one over by the wall—and accessed into the central files with his personal I.D. number and code, “Badger.”

  He programmed in the qualities he was looking for—physical strength, experience in cold terrains, fighting ability. And special qualifications: He needed a linguist, to deal with whatever groups inhabited the area—and someone who knew how the hell to defuse an atomic missile, if they ever found them. The computer screen lit up with the names:

  PEDERSEN, NEIL. Linguistics expert, first rank. Physical rating 9.5. Psych index 9. Rockson knew the young, nearly bald, stocky man. High intelligence, endurance, plus he got along well with Chen, who was one of his few buddies. Pedersen had translated seven Post-Nuke-war microlanguages—and had written a treatise on them.

  FARRELL, TIMOTHY. Tim was a lanky, tall blond man, and, Rock knew, a favorite of the young ladies of Century City. He was also a marksman, trained in veterinary medicine, having studied the animal sciences—plus he was always begging Rockson to take him on a mission. He was about to get his wish now—in frozen spades! Farrell, though, according to the file displayed on the screen, had one drawback. He and Detroit had had a fight once, over some stupid remarks passed in a drinking party one New Year’s Eve. But he knew Detroit was cooled-out enough to handle it.

  ROBINSON, MICHAEL, AKA “CHET.” The man was an anthropologist, an authority on North American tribes, and on an expedition like this he would be invaluable. Rockson, in his many forays out into the cruel Post-Nuke America, had found that it was. peopled by often incomprehensible forms of society, each with their own customs and ways of surviving. And the misinterpretation of even one of their customs could mean death. Robinson was a feisty, red-bearded, salt-of-the-earth type. And the file said he was quite a mountaineer. The man was a good ten years older than any of the others—but he had recently been checked out as being in perfect health, Rock saw as the man’s medical chart rolled into view. He’d do.

  The last name the computer came up with was Reston. Reston would have been great, they had worked together before. The problem was, he had accumulated too much radiation exposure in the last mission. The man was a fighter, the best. But the invisible enemy that stalked the land—the radioactive particles of sand, the deadly pockets of radioactive gases that periodically were released from the upper atmosphere—they had made the man a near invalid, his immune system in shatters, always coughing, gums bleeding. Someone should have put his file in the Inactive Section. Rockson did it himself, feeling like a heel, but knowing the man would be dead within weeks if he took any more outside exposure. His fighting days were over.

  Rockson called the entire team together in the conference room on C level and explained the mission. He told them that they were all volunteers. They could decline. None did so.

  “Chen, I assign you and McCaughlin—you both seem to have a handle on the supply aspect of our plan—to quartermaster for us,” Rockson said. “I want a detailed list of what we need sent to the quartermaster’s office on D-3 level, and a duplicate for me.”

  “I had to open my big mouth,” said big McCaughlin. “I hate lists and paperwork.”

  “The job’s not complete until the paperwork is done,” laughed Detroit, his smile beaming. He was glad to be going out again.

  “And you, Detroit, I want you to make sure we have all the medical supplies we need. Work it out with Doc Elston—I hear you’re quite friendly with her since she reattached your right arm in microsurgery a few months back.”

  Detroit’s smile vanished. “And, pray tell, what might you be doing while we all work?”

  Rock said, “There’s plenty for me to do to get ready. I don’t like the idea of using the ’brids as transportation. I want to check down in Veterinary Section, see if any back-bred dogs can be brought along. They’re intelligent animals; I’d like to have some dog sleds made up if there are any suitable dogs down there. Some of Dr. Schecter’s boys might be able to modify some carts, weld on skids. It’s winter out there . . .”

  Detroit said, “Rock I don’t know how to tell you this—but the dogs are all dead. That section of the city collapsed, killing them all, when Century City was bombed.”

  “Shit,” Rock uttered, “I had high hopes for the breeding program. Then it has to be horses. We can’t take half-track vehicles, we’d run out of fuel—but, the ’brids can eat the winter vegetation as long as there is any—even evergreen boughs, if they’re mashed up right. I’ve got to get maps microstated for the mission. As I told you, I don’t know where we’ll wind up, so we’re taking along maps for every piece of land north of here.”

  Rockson assigned tasks to all the men—getting the ’brids, the weaponry from the arsenal, and so on. He went down to the map room. He was appalled that many areas of Canada had no current maps. He was given maps that hadn’t been updated in a hundred years.

  Rockson allowed some time for the men to say good-bye to their loved ones. Then they met for final check-out at the clothing supply room. “Men, each of you take your size parkas. Sorry, only one color—white. For camouflage. The jackets are reversible, though. If we want to keep track of each other, we wear the red side out. Make sure you have everything. Once we get going, there’s no stopping for winter long johns.” That brought a laugh.

  They loaded up the six pack-’brids with all the equipment of every variety that Century City had gathered in a hundred years: sweaters, insulated down parkas, Arctic boots, snow-blindness goggles—even a few harpoons for ice fishing. They staggered away under the overstuffed packs on their backs and in their arms, out to the waiting hybrids at the wide exit ramp.

  It was five-thirty A.M. They hadn’t slept that night, and yet each man was eager and alert. Rock had each man double-check his weapons. Each had a Liberator rifle, twenty banana-clips for it; a .12-gauge shotpistol and a dozen snap-clips; and two knives—one for throwing, another for hand-to-hand combat. In addition, Chen had his belt of star-knives, some explosive-tipped. Detroit carried twin bandoliers of grenades—fifteen in all. Some were incendiaries. Archer wore a quiver of arrows—some highly specialized killers—over his shoulder, and had a crossbow tied to his huge saddle. Rock had the standard equipment—rifle, shotpistol, two knives. But his rifle was special. It was a laser-target-scoped beauty with an electro-engraving of Daniel Boone’s likeness on the stock.

  Four

  At the first light of dawn, Rockson and his men mounted up in the open mouth of the northwest exit of the underground bastion. One by one they rode out into the purple sunrise. As the stars winked out like dying lightbulbs and the sun rose from its nightbed throwing its red cape off onto the snows of the Colorado peaks, the team descended into the wood valley. By the time they traversed the vast woodlands, Rock knew, it would be night again. The days of November were short, even at this latitude. He shudd
ered to think of the far north in the winter. In just a few weeks there would be no daylight at all where they just might wind up—at the Arctic Circle. Black days.

  Rockson rode Snorter, a hybrid he had used as a mount for many years now. The creature was immensely strong and heavily pelted—the result of generations of breeding of wild mustangs affected by radiation exposure. Like Rockson, the horse was a mutation, Mutaneous equinus, better equipped for the Post-Nuke world than any horse that had ever lived.

  The ’brids like Snorter and the other mounts that Rockson’s men rode truly lived only when they ran. Their massive sinewy legs churned away like steam engines, as their mouths, gaping wide, sucked in oxygen to fuel their bodies. The attack team rode along in perfect unison at full gallop, each man leaning far ahead around the neck of his ’brid to cut down the wind. Even the Doomsday Warrior had a smile on his face as they raced across the purplish-lit land.

  The winter had been slow in starting, fall drifting along apparently endlessly, the gift of warm desert winds coming up from Arizona. The aspens were masses of yellow that fell like confetti in the sudden gusts of wind, the fresh air so warm that you had to leave your flak jacket across the back of your saddle and you were never sweaty in your tee shirt. But then the wind shifted. The temperature dropped fifty degrees in fifteen minutes. Rock’s ’brid whinnied in displeasure as the warm breezes became sprinkles of snow thrown by the wind as if some huge fist had pitched the flakes directly into the ’brid’s face. The young birch trees bent over, their leaves falling in storms of color—red, orange, yellow. Men that just moments before had been in their tee shirts now had their winter parkas zipped up tight and their heads down. The snow didn’t last, mostly it was wind and a few flurries, but a light frost fell on the dark green grass, a silent blanket of white, quickly covering it. They rode on, thinking private thoughts . . .