Doomsday Warrior 07 - American Defiance (10 page)

“Don’t fire yet,” Rock yelled back to the galloping team as the first of the human jumpers floated down just a few hundred yards away. “They’re not firing, so let’s not start it. I don’t think these are Russians—somehow I just don’t think so.” The Freefighters relaxed slightly as they realized that at least they weren’t in an immediate gun battle—though God knew what the next few minutes would bring. They watched the descending wall of humans, clad in khaki and wide-brimmed hats, and hundreds of yards above them, braying and kicking as if their lives depended upon it, thirty camels, their long strong necks bobbing up and down, twisting from side to side as they kept wishing they weren’t seeing what they were seeing—the ground coming up at them at an alarming speed.

The first of the humans to land stood up, undid his chute harness, and then took off his wide brimmed Ranger’s hat and waved it to Rockson and his men. Detroit and Rock looked at each other with strange expressions as they approached the still-falling invasion force.

Rock pulled the reins of the ’brid tighter as he got to within about ten yards of the hat-waving chutist.

“G’day, matey!” the red-cheeked hale and hearty-looking fellow yelled up to Rock with a wide smile. “This be America, hey? Or ’ave we landed somewhere out in the bloody bush?”

“Well, this is America, but—” Rockson began, but whatever question he was about to pose was cut off as all ears heard the sudden wrenching screams of one of the camels. They turned to see the first of the animal parachuters fall back-end first right on the top of a large cactus. The eight-hundred-pound camel threw its ugly head back and spat out the loudest, most pain-filled howl that Rock had ever heard. The entire weight of the struggling camel shook the eight-foot cactus from its very roots in the hard ground, and the whole package fell over—quills, green vegetable skin, and pungent camel hide all somehow blending together in a cloud of dust.

“Bloody dickens, it is,” the first chutist said, throwing his hat down in disgust on the ground. “All these camels are just a pack of drongo’s, no hoper’s matey.” Shaking his fist and yelling at the screaming camel and the rest of the braying creatures as they fell from the sky like big mean furry meteors, landing half on and half off the cacti, he rushed forward to help his men extricate them.

Rockson and his men couldn’t help but allow their faces to slowly relax from a state of fighting readiness into smiles at first, and then loud belly laughs.

“This is the one time in my life I can truly say I wish I had a camera,” Detroit chuckled. The sight of all those camels, kicking their skinny legs like temper-tantrum-throwing infants as they slammed into the ground or landed atop the pricking cacti, was indeed awesome. Nature had fortunately created the camel to withstand just about anything that its desert terrain had to offer, so their thick hides prevented them from receiving mortal internal injuries. Still, their mangy fur was soaked with blood from the many little stab wounds. The moment they were released from the torturous vegetation, the camels began running in circles, shaking their immense humped backs, snapping their flat-toothed jaws at their masters with loud chomping sounds. It took nearly ten minutes for the entire scene to boil itself down into coherence. But at last all the camels were tethered to a wide thorn tree, and those few men who had injured themselves were being treated and bandaged.

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 with 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.”