Doomsday Warrior 07 - American Defiance (18 page)

“You don’t talk much, do you, fellow?” Rock laughed, trying once again to strike up a conversation.

“When something to say—talk,” the man replied coolly and glanced over at Rockson as if challenging him.

“Look, I don’t know if you’re in a bad mood, or if it’s something you ate, but since we’re going to be riding together for the next forty-eight hours, it might be nice—to know who you’re fighting alongside.”

“Indians always in a bad mood,” the barebacked rider said, and then broke into a wide smile, extending his hand for Rockson to shake. “Sorry, Rockson,” Floating Hawk said, “I have my way and sometimes I forget how stern and cold I appear. But I’m glad to meet you. You are a great warrior.”

“And I suspect you too are a warrior,” Rockson replied, seeing the power in the Indian’s eyes.

“Yes, I have killed,” Floating Hawk said softly, as he sat up and crossed both hands over his chest, letting the reins fall to the top of his ’brid’s neck. “Killing is easy—it is making peace that no one ever seems able to do. Perhaps this is why I appear so dissatisfied. I have been fighting for thirty years now. My tribe, the Northern Hills Apache, were wiped out when I was a child and I wandered for many years. Here I have stayed, fighting with your people. But I am not of them. I am Indian—and
my
people are dead. I am a red man in a white man’s world and when I die, the last of my tribe, which lasted a thousand years, will vanish.”

Again there was silence. This time there was nothing Rock could say. They rode for hours, Rockson marveling at the way Floating Hawk could ride full speed without a saddle, often without reins. His ’brid was so well-trained that he could lie back on it at full gallop and the creature would set perfect pace and course. The Indian seemed to know the land like the back of his hand, and took them into seemingly impassible woods—to the deer path running through the center; headed them toward a sheer rock wall that looked impossible to scale—only to guide them through a washed-out gully that snaked its way through the solid granite mountains. As much as Rockson had lived in the wild and prided himself on being one with the world around him, he could see quickly that he could take a few lessons from Floating Hawk. He seemed to know what was about to happen, what was ahead. He could smell a flooded stream or a pack of wild dogs just around the next bend and steer them out of danger. He could sense a Red spy drone approaching nearly a minute before even Rockson heard it, giving them plenty of time to head for cover in a grove of dogwood trees.

Everything Rockson had read about Indians of the past was true. They
were
the native Americans. Their relationship to the land and the creatures on it was like that of brothers, of a people that had lived harmoniously with the land for eons without harming it. It took the white man to do that, the Doomsday Warrior thought bitterly, feeling a twinge of hatred for his race, the whole damned technologically oriented society of twentieth-century America that had destroyed the world—that had burned and scalded and ripped the very land that had given him life, given him air, given him water. Rockson suddenly understood why the Indian might feel a deep resentment, even hatred for the Freefighters. First their ancestors had taken their land from them, then they had blown it to kingdom come. And now—now there were other white men who were even worse, more ruthless and cruel than the old had been. Another enemy to fight. Another one of countless battles his people had fought, knowing that never, whatever the outcome, would they ever have their land back, their lives the way they had once been. Rockson felt a deep compassion for Floating Hawk. He was a hero of the most tragic dimensions, fighting for a home that would never be his.

They rode for what seemed a thousand miles, though not a man, American or Australian, voiced one word of complaint. The mounts were growing tired and clumsy—one ’brid and two camels falling right down on their faces. Although they were able to get up again, Rock knew they couldn’t go on forever like this. But at last, after nearly forty hours of hard riding with only three one-hour stops, Floating Hawk held his hand up and the entire fighting force slowed to a crawl.

“We almost there,” the Indian said to Rockson. “Just over the next big hill—below is station. Must be careful now. Reds have guards out—stupid but nervous.” The Indian smiled for only the second time, as if to tell Rockson that in spite of his words he wished the Freefighter luck. The Indian held out his hand and shook Rockson’s with a vise-like grip. Then he turned and, without a word, rode off.

“Talkative bloody fellow, ain’t he,” Lieutenant Boyd said, riding his hissing camel up near Rockson. The camels and the ’brids seemed to have a natural animosity toward each other, and whenever one species got near the other, their riders had to keep close reins or the creatures would begin snapping at each other with their coarse grinding teeth. Boyd’s camel took a huge chomp toward Rock’s mount’s tail, but the Aussie snapped the end of the reins against the mangy beast’s ear and it pulled away instantly, turning all the way around and unleashing a shotglass-sized load of vile spit right into the Australian commander’s face.

“What is it with all the bloody animals of this world?” Boyd grimaced, wiping the dribbling spittle from his cheek. “Every damned one of them seems to have it out for us humans.”

“Maybe they’re pissed off at us because we blew up the world,” Rockson suggested by way of a hypothesis.

“Just for that little ol’ mistake,” Boyd grinned. “Come on now, boy,” he said loudly, leaning over and addressing the camel right in its flopping ear. “Let bygones be bygones, you hear me?” The camel spat again.

Rockson had the men bivouac in a wide cave they found partially covered with broken branches. They led the mounts inside and then covered it up again as Rockson took off on his own to scout the station. He rolled around in a patch of wet grass for a minute, getting green coloration on his khaki uniform, and then tied a small leafy branch over his face and head. He knew he looked ridiculous—but he wasn’t entering a beauty contest. Hopefully, the crude camouflage would work.

Rock edged toward the rise overlooking Nebraska Station with his double edged, fourteen-inch hunting knife in his right hand. If any killing was to be done, it would have to be silent—or all hell would break loose. The last few feet he went on his stomach, and lifted his head just enough so he could survey the site. No one—the nearly flat surface of the weed- and grass-covered hilltop was devoid of a single guard. Rockson squirmed the thirty or so feet across to the far edge and glanced over again carefully. The station—an old-time American one with wooden waiting benches, large square windows, and a ticket-seller’s window—had been kept much as it was in the last century. The Russians apparently enjoyed the antique touches of Americana as much as Americans once had. Russian officers strutted back and forth on the blacktop platform, slapping their gloves in their hands impatiently. It must be the main station for this whole section of the country, Rock thought, looking down at over fifty high-ranking Army officers. Killov had apparently overlooked this particular target, probably not thinking it of enough military value to send much-needed KGB troops. And the officers were trying to get the hell out of here by way of the train—maybe reach Washington and Zhabnov—and safety. Fat chance, Rockson thought, a thin smile crossing his grass-stained face. ’Cause either the KGB or us is going to get you. They preened and fretted like self-important peacocks—all were officers of the upper stratum of the service—and they looked somehow comical, but then Rockson knew their imminent fate. He had seen enough. The station was much too well-guarded from below with machine-gun emplacements surrounding the waiting room, and even had a chopper standing by to chase off any small-scale rebel attack. No, they’d have to attack somewhere else. And as Wallace had said back in Jeffersonville, they couldn’t let on that they had even taken the goddamned train—or they’d be blockaded at the very next station. That was going to be the proverbial fly in the ointment.

Rock looked down at the tracks. He was able to see for nearly four miles, as the land was virtually flat. The train wasn’t in sight yet. But from the impatient pacing of the Red brass, it couldn’t be far off. The station would have radio communication. They’d have to move fast. He pulled back, as flat as he’d come forward, edging his way all the way back down the hill in a spider-like crawl until he was once again behind sheltering wide canopied trees. He ran as fast as his mutant legs would carry him back to the cavern and got the men out and mounted instantly.

“That fucking train will be here any minute, men,” he yelled out, addressing them as they sat mounted on their whinnying and snorting steeds. “We’ve got to move fast. Whatever planning we do is going to be on the run. We’ll head east five miles or so—completely out of sight or signal of the station—and make our move.” Though for the life of him he didn’t know what that would be, Rockson realized as he whipped Snorter lightly on both sides.

The big ’brid took off like a race horse breaking from the gate. As they rode, Rockson heard another hybrid pulling up alongside him. It was Reston, the old timer Rockson had selected to come with the expedition for his knowledge of the wilds of Montana and Wyoming. The stubbly face spat out a wad of black chewing tobacco between their two galloping steeds, and he yelled over to Rockson through missing teeth, “I knowed you ain’t had much use for me up there in the wilds. That’s okay. Whatever I got—when it’s needed—I give it. So I figure you might be needin’ some help right about now.”

“And what would I be needing help with?” Rock grinned.

“Be needin’ help with figuring out how the hell to stop that little ol’ railroad train.”

“Well, you read my mind on that one,” Rock said. “I was thinking maybe a roadblock, some trees cut onto the tracks—only that would give them time to signal. Somehow we’ve got to take the train without giving them a chance to give warning by telegraph or radio.”

“Exactly,” Reston grinned. “Only I knows a different way. See, I used to ride one of them things years ago. Before I ever came to Century City, I was assistant engineer on one of the lines the Reds had running out along the East Coast. Didn’t like working for ’em too much. It was a job—I got my pay. Till they shot the engineer for being a ‘subversive.’ Hell, they found him with a goddamned book of American history. So, that’s when I left and headed out here. But I knows all about trains. Knows that they got what’s called a deadman’s throttle. The engineer’s got to keep his hand gripped around this here lever or else the train will automatically come to a stop. In case the engineer drops dead of something—so the train won’t just go faster and faster and crash right off in a ravine. So all you gotta do is get the engineer, not the whole damned train, to make it stop.” They galloped almost side by side, the two ’brids touching from time to time with the sides of their thick furred ribs.

“Far as communications goes, the Reds always have their whole Com Unit in the second car—right after the engine. They do it so the engineer can have instant access to weather reports ahead—and Freefighter attacks, too,” he added, laughing. “So, that’s about all I got to say. Help you any?”

“You better believe it,” Rockson said, already formulating a plan to get them. “Remind me to talk to you more often, will you?”

“My pleasure,” Reston said, throwing another wad of oily black tobacco into his brown stained mouth. And without another word, he turned his ’brid and headed back toward the rear of the American portion of the force.

By the time they reached what looked like a good site for an attack, a long curving section that the train would have to go through slowly, Rockson had it all mapped out from start to finish. If it went well—and if they were incredibly lucky—they were about to ride the rails—the first Americans to do so in a hundred years.

Fifteen

“I
feel like Jesse James,” Detroit said to Rockson as the Freefighting/Aussie force waited by the tracks, hidden behind trees.

“You look more like a cross between a pirate and a Mexican bandito,” McCaughlin laughed out from atop his ’brid several yards away, looking at the red bandanna around the black Freefighter’s head and his cross bandoliers of grenades.

“A bloody train robbery,” Lieutenant Boyd chuckled from high atop his camel, which was angrily biting at some ticks that had lodged in its right leg. “See, mates?” he said, twisting around in his square saddle that rested between the beast’s twin humps. “I promised you some action, some real bluey to write home about to your mums and pas and all your cryin’ loved ones.”

“That you did, that you did,” the beaming Aussie fighters echoed back.

“Time to break out the Foster’s now,” a loud voice exclaimed from the back of the pack.

“Now, now, me fellow ’ockers,” The Australian commander chided them, “we ain’t committed our heroics for the day, have we? After we take the train—then the amber hits the mucous membrane. But protect that Biteback what’s carrying the brew. Don’t let a thing happen to a hair on his bloody head.” They shunted the animal to the very back of the supply beasts, squeezing him in tightly between two others so they’d catch any stray bullets—not he.

Rock dismounted and touched his ’brid’s nose, the signal to remain motionless, which the mutant horse obediently did. The Doomsday Warrior jumped down a three-foot drop onto the gravel along the roadbed of the tracks. He started down the curving rails back toward Nebraska Station, miles off, but could see nothing. Dropping to his knees, Rock put his ear against the cool steel rail and listened. There—he could hear it, a distant rumbling but definitely heading this way. He jumped up just as a whistle blew dimly to the west and sprinted back up the incline.

“Well, say your prayers, if you got any,” Rockson said, looking around at the fighters, their eyes wide with adrenaline, weapons held high in their hands, ready to pour out death. “ ’Cause to be perfectly honest with all of you—I’m not exactly sure what’s going to happen. We have to have a lot of things fall our way for this to work.” He paused again and then said, “You all remember the plan right?”