Doomsday Warrior 07 - American Defiance (20 page)

Suddenly the impossible army was aboard the train, men charging in from every door, their weapons ready to create an ocean of blood—if that’s what the Reds wanted. Most of them didn’t even reach for their pistols, tools of the trade that these high rankers hadn’t had to pull for years. They rarely went out on the search-and-destroy missions. That was for underlings. Besides, they knew they would be ransomed—for surely that was what these bandits wanted—rubles to buy food for their stinking mules. But a few of the Red brass, perhaps seeing a chest full of medals or that eternal dream of every Russian—a mansion on the Volga—drew their service revolvers, sure that the rabble would flee at the sight of a Russian officer staring them down. They were leveled in their tracks, crashing backward onto the perfectly arranged tables with their little vases of flowers, their embroidered linens.

In every car the scene was the same—two or three of the officers resisting—and paying for it with their quickly terminated lives. Within a minute the Silver Bullet was firmly under the control of the Freefighters. Now all they had to do was figure out how to run the damned thing.

Sixteen

P
resident Zhabnov was in bed, fondling three preteen-aged girls his sex squads had picked out for him, when the first blasts came. He jumped from the bed, nearly squashing one of the drugged girls, and ran to the White House window. Explosions were going off everywhere, lighting up the capital’s sky with searing flashes. Paratroopers were descending from above by the thousands.

“We’re being attacked, sir,” a servant screamed, bursting through the door.

“I can see that, you idiot,” the Russian President bellowed in fear and rage. “Those Freefighters must be mad to think that they can take the Capital. I’ll—I’ll crucify every one of them.”

“Sir,” the servant said, his lower lip trembling as he was not quite sure he wanted to be the one to break the news. “It’s not Freefighters—it’s—it’s KGB forces. It’s coming over the radio—they must have taken the stations already. Colonel Killov himself is demanding that all Red Army officers throw down their weapons—or they’ll be destroyed. And—and—”

“Go on fool, tell me,” Zhabnov screamed, standing naked by the window, his fat hanging stomach lit as if by a strobe light from the constant bombardment outside.

“And—there’s a hundred thousand ruble reward for the man who brings you to him—alive.” Zhabnov paled, and put his hand against the wall to steady himself. It was impossible—Killov didn’t dare make a move against him. Why, the Grandfather would send over a strike that would destroy the Blackshirts once and for all. Surely the man was mad to think he had the slightest chance of success. But, mad or not, the blasts from bombs and artillery rained down on the Capital in a thunderstorm of death.

He ran to the phone and pressed the autodial for his command headquarters. The phone rang several times, and then a voice answered.

“KGB Command—who is this?” Zhabnov put his hand over the mouthpiece and, paling even further, slammed the phone back down on the receiver. There was no time. He saw it instantly. With him dead and Killov’s forces in control of the entire Red hierarchy, the country might never be regained. He had to flee. There would be another day, another battle. But it was of paramount importance that he—the figurehead of the government, the pinnacle of Red power—survive. Thus he justified his immediate flight from the city, leaving his forces without their top leader.

He threw on his clothes, which he had left lying at the foot of the bed, and ran down the stairs leaving everything else behind. On the main floor, another servant ran up, his eyes stretched wide in panic.

“Excellency, Excellency—they’re already landing on the front lawn.” Zhabnov jerked his head around and looked through the wide windows. Hundreds of elite commandos were floating down from the sky, landing right in his rose garden, trampling the precious petals into red paste. “They’ll pay,” he promised himself, tears filling his eyes at the sight of his garden thus destroyed. Every one of them would somehow know the full meaning of pain. But not today. Zhabnov turned with such speed that he nearly toppled over, sliding on the freshly waxed wooden floors. His bodyguards appeared from other rooms, forming a defensive circle around him, cut-off submachine guns in their hands.

The President ran toward the back of the White House without a word, praying they hadn’t landed there yet. He peeked tentatively through one of the back doors, and seeing no one, yanked it open and tore down the stairs. A small black jet helicopter sat on the lawn, the rotors already spinning. The pilot—who Zhabnov had fortuitously kept in the White House itself on twenty-four-hour alert—had also heard the blasts and started it up. With the circle of bodyguards surrounding him, the President dashed as fast as his fat legs could carry him the hundred feet to the whining chopper. Two Blackshirts suddenly appeared out of nowhere, raised their Sten guns, and released a hail of firepower. Four of Zhabnov’s ten Palace Guards crumpled to the ground, leaking their lifeblood from countless holes. But the rest of them turned and concentrated their own barrage on the KGB’ers who were slammed backward, becoming useless containers of bloody meat.

Zhabnov reached the chopper door and flung himself inside, scraping his arms and legs in the process. The bodyguards tried to climb in after him, but the obese man slammed the sliding door right on their hands, screaming out, “Go, man, get the hell out of here.” The pilot pulled the controls back and the craft shot up from the ground like a missile. Below, Zhabnov could see spits of flame from his guards’ weapons as the commando force closed in on them. They all fell in steaming heaps. Someday, Zhabnov vowed to himself—to alleviate the twinge of passing guilt he felt at having caused their deaths—he would build a monument to those brave men who had sacrificed themselves to save him. Someday.

The chopper flew low to the ground, heading immediately into unlit woods at the edge of the city. From the air they could see that Washington was under attack from every direction. The sky above was filled with transport planes and jet fighters, dropping a veritable army from the clouds. The entire city was lit with balls of fire—hundreds of brilliant red pops as the artillery units opened up on Red Army Command Centers. The President felt a sickness in his guts. Even though it had been taken from the Americans, he had come to like its wide avenues, its cherry blossoms, the sparkling Potomac. But he would return—of that he had no doubt. Back in Mother Russia there were a million troops—ten million, if need be—under Premier Vassily’s control who would be shipped over. The KGB madman had won the battle, but not the war.

The chopper weaved and zagged, the pilot making sure they weren’t being lined up in some KGB fighter plane’s gunsights. But with its lights out and flying just fifty feet off the ground, the black craft was unnoticed by the armada flying above them. Within minutes, they reached the hidden landing field where Zhabnov’s Soyuz Stratocruiser waited.

“Good, good,” he mumbled to himself, trying to calm down and keep his heart from exploding inside him in a burst of cholesterol-fattened blood. The plane was already lit up, the engines roaring. The men he had chosen to run the secret runway—with his plane the only one on the field—had been intelligent enough to prepare for takeoff, even without direct orders from him. He would take
them
with him. Such foresight should be rewarded.

The chopper set down just twenty yards away from the screaming engines of the Soyuz and Zhabnov was out within seconds, his loose shirt flapping over his protruding belly.

“Excellency,” the runway chief said, rushing over to him from a small glassed-in control shack. “The Blackshirts are—”

“I know, idiot,” the Russian President yelled back. “What the hell do you think I’m doing here at this hour of the night—inspecting the wheels?” He ran toward the steps of the jet and the rest of the field staff came crowding in after him, begging to be taken. Once actually up the metal stairs and in the craft, Zhabnov felt himself calming down for the first time. Maybe he would make it. He glanced down at the twelve men below who looked up with pleading tear-filled eyes, knowing that if he didn’t allow them aboard every one of them was a dead man. But Zhabnov was suddenly feeling magnanimous. Every one who helped in his escape deserved to be rewarded.

“Yes, yes, get aboard—but hurry, hurry,” he motioned, waving his hands impatiently. The door closed behind them and Zhabnov ran down the aisle of the large sleek aircraft and into the cockpit.

“Get this fucking thing off the ground and fast,” he screamed out. “Just get it up—get it up.”

The pilot, who had hastily checked off the fuel, oil, hydraulic pressure, and other mechanical workings of the plane, said “Just a few more seconds, sir. I’ve got to make sure—”

“Take off now, right now—unless you’re ready to die.”

“Yes sir, absolutely sir,” the pilot gulped. He dropped the checklist on the floor, set the flaps, and gunned the engine. The super-modern jet, equipped with the most advanced Russian computerized technology, roared down the field like a bird on fire just as a fleet of armored cars came roaring down the dirt road alongside. They opened up with everything they had—but to no avail. The jet lifted up and tore into the sky, disappearing within seconds into the dark clouds.

“It’s our asses now,” Major Shelinsky whispered to his second-in-command as they saw the flash of jet fire vanish far above. “Killov will know we allowed the pig to escape.” He slumped down in the plastic seat of his halftrack. “We’re dead men.”

Seventeen

R
ock and his men took control of the Silver Bullet within minutes and quickly opened up some of the supply cars, throwing whatever was inside out—and brought their hybrids and camels up a makeshift ramp and inside. Then they quickly got the train rolling again with Reston pulling the levers in the engine and Archer shoveling super-concentrated coal into the roaring boiler furnace that ran the great machine. Rock’s men put on the uniforms of Russian officers and stood guard over their prisoners. The plan was for everything to remain the same, or at least the illusion of it. The officers would continue to sit at their dining tables and in their card rooms and look—to those who saw them as they passed through the various stations—as if they were just having fun enjoying the scenic route. The one remaining communications tech would broadcast to all the stations that they were on priority orders to go all the way to Washington without making a stop. That was the plan. Whether or not it would work was a different story.

Once the train was rolling full speed again, Rockson and his crew relaxed a little, laughing about their luxurious mode of transportation.

“You must have train robber chromosomes in your bloody genes,” Lieutenant Boyd said, looking at Rock as they stood in the main dining car. “You pulled this thing off like a bloomin’ master.”

“But for your boomer,” the Doomsday Warrior replied self-effacingly, “I’d be pushing daisies at this very moment.”

“Well, I guess we did perform our heroics for the day then, didn’t we, mates?” Boyd asked the other Aussies who stood around guarding the Red officers. “Where’s the goddamned service around here?” the Australian commander asked, turning to a Russian colonel seated just behind him. As if hearing the words, a black face peered tentatively from a slightly opened door at the near end of the car.

“I hears you, sir,” the black man said loudly across the room. “We’s the service—but we ain’t a comin’ out lessin’ you promise not to be shootin’ at us now. We jus’ de cooks, de waiters on dis here train.”

“Well darn my socks with a bazooka shell,” McCaughlin hooted, sitting across the aisle from Rockson, his mud-covered boots up on the table. “They got themselves some
old time
help around here.”

“We’re not gonna shoot anybody,” Rockson reassured him, smiling calmly. “Bring out your people—I promise you no one will get hurt.”

The black man edged slowly forward toward them, followed by nearly two dozen others who had stuffed themselves into the kitchen unit when they heard the attack begin. The Freefighers looked at them in amazement. All were black, all wore identical white tuxedo outfits with black bow ties. It was even hard to tell them apart as their hair, their size, and their skin coloration were nearly identical. The man in the lead of the nervous group walked up to Rockson and grinned widely, his lips pulling back to reveal all his teeth in a smile of subservience.

“We’s the porters, sir. Been workin’ dese trains for generations. We is glad to make ourselves available for your use.” He breathed deeply, smiled again in what seemed to be a constant gesture for him, and said, “So what would you fine gentlemens be wantin’? Here are some menus. May I recommend the veal Prince Orloff or the escargot de fromage?” He handed Rockson, Lieutenant Boyd, and the closest Freefighters calligraphed and gilded menus printed on linen-covered tablets.

“Well, first thing I’d like,” Rock said, putting the menu down, “is your name.”

“My name, sir,” the porter said, “be Rufus Jones.” He stepped aside to reveal the man directly behind him. “An’ dis here is our chef, Mr. Raymond Washington.”

“Well, I’m pleased to meet both of you,” the Doomsday Warrior said. “I’m Ted Rockson, and just for your information, we’re from the Freefighters, where men and women of every race fight together. This is Detroit Green, my right-hand man,” Rock said as the black Freefighter put out his own hand and shook the porter’s. Detroit had a look of great distaste on his face, since the speech and mannerisms of the black train crew made him feel a little sick. But he held his tongue. He had been through too much to judge things on first impressions. Still—he would have to have a talk with these “blackies” later.

“Well, Rufus,” Rockson went on, “my traveling companions and I have decided to take a little pleasure jaunt through this great country. We’ve been fighting for so many years, never had a chance to take a vacation. You know how it is?”