Doomsday Warrior 08 - American Glory (24 page)

Rockson glanced over at Panchali as the two of them pushed their mounts through the disorganized resistance. The man looked more than human, his jeweled robe swirling through the air, reflecting the myriad small fires around them like a cloak of electric sparks. The Sikh general’s eyes were wide as saucers, his expression vicious and unforgiving as his sword hand came down again and again like a machine. For a split second, Rockson remembered an ancient Hindu painting he had seen in a dusty book, a picture of Siva, the God of Destruction, wading through an army with just such a sword. No wonder the KGB troops ran in terror, facing such a demon. For Panchali existed to kill, his face alive and filled with fury, his eyes darting like a hawk’s from side to side while slicing every offending arm, every proffered rifle in two. He looked for the life of him as if he were in paradise, dancing the waltz of destruction with the fiery angels.

The Doomsday Warrior suddenly felt a shape coming at him from the right and turned to see three KGB’ers kneeling on a ten-foot-high wall, sighting him up. He pulled the trigger of his .12 gauge, knowing as the heavy weapon bucked in his hand that he couldn’t get all three. His stomach clenched involuntarily as he waited to receive the return fire. The teflon-coated steel pellets from his shell slammed into the chest of the attacker on the right, grinding bone and lung into instant pudding. But as the two others got Rockson fitted in their sights and went for the triggers, a mini-buzzsaw came whirling from the clouds of dust and slammed into the cinder blocks at their feet. Both were blown apart at the thighs, their legs falling down in shapeless red masses to the ground below while the rest of them shot into the air and came down behind the wall, ready-fitted for coffins.

Rockson turned and saw Chen, galloping about fifty feet off, raise his arm for a split second and Rockson returned the salute. Then the Chinese had his own business to attend to, as two black-suited figures tried to grab him from each side of his ’brid. Rock knew that the man could take care of himself—he’d have to—and glanced around quickly, seeing the rest of his team and even Rona and Kim, right in the thick of it, riding side by side, sending out a blistering wall of firepower that blasted everything in front of them as they went. McCaughlin had somehow tied the .50 cal. submachine gun to the top of his stout ’brid and was firing the thing right over the animal’s head, having been thoughtful enough to place a pillow of thick cloth between the smoking machine gun and the creature’s skull.

Rock and Panchali shot ahead suddenly, seeing an opening, as dozens of the KGB defenders were blasted aside from two of Detroit’s grenades. They were through the gap before the smoke had cleared or the pieces of steaming humanity had fallen from the air in a snowstorm of flesh.

Rock slammed another clip into his .12 gauger as they galloped into a long wide corridor with rounded walls and ceilings made of thousands of hand-painted ceramic tiles. The slamming hooves of their mounts echoed like drumbeats off the shining walls. On the other side was a wide square and more streaming units of KGB all heading to the north wall. But in their terrified faces Rockson could already see the seeds of defeat. They didn’t know what was happening or how to respond to it. The two mounted figures roared through the ranks like express trains, coming at them with such speed the men couldn’t even raise their rifles to fire. Again Panchali’s sword rose and fell, like the judging arm of fate itself, finding a skull, a throat, a chest at every descent. Rock’s hand bounced around as he held tight to the bucking shotpistol that spat out its loads in loud cracks of smoke, the shells automatically ejecting and flying up past him as he rode. At such close range, firing into faces just feet away, the destructive power of the handgun was magnified ten-fold. Whole skulls split apart, leaving headless corpses to topple over at their leisure. Spinal columns shattered right out of the backs of black leather jackets, bent and twisted like the spokes of a broken bicycle wheel dipped in red. They came—they saw—and they left behind a field of corpses plowed into their own blood. What the KGB had sowed they would now reap—and the crop would be their own destruction.

Suddenly the two men were past the troops and in a large oval intersection from which all the roads of the city seemed to fan out. They pulled their steeds to a stop for a moment as Rockson looked around, trying to determine the right direction. Everywhere the sounds of fighting, of bullets whizzing, of dynamite erupting in cratered roars, the screams and war cries of the combatants all filled the air with the deafening cacophony of battle.

“I love it,” General Panchali said, turning to Rockson with a wild look in his eyes. His sword and white robe were now saturated with blood as if they’d been dyed that color. His jewels peeked through the coating of human flesh, sending out an occasional sliver of light. “I can’t deny it, Rockson,” the silver-bearded Sikh warrior laughed, holding his sword to the skies. “I love every damned minute of it. I haven’t felt so alive for months.”

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” the Doomsday Warrior shouted above the din of battle, as he at last sighted the Russian street sign pointing the way to the Command Center.

“Where to now, Freefighter?” the Sikh general asked with a glow in his eyes, wanting to wade into the human ranks again.

“I’m gonna get that bastard Killov,” Rock said, taking another clip of shells and putting it in his rein hand so he could reload on the run. “He’s the key. With him captured—or dead, the coup will fall apart throughout America. But it’s going to be bad in there,” he warned, pointing with his pistol hand to the center of the fortress city. “Killov will have his elite forces surrounding the building. The first ones in there are going to be met by an army. Maybe you should—”

“Trying to keep all the fun to yourself, Freefighter,” Panchali said with a bark. “Lead on, General Rockson. I have not yet begun to kill.”

Eighteen

T
hey galloped neck and neck like racehorses trying to beat each other to the finish, down the widest boulevard of Fort Minsk—Trotsky Avenue—toward the Command building which rose from the center of the now smoke-enshrouded city. Two blocks ahead Rockson saw the sandbagged emplacements of the KGB commander’s elite forces, ready to give their lives to save Killov’s. The machine-gun squads saw the riders as well and opened up from ten different positions, sending a blizzard of .50 caliber slugs whistling down the avenue. But Rock pulled Snorter’s reins sharply to the right, making the hybrid wheel about and push Panchali’s horse along with it. Both steeds flew down a side street, nearly losing their balance from the sudden turn, but within a few strides gained it again.

“We’ll have to come in from the rear,” Rockson screamed out as a series of secondary blasts shook the ground beneath their feet as one of the fortress’s munitions depots went up with the explosive power of a small A-bomb. “They’re too well fortified up front.” They made their way down the narrow streets, heading all the way around the twelve-story central headquarters.

Suddenly from out of nowhere a KGB’er jumped forward, firing his rifle and stabbing forward with the eighteen-inch-long bayonet mounted on the barrel. The bullet missing Panchali who was nearer the attacker, but the knife blade caught him in mid-thigh, sending him flying off the back of the stallion and onto the street. As he hit the unevenly paved road, the Sikh general sliced behind his head with the sword, ripping across the KGB’er’s stomach. Whatever plans the Blackshirt had had for dispatching the Sikh fighter vanished as his belly spewed out in a gush of red.

Rock pulled his ’brid to a stop and turned to see dozens of the black jackets pouring from a doorway toward the fallen Sikh.

“Go ahead, leave me,” Panchali shouted, preparing to swing the sword and pulling out the snub-nosed .44 mag pistol from beneath his robe.

“Right,” the Doomsday Warrior spat out from the side of his mouth as he kicked Snorter and shot into the wall of KGB elite troops who had closed in on the fallen warrior. But they had bitten off more than they could chew as Rockson and the Sikh went wild, both of them sighting and firing, slashing, kicking out like whirlwinds of death. Within seconds half of the attacking Blackshirts were lying on the ground, dead or wishing they were as their severed arteries vomited out every drop within. As Rock’s .12 gauge shotpistol clicked empty he jumped down from his ’brid and pulled out his long-bladed hunting knife, courtesy of the Sioux nation, and dove into the thick of it—a blur of muscle and an impossible catch, ripping at every shape he saw.

Before they knew it, it was over. The two of them stood back to back, their heads snapping around like owls, searching out the next man who wanted to die. But there were no more takers. The three KGB who were left pulled back, looked down at the remains of their comrades, and turned, throwing their weapons down as they disappeared into a dark basement to hide.

“I told you to keep going,” Panchali shouted to Rockson as they remounted.

“Disobeyed orders,” Rock grinned. “You’ll have to courtmartial me when it’s over.” Panchali gave a flash of a smile of thanks to the Doomsday Warrior, but in his soldier’s heart he felt wounded, not wishing to owe his life to any man. The Sikh ripped one of the silk scarves from his neck and tied it around his leg to stop the flow of blood.

“Can you ride?” Rock asked.

“My corpse could handle a horse better than most living men,” Panchali snapped back and the two warriors shot forward again, their steeds jumping over the odd assortment of bodies and appendages on the street. They rode for another five blocks and came up behind the building. But again it was as well guarded as the front and they had to pull back quickly, ducking behind a building wall to escape the hail of slugs.

“This ain’t gonna work,” Rock said, dismounting. “We can’t come in head-on—we’ll have to sneak in.”

“Never,” Panchali said, sitting stubbornly atop his stallion. “A Sikh warrior must attack his enemy head-on, or—”

“Or bullshit,” Rock said, his voice rising. “If you want to donate your body to the butcher’s heap, be my guest. But I’m more interested in ending this whole damned thing. There’ll be other wars, pal. Other charges with bugles blowing.” He turned and started toward a smaller building that faced the Command Center without waiting to see if the Asian general was going to follow.

As he came to a locked door and put his shoulder against it, Rock felt the Sikh’s presence just behind him.

“All right, all right, we’ll do it your way,” Panchali muttered into his ear. “But how the hell are we going to get in there, anyway?”

“The Reds often build underground tunnels linking their various command buildings—just in case of attack. But we can use them for our purposes as well—
for
attack.” Rock pulled back a few inches and then slammed forward with all his mutant strength, snapping the lock on the inside. The steel door flew open and the two fighters par excellence rushed through, weapons at the ready, but the dimly lit underground passage was unguarded, at least at this end. With Rockson in the lead they ran along the crumbling corridor, much in need of repair as the Reds apparently hadn’t paid attention to it for years. Doors stood half open on both sides of them, falling half off their hinges—and inside were darkened storage rooms, filled with the scent of rot and decay. Though there were numerous leadoffs heading in all directions, Rock steered them straight on toward where he figured the Command Building to be.

Sure enough, they came to the end of the main tunnel and then up some stairs to another locked door. On the other side they could hear voices mumbling in frantic Russian about just what the hell was going on out there as the explosions and the gunfire were growing closer by the minute. Rock and Panchali stood facing each other on the top step and at a nod from the Doomsday Warrior, they both slammed their shoulders against the structure and burst through. They found themselves, when they had risen from the floor, in the center of a machine-gun nest—bad luck for the opposition as the tripod-mounted .50 caliber submachine gun was pointed in the other direction, toward the main front doors. Before the five KGB’ers could find their handguns, Panchali’s sword had found two necks to dissect and Rock’s fist two faces that shattered beneath his knuckles like leftovers in a bowl of cherry pie mix. The fifth KGB trooper made the mistake of pulling his knife and waving it in Panchali’s face instead of running. The Sikh general made a grimace of disgust at such a feeble gesture, slicing the knife and the hand holding it clear off the man’s body in one swing, and with the backward stroke nearly cleaved the man in two at the waist, the messy sack that was left of him tumbling over to join his fighting buddies in their long sleep.

Now that Panchali was killing again he seemed to get a little less disgruntled, the semblance of a pleased expression returning to his stony face.

“Come on,” Rockson yelled as he heard a squad’s worth of boots slamming down on the corridor floor just around the corner. “These are the peons—we’re after El Excellente himself.”

He searched frantically around the wide floor and saw it—the elevator bank. Grabbing Panchali by the sleeve, Rock rushed over and pressed the “up” button on all four panels. A heavy whir of grinding gears and whining cables issued forth and the green light above one lit up as the door slid open. They virtually flew inside, slamming into the back wall as the elevator was much smaller than he had thought. Rock turned and found the buttons and instinctively punched 12—the top floor—sensing in his gut that Killov, with his eightieth-floor suite back at his command center in the Monolith in Denver, Colorado, would have chosen the highest vantage point here as well.

His finger had barely pressed the button when heavily armed KGB commandos came storming around the hall and sighted the two intruders. They lifted their submachine guns and unleashed a storm that would have cut an elephant in two. But the doors slammed shut with a satisfying bang and the elevator headed upstairs as Rock and Panchali heard the pinging of countless slugs against the steel doors below.