Doomsday Warrior 09 - America’s Zero Hour (6 page)

They broke camp after McCaughlin had whipped up some moose-à-la moss rations for all of them, with hot coffee. The ’brids, being a much more sturdy species than humans, needed neither rest, nor water, nor warmth. They had been content to chew leaves.

As the first gray light of dawn crept over the frost-covered rolling terrain, Rock saw a high sharp object silhouetted against the sky directly in front of them, about a mile ahead. Rock raised his electron binoculars for a look-see.

“That’s the radio antenna,” he said. “You men wait here. McCaughlin and I will go ahead on foot to see what’s up.”

Rock and the big Scotsman walked down the slope of the long hill and, crawling the last hundred yards, stuck their heads over the ridge. They saw the station below, the doors wide open to the morning air, and two lazy men having a siesta, their rifles over their laps as they slept in the warmth emanating from the doorway.

“Tsk, tsk,” spat McCaughlin. “So they don’t expect visitors. Well, what do you think? Do we slip down right now and take them ourselves, or go back and mount a full-scale attack?”

“Well,” Rock said, “we might as well take advantage of the situation. I’d hate to turn down the open-door invitation.”

They scurried in a crouch down the slope, and before the guards knew what was up, had them around the necks with knives to their throats. “No noise, pals. Let’s go in,” said McCaughlin. The frightened Reds savvied the English well enough, and the four of them stepped into the building.

In the large brightly lit room sat six or seven technicians in soiled white smocks. They were unarmed, though rifles were stowed carelessly in a corner.

“Surpriski,” McCaughlin said in a loud voice. He and Rockson shoved their hostages face forward onto the floor where they lay motionless, fearful of a fatal bullet in the spine. But none came.

The technicians turned in shock from their tasks monitoring meters and radio equipment around the room. Startled, the men ripped their earphones off and jumped to their feet. Rock swept his Liberator rifle around the room. “Freeze!”

They must have understood, for they did just that. The only breach in the silence came when one dropped his clipboard. He was a tall, lanky young fellow, who evidently knew English.

“Don’t shoot. We are unarmed,” he pleaded. “We are not soldiers—we are to be evacuated. This place to be shipped out—”

“We just want to use the radio,” Rock said softly. “No one will be harmed.”

After some coaxing the head tech got the Premier’s frequency and handed Rock the mike and headset.

“Rockson calling the Kremlin. Returning Premier Vassily’s radio transmission.”

The radio crackled out a response, after Rockson repeated the message six times.

“This is the Premier’s servant Rahallah,” a mellow voice stated.

“Yes, I remember you,” Rock said.

“The Premier is napping. I presume you are responding to the message broad-beamed to you in Colorado?”

“Correct, Rahallah. I’ve got to speak to him,” Rock said tersely.

“It will take me a few minutes to wake him and get him to the phone,” Rahallah said. “Can you wait?”

Rockson smiled to himself. They were doubtless trying to drag this out so that they could zero in on the location of Century City.

“Save your delaying tactics, Rahallah. I’m at a Red Army radio far away from my home base. Let’s be brief. The United States government is pleased that Vassily is going through with his removal of all missiles though we have yet to independently confirm the evacuation is taking place. Assuming that it
is
true, we would like further assistance in tracking Killov and his missiles—using satellite readings or anything else you have to help us.”

Vassily’s dry, age-cracked voice suddenly came on the line. “Rockson, do you know what time it is in Moscow? Two
A.M.
But I will speak to you—Rahallah, stay on the extension. We can’t give you satellite data on the Killov missiles. You want to know why?” The Premier of all the Soviets laughed bitterly. “Because you destroyed most of our satellites when you blew up the central dome here in Moscow. And even if my jets could locate Killov’s white-painted missiles in the snow, Killov would launch them the second he knew he was spotted. But I
can
send you a technician—a Major Scheransky—with a tracking device that can follow Killov’s trail on the ground. If you will send a force strong enough to overcome Killov and his estimated one hundred fifty troops, yet sufficiently small to take him by surprise . . .”

Rockson thought for a moment then said, “Have your man para-drop to your radio base—K-23—tomorrow at noon local time. With the missile tracker. But no tricks.”

“Somehow, I get the feeling that you don’t trust me.”

Rockson laughed out loud. “As much as you trust me, Vassily. Once this Killov thing is cleared up, you and I are enemies again. Over and out.” He put the mike down. The wide-eyed technicians standing with their hands up along the wall looked awed that Rockson could speak that way to their holy-of-holies.

“He’s just a man,” said Rock, sensing their mesmerization. “And so am I. And so are you. Put your hands down. Do any of you bastards play poker? After you all submit to a search, you might want to play a few hundred games with us while we wait together for this Scheransky.” The Reds managed to relax a bit. Perhaps they would live, after all.

McCaughlin found that they were eager to learn—and lose at poker. At the end of the first few hours they’d all had ten cups of powerful tea each from a samovar. When they began putting a little vodka in it, the game was forgotten. In Russian and English the conversation began to roam all over the place. It got interesting.

“Freedom, bah,” commented one cynical vodka guzzler, the oldest of the techs. “The government—
any
government—is only good for taking your money and sending you or your son to war and for blowing up everybody. The revolutions all start out with good intentions, and then power corrupts. I say, back to nature—Chekhov’s ideal of real communal living.”

The young one said, “No. In modern times, centralized government is necessary. A dictatorship of the workers—that is what Lenin wanted.”

“And,” said Rock, “is that what you have?”

“Well, it isn’t finalized yet. There are problems.”

“You have no checks and balances, kid. The U.S. government always had the Supreme Court, the executive branch, and the legislature—and free press to expose and oppose the power-grabbers. Kept it all aboveboard, whether some politicians wanted it that way or not. All people born equal, but after that . . . they get according to the exertion and ingenuity they put out. From each according to his ability, to each according to his efforts.”

“In Communist theory,” one of the techs said, “it is: To each according to his needs.”

“Sounds like a system for slackers,” Rock replied. “Anyway, Communism doesn’t even do that. It’s all a farce. They use slogans: the workers ruling, freedom of the masses, and all that, and then they do just the opposite.”

“True Communism will come—someday,” the technician answered. “My government promises me that when the wars are over, socialist man will rise—once and for all.”

“Someday, someday,” said Rock. “In the meantime everyone is a slave.”

Rock had set up the aircraft-detector grid that Schecter’s people had supplied. It could even differentiate types of aircraft. It was 11:57
A.M.
the next morning when the buzzer went off. One plane. Rockson heaved a sigh of relief and went outside where the rest of the team watched the sky. There—a small Ilyushin N-3A twin-jet—streaking like a knife through the orange clouds and descending slowly to earth.

“Make some more coffee, McCaughlin. And eggs and grits. I’d like to get to know Major Scheransky before we head north with the man.”

The parachuter hit the center of a field a hundred yards to the left of the radio station. He was helped out of his harness by Detroit who reached him first, as he seemed to be having a hard time. And no wonder—for the man, a ruddy-faced fellow of about twenty-five, was roly-poly like a big lump of jello. Rock frowned. Is this the man they would take into a frozen hell after a madman like Killov? And where was this goddamn tracking device? Then he heard the plane returning, and he watched as a second chute billowed out.

Scheransky gasped out in near perfect English, “Thanks, comrades! Here comes the antimatter meter.” He pointed to the sky.

“I suppose that’s the missile tracker?” Rock asked.

“Yes. It’s forty kilograms. I didn’t want to jump with it. Actually I’ve never jumped before. It’s exhilarating.”

“Never jumped before? Are you in the Soviet Army?” Detroit asked. “Aren’t you a major?—your insignia says so . . .”

The man flushed. “Well, I work in the lab. I’m a sort of
lab
major. Never had any combat experience. You know—got most of these medals here for inventions of a technical nature.”

Rock said, “I see. Well, you’ll have to experience a little pain on this trip. I hope you have a strong heart because you’ll probably lose a few pounds. Quite a few . . .”

The device floated down and settled perfectly on a thick pile of weeds. “It looks like a tripod-mounted submachine gun,” said McCaughlin.

“But it isn’t,” said the major. “See? The barrel is solid—uses measuring scopes. I’ll have a trace on the radiation of Killov’s missiles once you get me to the point they were stolen from—and I can do some initial distance readings.”

“Well, man, let’s get some breakfast in you and get going,” said McCaughlin. “You ever eat wild boar ham and eggs with grits back in Leningrad, pal?”

Over breakfast Rockson introduced the men to the Red scientist. He addressed the men: “You probably like bringing the major along as little as I do. Russia and the U.S. are enemies and there will be no truce until they are out of America. If this wasn’t a necessary joint mission we’d be blasting away at each other. But it
is
a joint mission and I’m sure neither the Premier nor I will go back on our word, at least I won’t. And that means
you
won’t. Understand—this man is to be protected with your lives!”

“Yes, sir,” they answered. But they all eyed Scheransky with suspicion.

Scheransky smiled at them all. “You do as promised—so do I. We find the missiles and deactivate them, send for a team to dismantle them and ship them back to Russia as you rebels agreed. These weapons must be disarmed properly. We can’t blow them up; they’re antimatter bombs. They explode if strongly impacted. You are familiar, I suppose,” he continued, “with the Hiroshima bomb? The one that America dropped on Japan to begin the nuclear terror that still stalks the world?”

“Yeah,” Detroit frowned. “We dropped it. It
ended
World War II, buddy. But we didn’t
start
World War II. Or World War III.”

Scheransky’s face turned red. He said, “Well, there are many kilograms of antimatter explosive in the missile warhead. Each kilogram of antimatter is ten times more powerful than the Hiroshima bomb. They may well be the most devastating weapons mankind has ever produced. Perhaps this blackie can’t understand this, but you can.”

Detroit started forward, rage in his eyes. Rockson grabbed the black Freefighter’s sleeve and said, “Ease off, man. I want Major Scheransky here to tell us
all
exactly what the destructive potential of these bombs is. You say one kilogram is like ten Hiroshima bombs, Scheransky? So how many kilograms of antimatter are in each warhead that Killov possesses?”

“That
is a military secret of the Soviet people. I don’t have the authority—”

Rockson picked up the Red by the collar and lifted him off the floor. “So you
know,
little scientist. Tell me or I’ll let Archer play punching bag with you.” The Soviet scientist looked at Archer, who sat on a nearby desk, bending its legs under his weight.

“One hundred twenty,” the lab major shouted out, squirming around.

Rockson dropped the little man. “One hundred twenty kilograms! That means ten times a hundred and twenty.”

“My God,” shouted Detroit. “That’s twelve hundred times the power of the Hiroshima bomb.”

The Soviet smiled. “That is correct. Of course, that is per missile—there are five missiles.”

Detroit sat down and stared at the table. “How could anyone construct such a deadly thing? Just one of those missiles—could—could—”

Rockson finished his sentence in a soft voice. “. . . Take out a quarter of the state of Colorado!”

In a quiet mood, the men uncrated the antimatter meter. It was about four feet long. “Strange-looking thing,” Chen commented.

“And kind of heavy,” Rock added, “to drag around with us.”

“Yes, heavy,” Scheransky said, wiping his sweaty hands on his uniform pants, “but a marvel of Russian technology.”

“Damn.
We have to lug that thing all the way up into snow country?” said Detroit. “Why, the thing would take a ’brid of its own just to carry it.”

“Can’t be helped,” Rock said. “It’s our only way of finding Killov.” The Freefighters gingerly set it down alongside the table. The antimatter meter was turned on by the Russian, for demonstration purposes. The long silver cylinder with rows of buttons and meters on it throbbed and pulsed, and then, to their amazement, it started moving. It was turning like a compass needle. It managed this maneuver because it had small ball bearings on its lower side.

“It keeps collecting antimatter traces—meson particles in the air. Normally they don’t even exist. If a Meson-5 missile has come by the area within twenty days, the A-M meter should start clicking like a Geiger counter does for any ordinary radiation.” The Russian made a proud smile.

“Hey,” said Detroit, “look at what was also in the package.” He held up a pair of red shiny metal boxes about six inches square and perfectly smooth, one in each hand. “There’s more little red boxes out there. Chen’s bringing—”

“Be careful,” Scheransky shouted in bad English as he stood up, apparently terrified. “Place those down carefully. They are—dangerous.”

Detroit placed them gingerly on the floor. They looked harmless enough. “What’s in them, Scheransky?”