Doomsday Warrior 19 - America’s Final Defense (8 page)

“Yeah. Big deal,” Killov complained. “What is it broadcasting, a funeral march? Some sort of memorial to its dead? No, let me guess: the radio broadcasts say, ‘Here lies an ancient and wonderful race, may we rest in peace.’ ” Killov’s cracked dry lips parted in a rictus grin.

“No,” replied Technician Krasnov, “the broadcast is far from being a memorial. It is more like a list.”

“A list? Of what?”

“It is a list, Master, of the contents of a fantastic storehouse—in a pyramid on Mu. The space people left all their creations on their world. They set up the beacon because they believed that by the time Mu again passed Earth, Earth people would be able to go there, go there and take what they wanted. They hoped we’d be evolved enough to understand the proper use of such things—things like earth melters, and light-ray digging equipment, and disintegrators.”

“Such things!” exclaimed Killov. “Such wonderful things like that can he used as weapons. Yes, with such advanced alien weapons, I could rule the earth.” Killov’s voice fell to a whisper. “Or even, perhaps, destroy it!”

Krasnov paled, and started to shake at Killov’s whispered words. Surely Krasnov was working for a madman. If only he could go away, hide from this evil man . . . but to try to escape and fail meant Krasnov would have his heart cut out.

Killov stood bolt upright. He scratched his chin in thought. Finally he said, “When that asteroid comes close, I will go there personally. I must have a spaceworthy craft constructed quickly. Perhaps I can use the ICBM missiles as boosters. The asteroid, you say, won’t be far away. Three weeks isn’t long . . . it is not much time. Normally it wouldn’t be enough time to build a spaceship. But with the head start in rocketry we have, with my missiles . . . yes, I can do it. I will order work started immediately on building the spacecraft.

“Krasnov! Show me the hell out of this dank cellar. This dampness is affecting my sinuses.”

Because no one on his staff had verified the exact orbit of the asteroid, Killov rode up to the surface in the construction elevator unaware that the asteroid was actually heading to impact the earth. Killov was itching to go to the alien world, to procure weapons to use against Rockson and the resurgent Americans. Visions of defeating the Doomsday Warrior at long last coursed through his drug-filled brain.

He’d had a recurring dream lately. Something about finding a star-shaped black weapon in pink sand. It had been a good dream, for he had used that weapon to destroy Rockson.

Seven

A
t 9:03
A.M.
Rockson was at the southwest gate of the city, with his five-man “rock team” gathered about him. There had been pandemonium in the dimly lit hallways of Century City as he had traveled to get there. Rockson had to fight a stream of running, shouting workers and technicians, and he’d been forced many times to use the stairs, instead of elevators, between levels of the city. There were 33 levels, so to get to level one had been quite a climb.

Rock looked them over: Archer carried a huge blunderbuss shotgun, and there was a steel crossbow on his shoulder. He was in regulation camouflage battle gear except for his gray bearskin jacket and floppy mountain-man hat.

Detroit wore the camouflage plus a helmet of Kevlar. The black Freefighter had on a double bandolier of grenades—huge ones. He carried a ten-gauge shotpistol. He had a toothpick jammed in his mouth, between huge, sparkling white teeth. Detroit Green was always ready!

Chen was in a black silk Ninja fighter outfit, with heavy trailboots in place of his kung-fu slippers. Rock couldn’t get over how thin and almost frail the Chinese-American looked. Yet Chen was the most dangerous fighter of them all. Chen had decked—and, could have probably killed—Rockson several times in the gym.

Scheransky, the blond Russian defector, carried two Liberators on his shoulders and a flame-thrower tank on his back. The last member of the team, barn-sized Scot McCaughlin, carried the huge dufflebag full of pots and pans he preferred for trail cooking. It seemed he had not managed to get to his camouflage uniform, for he wore a blue jogging suit. But he wore a western-style gunbelt, with a pair of ancient six-shooters. His long, graying beard was tucked into his top.

As Rock greeted them, the others came along. Rock had sent for four extra men: Gooligan, Williams, Harpur, and Cohen, four brilliant crew-cut technicians, smart men he had thought essential to restarting a hundred-year-old spacecraft and getting it launched. The four seemed a bit flabby and pudgy for a trek, but they were young; they’d make it. The trip would toughen ’em up. Best thing for a man is to get away from soft, easy living, Rock thought.

“Where’s Schecter?” Chen asked. “And where’s the ’brids?”

The Chinese man’s face looked purple in the emergency arc-lights set above the blast doors.

“Here I am,” someone said. A door opened, and there was Schecter, plus several “grunts”—heavy-set men from the nuclear power plant They were wearing orange patches on their coverall pockets, the three-propeller “Nuclear Power Facility” emblem. Between them the grunts rolled a heavy-tired cart that was of the strangest design Rockson had ever seen. It actually had sharp blades on its wheelspokes. “God, is that—”

“Yes, Rock,” Schecter beamed, “it’s an ancient Roman chariot. I’ve borrowed it from the museum, and specially reinforced it, of course, with titanium alloy. Now it’s stronger than steel. Guaranteed for three or four thousand runs around the coliseum, or for the trek to the rocketship. Sorry Rock; no airplane.”

“What’s inside it?” Rock went around to see, and he whistled when he observed the radiation sign on the box inside the chariot. The ancient cart held a single black box that was obviously heavy as hell, from the way the chariot creaked as they pushed it along.

“Easy,” Schecter said, “bring it to a slow rest.” Schecter played a geiger counter over the surface of the box. “Good. It’s not leaking.”

“Is that . . .” Rock began to ask, taking an unconscious step back.

“Yes, it’s the nuclear core we stole from the power plant. I placed a bunch of my new detonation fuses on it. It’s set to cause an implosion when you punch in the code.”

“Boom?” Archer asked.

“Big boom,” Rock acknowledged. “It’s a nuclear bomb.”

“How we gonna get that pulled by our horses? By the way, where are the horses?” McCaughlin asked.

Schecter looked around, dismayed. “Oh, no . . . C.J. should have had the ’brids here by now. I hope to God that—”

The sounds of measured hoofbeats cut him off. They spun around. Coming down the ramp from the direction of the main stairwell was a gaggle of ’brids.

“C.J.!” Rock exclaimed, “you got us the ’brids!”

“Yeah,” the skinny, pock-faced man came forward to say. “And these babies are real bright. I managed to get them up the stairs when we couldn’t use the lifts from the stable facility. You should have told me you were going to knock out the power in the city to cause a diversion, I should have had the ’brids bridled and saddled earlier.” Then C.J. looked over at the chariot, and the black box, and at the nuke power plant grunts, and Schecter. C.J. paled, “You didn’t, did you?”

“I did,” Schecter admitted. “As they say, ‘in for a penny, in for a dollar.’ You don’t know about this, C.J. You didn’t see the box—right?”

“That’s right,” he gulped. “Deaf, dumb, and blind.”

“Now,” Rock said, “how do we move this heavy—er—device—to the rocket. What does it weigh? How many ’brids will it take to pull it?”

“All told,” Schecter said, pulling out a calculator and making computations, “a thousand pounds. Look, this chariot is strong, and bulletproof. Plus there’s a double hitch, for two of the big pack-’brids to be hitched up to the chariot. They should be able to pull it along, I hope. I’ve calculated the strength of the pack-’brids, and multiplied by—”

C.J. pulled two of the heaviest, meanest looking ’brids forward from the pack. The brown-speckled one farted, and it smelled worse than Archer’s best shot. “Whew! If the damned thing’s muscles are as powerful as its farts,” Detroit said, “it can haul anything.”

“Yeah,” C.J. said, “it is. Both of ’em are strong as hell. Just give them these pellets of superfood every day, just before bedtime. They’ll be fine. You can switch off to the other ’brids, if you want, on even ground, but the other ’brids shouldn’t have to pull such a load up a hill. And give Bruiser and Sweetheart here a break every sixty miles.”

“Here’s the map, plus some helpful hints.” Schecter handed a packet to Rockson, who glanced anxiously at his watch.

“Okay!
Now we got ’brids, a nuke, and a map. Time to go. Hope the day doesn’t look bad. By the way, Schecty-baby, what’s to stop the C.C. Rangers from coming after us?”

“Oh, first they have to figure out you’re really gone, in all this confusion,” Schecter smiled. “That might not be so easy.”

“Right now,” C.J. smirked, “they think you’re holed up with your men in the mineshafts under the city. I have a dozen of my stablemen dressed like you nuke commandos down there. They’re dug in deep, and will confuse the rangers for a long, long while.”

“Will the rangers actually shoot at them?” Rock asked. “I don’t want anyone to die.”

C.J. shook his head. “The substitutes should be okay. The C.C. force will be satisfied to hole them up so they can’t leave the city. So
you
can’t leave.”

“Right,” Rock agreed. “Good plan. Meanwhile, we’ll be far from here. I’ve got to hand it to you and Schecter.”

Rockson went over to pat his horse’s snout and fed her a cookie. He almost got bit in the process. He hadn’t been paying enough attention to the mare as of late, probably—she didn’t like to be cooped up, and she showed her displeasure.

The loudspeakers suddenly erupted in a sound that echoed down the hallways: “This is Chairman McGrugle. Martial law is now in effect in Century City for the duration of the emergency. The following personnel are being sought for questioning.” The chairman mentioned several names, including C.J.’s.

Rock guessed some of those sought were the nuke technicians with Schecter, for they blushed and smiled as the chairman spoke. One said “Present” when a particular name was read off. At the end of the “wanted” list was Schecter. Curiously missing were Rock and his men, because they were “trapped.” The ruse was working.

Schecter handed Rockson another sealed plastic folder. “This is from Rath . . . the details of the situation at the rocket hangar, I’m told. It’s a bit tricky. Seems like a cult of some sort controls the hangar. Study the report when you’re well away from here. I think you have the combat experience and the weaponry to solve the problem easily enough once you get there.”

“Sure, I’ll read it later,” Rock agreed, stuffing the folder with the other in his belt pack. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay, Doc?”

Schecter smiled. “I have an escape plan, so don’t worry. First, I have a few more things to do, like sabotage the helicopters and the two planes. So you just get there, and leave the rest to me. Be expeditious and careful when you approach the rocket site. And don’t damage it in a firefight.”

Rockson’s eyes tightened into slits. “This is the second or third time you mentioned the possibility of a confrontation at the rocket site. Who exactly runs the place?”

Schecter shrugged, and said, “No time to explain. You’ll handle it. All the dope is in the folders.” Schecter quickly turned to the horse trainer. “C.J., get those bridles on that big ’brid adjusted for Archer! And get the nuke chariot hitched to the two big bruisers. Rock, you and your men roll open the damned blast doors. There’s no power-assist.”

When Schecter wanted to change the subject, he gave orders.

Rock had to admit the door was hard to open, but they managed. They eased the chariot out of the doorway into a clear, cold morning. Then he and his men mounted up and rode aside one another down the steep slope. The two biggest ’brids held the chariot back well. Schecter was right—the chariot was the ideal vehicle for carrying the nuke, and C.J.’s super-pack ’brids could haul it.

Rockson watched the red sun climb over the jagged peaks.

It took all day to go just sixty miles. They were on the slope of a grassy hill now, entering a pass Rockson carefully scanned with his electron binoculars. No problems ahead. He scanned back along the path they’d taken and sighed in relief. There were no pursuers. The ruse was evidently still working. It had damned well
better
work: Rock didn’t want to shoot at any fellow Americans sent to stop him. But now it was too late for anyone to catch up to Rock and his men. He sure hoped to hell that Schecter could actually flee the city, hide out somewhere after all this. A man could get shot for what he’d done, especially during martial law. Stealing nuclear material carried a death sentence.

Overhead the sun was playing tag with several black clouds over a whitefaced mountain. Rock said, “Time to switch off the chariot horses. There’s level ground ahead. Give the big brutes a break.”

That done, they went on down the long, long pass. The short winter day passed quickly. They continued the trek even after dark. The ’brids had excellent night vision, and the men wore night-radar goggles.

The temperature dropped to a bitterness uncommon even for midwinter: minus thirty degrees Celsius. That, plus the purple strontium waves flickering in the sky above a red sickle moon, did much to lend a certain gloom and uncertainty to Rock’s mood. He called a halt to the march at midnight, in order for everyone to get six hours’ sleep. Of course, he posted a watch. There were
bad
things out here . . .

Archer fell asleep on his watch, Rockson was aghast to discover in the dawn’s light. Rock shook the mountain man awake angrily, and Archer nearly wept for his dereliction of duty.

“It’s okay,” Rockson said as Archer apologized, “I know you sleep with one eye open.”

“I do! I do!” the yawning man insisted.

Rockson walked with Archer to the campfire.

As they ate some of the creeper-vine stew and drank coffee, McCaughlin scrambled some quail eggs he’d found nearby. It smelled great. Eaten with heavy butter on wheat bread, the dish proved that McCaughlin was undoubtedly the best trail cook in the world. The good coffee was his own special blend—with a tinge of snake powder in it, the cook said, for flavor. It had more than a caffeine kick. It jolted one awake.