Doomsday Warrior 04 - Bloody America (24 page)

But the Satellite and Missile Control Center—that was another matter. That one man could wipe out the Russian’s ability to strike across an ocean, if necessary, at rebels and uprisings—it was unbelievable. The complex would never be rebuilt, he knew that for certain. It had been well kept up. Money poured into it endlessly. But the Russian technicians could no longer create such miraculous structures. Their abilities, their factories to produce the computers, the tracking optical and radar systems were no longer functional. No, it would be bombers and land-based missiles, now already within the slave countries borders. If the need came
they
could still inflict terrible devastation. But it would be harder, much harder. And they would be vulnerable.

He had misjudged things, but Rockson would be the one to pay the price. The Doomsday Warrior was a hundred times more dangerous than Killov. Now he saw it all clearly, like a blueprint of doom laid out before his weary eyes. And Rockson was just one of many freefighters. Perhaps Killov was right. He had tried to tell the premier many times—the rebels were growing in strength and boldness in America. And if this single man was any indication of that power, the Russian Empire was in deep, deep trouble.

Premier Vassily felt tired. Tired to the point of wanting to die. He had faced many challenges and survived, nay, emerged victorious. When he was struck by his opponents, his instinct was to strike back—harder—to destroy those who would challenge him. He felt emotions stirring within his breast that he hadn’t felt for years. Poisonous feelings of vengeance, of torture. Rockson would have to pay for this. The American freefighter had made an error, too. For now the Reds would strike back more viciously than anything the Americans had experienced in the last century. The entire planet must know, must be shown, what the penalty was for challenging his rule. Every general on his staff, every American from freefighter to peasant farmer plowing his radioactive field—all would feel the wrath of the premier.

Vassily felt suddenly changed. His poetry books, his long subtle novels seemed like jokes now. It was a game of power and the strongest would win. Survival of the species was always won by the toughest, the most ruthless. Perhaps he should read Darwin. On the endless evolution of the strong over the weak. Yes Darwin—he might get some ideas on just how to wreak his vengeance.

“Rahallah, bring me the
Origin of Species.
It’s somewhere in my bookcase in the library.” The black servant walked quietly and quickly from the room, leaving the old man and his trembling hands to plots of death and blood and madness.

High above, far beyond the scope of the naked eye, the Russian killer and spy satellites began acting strangely. They had stayed aloft for a hundred years, constantly corrected in their angle, their rotation and orbit. Only a few of the technological marvels had failed, plummeting to earth in fiery balls that crashed into the ocean or an uninhabited forest somewhere on the surface of the planet. But already, with their guidance systems no longer receiving instructions from earth to correct the slight flaws of their trajectories, they were beginning to veer out of control.

Little things at first—a slight wobble, a drop of just several miles from a thousand-mile-high orbit, a blinking light flashing a problem in hydraulic pressure or solar battery collection. But the little things would escalate, would grow, making a mistake of an inch turn into miles. The slight vibration of a speeding-up spin became a violent shaking that would tear the balls and triangles and octagon-shaped satellites apart, sending them into more and more erratic flight paths. They danced madly beneath the stars, mindless pieces of steel and nickel, titanium and fiberglass molded together into a vacuum-resistant package. They were marvels of communication, of tracking, the very top of the ladder of man’s mechanical ingenuity. But with all their computers and miles of circuitry and wiring aboard, they had no intelligence, no way of righting themselves. But they knew something was wrong—their internal sensors frantically sent back signals to earth requesting assistance, correction of their obital problems. The air burned with telecommunications as the coded signals traveled down through the atmosphere. But only flames were there below to receive their messages. What had been the dome was now a garbage pit of burning rubble. It would take weeks, months for some but soon they would all drop from the skies, flaming balls crashing down from the heavens. Not one would survive.

Twenty-Two

A
long spread-out line of Red troops was marching across the nearly barren fields just to the south of the Military Air Field. Rockson and Archer stood at the end of one of the runways, hidden behind thick thorn bushes as a huge Intercontinental Iliyushin transport jet came swooping down just over their heads and touched onto the concrete runway ahead. Its forward thrusters burst into screaming life as it screeched to a halt nearly a mile down the airfield. Behind the two Americans the Russians marched forward, nearly a thousand of them, their Kalashnikovs at chest level, bayonets attached, ready at a moment’s notice to fire or send the long blade into American flesh. There was a reward of one million rubles for the man who captured either of the escaped freefighters—direct order from the premier. The Reds looked behind every shrub, examined the branches of every tree, scrambled inside sewer pipes and ditches—not a square inch was passed by. Overhead, choppers flew in concentric circles—all of them searching, searching for just one man—Ted Rockson.

“It’s nice to feel so wanted,” Rock quipped to Archer. The big freefighter grunted out a noise that sounded like “yes.” They had only minutes, perhaps seconds before they would be spotted. Rock had to be bold, move fast—there was nothing to lose. That was clear. Should the Reds get hold of them again their fates would be quite terrible, even for him who had withstood pains beyond human imagination in his lifetime. And this time the new Mindbreaker
would
be used. Even Rock knew he couldn’t stand up to that. He might not talk, but his brains would be scrambled like a henhouse of eggs thrown into a bonfire.

“Let’s move,” Rock said quickly. “This may be our last footrace together.” The two freefighters began running down the field straight along the middle of the runway. Their feet slammed onto the hard surface lit up by floodlights posted along the far sides of the field, lighting the four landing beds for the planes that were constantly arriving and departing. Another jet soared down just over their heads with a deafening roar. The wheels seemed to almost touch their heads as the draft of the immense Iliyushin, ferrying a shipment of jeeps from a far-flung northern factory, nearly knocked them to their knees.

Just ahead Rockson could see three jets—MIG 99s, from the look of them, sitting just off the main runway. If they could just . . .

Rock felt the whisper of bullets flying past, one just inches from his ear. Above, at the top of the control needle, he could see faces peering out from the tower windows, pointing at the two freefighters, yelling out in confusion. The three MIGs stood in a line, one after another, obviously ready for takeoff. The second two were empty, but the first held a pilot, checking out his instrument panels, fuel gauges, and other functions in preparation for takeoff. His cockpit cover was open, standing nearly straight up as the pilot had apparently just sat down inside the jet fighter.

Rockson felt a sudden sharp sting in his lower back as a Red slug passed clear through the right side of his body. No time to stop and check it. He could still move that was all that mattered. He’d live or die according to the decision of the gods. He approached the jet from the side, the pilot obviously still unaware of all the commotion around him, so intent was he on his flight prep. With a single leap of his catlike legs, Rockson was halfway up the detachable ladder that hung at the side of the MIG. With two quick steps he was at the edge of the cockpit. He leaned over the side, holding his submachine gun in hand, and pointed it at the Red officer’s chest.

“Surprise!” Rock yelled out. The pilot turned and his face went instantly pale as he saw the blood-spattered, grime-coated American. He reached suddenly for his pistol, strapped beneath the seat, and drew it up. That was his last mistake. Rockson pumped half a clip into the man, and the body slumped down in the seat, the flesh riddled with countless little red holes, the head falling to one side like a lifeless rag doll. Rock stepped inside the cockpit and quickly unstrapped the Russian. He hefted him over the side of the plane and dropped him down onto the concrete runway where the corpse landed with a sickening thud. Rock sat down in the slanted leather seat and strapped himself in, his back beginning to throb painfully. He reached around and looked. Blood was seeping through the Red sergeant jacket that he still wore. But it wasn’t pulsing—that was a good sign. And his spinal cord obviously hadn’t been damaged or he wouldn’t even be able to move. Maybe he’d make it yet again. Archer stumbled up the ladder, dragging his wounded leg behind him, and dove into the copilot’s seat just behind the Doomsday Warrior.

“This is going to be the fastest takeoff in recorded history,” Rock yelled around to the gigantic freefighter. “Strap yourself in.” He pointed to the seat harness, and Archer, with a look of enlightenment, slammed the small metal clasps together on the belt. Rockson had never flown this particular jet before, although he had piloted several stolen jets over the years. But he did know about its workings. He made it a point to familiarize himself with every scrap of information that came his way on Russian arms and craft. The Doomsday Warrior had spent weeks at the Century City computer screens, going over every captured manual of operations. He had been the first in line to examine stolen Red equipment and documents. Survival in America 2089
A.D.
meant knowledge. The ignorant perished like match flames squeezed between the fingers of death.

Rock pushed the Systems On button. He’d just have to hope that all the equipment of the jet was functional. The cockpit cover slowly lowered itself above the two Americans and clicked tightly shut.
Oxygen Systems On
flashed on a computer screen in front of him.

“Put on the mask,” Rockson yelled back to Archer who seemed quite confused and unhappy about trading one claustrophobic situation inside the T-82 for another, even smaller squeeze inside the MIG. The seats were not designed for seven-foot-plus four hundred fifty pounders, and the American’s legs and knees were propped up behind Rock’s plastic-backed seat. The Doomsday Warrior pushed the ignition switch just as the first ranks of Red soldiers got within firing range. The exhaust flame of the MIG spat out nearly one hundred and fifty feet down the runway incinerating those who had been most eager to win the reward for Rockson’s head. Dials and lights flashed on everywhere inside the cockpit, lighting up the instrument panel before him, but Rockson didn’t have time to contemplate their meaning. He pushed the control wheel, really more of a triangular shape, forward, and the sleek olive-colored jet lurched forward. He headed the craft out onto the main runway as frantic Russian commands snapped over his headset.

“Stop what you are doing! You are not cleared for takeoff,” a gruff Russian voice bellowed over and over. Fat chance, Rock thought. He could see the rows of troops shooting at him from down the runway, their bullets whizzing all around the jet. An occasional slug ripped into the side of the MIG, but it was armored as well, plated with alloys to survive shots from .55mm machine guns. It would take more than the spinning slugs from the Kalashnikovs to do major damage, and Rockson wasn’t about to wait around for the big guns to show up. He turned the plane suddenly, the back wheels skidding around with a screech. The moment the jet was aimed straight down the long takeoff path, Rock slammed the control wheel forward at the same time he pulled a lever by his side to full power.

The MIG jerked and rushed forward, shot like a ball from a cannon. He suddenly realized that he was going the wrong way as all the big yellow arrows painted on the concrete runway were pointing at him. But they’d just have to send the ticket via freefighters, Colorado, U.S.A. A jet tore down from the skies for a landing, a passenger flight, thank God, instead of another fighter. But seeing Rockson’s MIG coming straight down its landing path, it veered sharply up and to the right.

“Almost there, pal, hang on,” Rock yelled over the thundering roar of the engine. Archer had turned a ghostly shade of white and turned his head away from the curved glass of the cockpit cover, unable to look at the ground rushing faster and faster past him. Far ahead on the runway Rock suddenly saw a whole convoy of trucks being driven onto the airfield. Emergency and fire trucks were roaring toward him, bearing down from the opposite end of the field. The dial on the airspeed panel in front of him read two hundred thirty kilometers per hour. The jet felt like it wanted to rise. There was no time like the present. Wasn’t that what Dr. Shecter always said? The lead vehicle trying to cut him off was a bright red fire truck, with soldiers hanging on for dear life on both sides. They fired at him with one arm, trying to get a clear shot at the jet, ready to die themselves to take out the humiliator of the Russian Empire. Rock pulled the wheel back as far as it would go, and the super jet shot up into the air at a forty-five degree angle, the wheels passing just inches over the heads of the firing troops. He couldn’t hear their screams as the long jet exhaust flame reached out and burned the entire crew of the truck to a blistering mass of molten flesh.

Rock climbed and climbed into the sky, taking the jet up in as steep an angle as it could handle. Within a minute he was up into the slow-moving, mountainous clouds where he leveled off. Now what? He saw a small sign with a blinking purplish light below it reading Computer Assist and pressed the Enter button to the right of the screen.

What Course?
The words flashed on a narrow six by twelve inch screen. Great—it wanted to help him, but how the hell did he answer the thing? The computer waited twenty seconds and then a second set of words appeared.
Instruction Sequence Mode—Push Button A-3.
Rock found and indented the nominated button, and almost instantly more words blinked onto the screen.
Use Keyboard Console Controls To Type In Instructions.
Rockson glanced frantically around for the Console Control Switch and at last found it. A keyboard about the size of a book popped out from the control panel and clicked into a horizontal position just in front of him. Rock typed in
Course America—USA—North.