Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style (6 page)

Rahallah slowed down the Grandfather’s wheelchair as they came to the ramp, also red-carpeted, which ran up on a slow angle to the mountainous ship. Elite Guards lined the sides of the ten-foot-wide ramp, every hand snapping to attention as the Premier’s wheelchair hit the bottom of the incline. The chair was heavy, even on wheels, loaded down as it was it with sensors and protective devices, should any assassin try to eliminate the Premier—and many had tried. But for Rahallah, the black manservant whose powerful physique lay hidden beneath the loose white tuxedo he wore, the task was not worthy of breaking a sweat. He slowly and evenly pushed the Premier up the two-hundred-foot walkway, and then onto the deck of the
Dreadnought
itself.

The ship was a monster of steel and cable. Radar domes turned like vultures’ beaked heads everywhere around the bridge. The perimeters of the immense flat deck were crammed with anti-aircraft guns. Vassily could barely focus on the far side. Cannons and missile silos, explosive cannisters for subs, rows of attack choppers for quick strike-and-take-out missions, with their crews standing at attention, waiting for the Premier, the Grandfather.

Over two thousand men lined the decks and doorways of the great ship, waiting for a look at the Premier. All were proud to be going on this historic mission. The Peace Mission, as it was called in the Soviet papers and television. The mission that would ensure Premier Vassily’s place in history as the greatest of all Russian leaders. The Premier who had ended the insurrections.

Rahallah wheeled the Grandfather past the waiting rows of admirals and sub-admirals, of captains and war heroes and every damned body who was anybody connected with the operation of the ship. They wanted their momentary glory, to bask in the eye of the Supreme Ruler and perhaps even be noticed. Promotions had been promised for every man on the ship—if all went well over there, in America.

The Premier’s personal Palace Guard followed closely around and behind him. They were everywhere, a dozen of them within fifteen feet. But disguised as non-coms—unfitting for the Grandfather to be guarded so closely on his own ship, even if there was the possibility of assassination. And there was always that. The Elite Corps looked nervous, as they always did when the Grandfather was out and around. Here, he was more vulnerable than ever. And would be for the next two, even three weeks, as the
Dreadnought
cruised the bounding main across the Atlantic to the United Soviet States. It was Vassily’s great sacrifice, that he would personally come all the way over. A concession he felt showed all concerned that he meant business. Show Ted Rockson.

If there was a vehicle to travel on—
this
was it. For not only was the super-modern battle craft equipped with enough weapons to fight World War Four by itself, it had been likewise equipped with every possible convenience and luxury below. After all, those who manned such a ship should be treated as what they were—the upper echelons of Soviet society. There were three immense restaurants, each serving a different type of cuisine, from the three main racial mixes of Russia’s vast territories. There were movie houses, dental clinics, swimming pools.

Vassily remembered that he had okayed the project years earlier. And now, as he was rolled down from its open, windy deck into the calm, temperature-controlled air of the main passenger entry hall, he was glad that he had.

“This ship is a witness to Russian engineering superiority,” Vassily said, half turning his head to Rahallah, who looked somewhat less than enthusiastic. Though he loved and cared for the Grandfather as if he were his own father—Vassily having saved Rahallah as a child and treated him almost as an equal ever since—he didn’t care for all his ideas. Although it was a master/slave relationship, still Rahallah had had a tremendous influence on the Premier—perhaps even softening him somewhat over the years. After all, Vassily had relaxed his grip on many things, even Rahallah’s own tribal lands of Tanzania and Kenya. And someday,
someday,
the Premier had promised him, they would even be freed. Rahallah was free to leave, but stayed on, caring for, influencing Vassily. He read poetry to the leader of all the world, or heard his worries of leading, of fighting the endless wars that blazed like sparks ceaselessly throughout the world. And Rahallah had been a good influence. He knew it, and that was why he stayed. He hoped that this Peace Conference-to-be would be the good result of all his work with the Premier.

But as for the death vessel beneath his feet . . . that was another matter. Rahallah could feel no love for the great weapon of Russian origin. All it would do was kill. Kill better than anything. Kill in the blink of an eye. He knew all too well the immense power that was hidden behind every tube, every wall. It made him vow to influence the Premier that much more, to never fire the weapons within. To seek lasting peace.

“Beautiful, just beautiful,” Vassily said, addressing the commander of the
Dreadnaught
who walked alongside him, his rows of medals gleaming from fluorescent lights behind frosted plexiglass in the ceiling above them. “I must say I’ve very impressed by the work your men have done getting the ship into this kind of state. It’s good to see that our money is well spent—expenditures that I have to fight for every year, tooth and nail.” Premier Vassily grinned through half-rotted teeth at the admiral, who smiled back so wide his upper lip nearly slammed into his nose. “Yes, it’s going for something worthwhile. And I’m sure the rebels will be quite impressed when they see the likes of this floating down their damned Potomac.” Vassily began coughing and couldn’t stop for nearly twenty seconds, as Rahallah stopped the wheelchair on a dime and gave the Premier some sparkling mineral water with a dash of vodka.

At last, color, a slight dash of it anyway, returned to Vassily’s face. And he motioned that he was all right, and for Rahallah to push on.

“This way, Excellency,” the bemedaled admiral said softly, pointing with his arm for Rahallah to push to the left and through a wide set of oak doors where a huge band was waiting to welcome them. But as the Premier saw the three-hundred musicians all looking anxiously, waiting to begin the musical proceedings, he held up his arms stiffly and waved them around in the air.

“No! No music!” he yelled, though only a feeble noise came out. But Rahallah relayed the message to the admiral, who was looking nervously at the scene.

“He says ‘No music’,” the black servant spat haughtily. “His ears are sensitive. He listens only to classical music at home—very low, the quiet composers,” Rahallah said quickly. “Not this loud and rambunctious martial music.” The admiral’s smile zapped off his face as if it had fallen into his underwear. He had so wanted everything to go smoothly, and already . . .

“No music,” he yelled out, cupping his hands, and the conductor’s face fell as well, as flat as a cake without yeast. The band of nearly three hundred let their various trombones, clarinets, tubas and what-all fall to their sides or dangle around their necks as they looked at one another in confusion.

“Perhaps some food,” Admiral Chesovsky said. “We have an entire banquet room waiting for you. It’s right this—”

“No; to my suite please,” Vassily said impatiently, snapping his fingers. The admiral was not used to responding to snapped fingers, but as the snapper could have his brass balls on wrecking table with yet another snap, the distinguished, gray-haired commander smiled dumbly and led the way.

Vassily’s suite was in the bow of the vessel—the admiral’s special quarters, which had been given over to the Premier for the trip. Thus they entered a small vehicle which ran on rubber wheels along the single track the thousand-feet-plus to the bow of the boat. Here an elevator took them down ten levels—the entire ship had over twenty. With a retinue of over fifty, the crowd came to the door of the Premier’s suite. The admiral opened the door as if he were a bellboy. Rahallah stared at the assemblage and then the admiral.

“The Grandfather will retire now. He thanks you all for this great reception.” With that, he wheeled the Premier in, and quickly closed the door behind him. The admiral, his dozen or so chiefs of staff, and a large number of Elite Guards stood around not quite knowing what the hell to do. At last most left, and just the Elite Guards set themselves up and down the corridor, setting up checkpoints at each end, clearing every other room for at least a hundred feet. Now that the Premier was behind steel walls, the Chief of Palace Security, Korlog, was breathing out for the first time that day.

“Ah, it’s beautiful, Rahallah, is it not,” the Premier said as his black servant wheeled him into the grandeur of the main suite. Although usually quite luxurious anyway, they had added a few touches here and there. Like silk curtains with gold-framed paintings; embroidery, finely stitched. They knew Vassily was a lover and collector of art and fine arts . . . Beds of velvet, carpets from the far-flung Persian and Far Asian parts of the Soviet world empire.

Rahallah parked the Premier by the large down bed that stood along one mahogany wall under a portrait of Prushkin, one of Russia’s greatest naval men. Large portholes, glass, two inches thick, ran across both sides of the room. As they were up in the bow area, the suite had portholes on both sides. They already were under way, the Premier having given instructions to waste no more time in protocol. Sunlight from the fractured clouds beamed down into the room, giving its riches a golden-painted look, as if an artist were going over the scene with his dappled brush.

“Here excellency, sunlight!” Rahallah said, pressing some buttons on a central control panel that clearly was the operating console for an array of devices that filled the immense room. Suddenly the curtains, which covered both sides of the very front thirty feet of the boat where it curved to a single piece of steel slicing through the dark waters, slid back. They were looking out at the Black Sea, heading inexorably toward the ocean—and America.

“Push me, Rahallah, right to the window.” The African did so. It was truly breathtaking. It was as if they were strapped to the very bow of the immense craft, just fifty feet above the water, shooting straight ahead into the falling light over the churning waters. Gulls flew on all sides of them, swirling in great confused and hungry circles, hoping to catch some of the moving city’s garbage. The clouds in the Russian sky were silver, like swords cutting the last of the life from the day.

The world was in his hands. What he did would decide the destiny of a planet. For if he died and there was no peace in place, the earth would be plunged into a thousand years of darkness and death, from which it would in all probability never arise. This he believed, deep in his heart. Only he, Vassily, could bring peace to a torn and battered world.

“Read to me, Rahallah,” the Premier suddenly said, feeling very weary and old. Hardly capable of bringing an entire planet into harmony. His body ached with the sharp pain that came from time to time from deep in his gut. It was here again, stabbing into him like a nail, hammering into his frayed and blistered intestines.

“Yes, Grandfather,” the black manservant replied softly. He pulled out a book from behind the wheelchair, just one of its many hidden treasures, and, finding the marker where he had left off, began reading aloud. He spoke with great eloquence, almost like an actor, Shakespearean tainted. But then he had had a complete education—the Premier had seen to that years before. And now, talking as if he were on stage with a one-man audience more powerful than all the other men put together in the entire world, he read from
The Sorrows of Young Werther,
by Goethe:

“It is enough to drive one mad, Wilham! To think that there are people who have no feelings at all for the few things on this earth that are of any value! Do you remember the walnut trees under which I sat with Lotte when we visited the good vicar in St.—? Those magnificent trees that, God knows, always delighted me . . . how snug they made the rectory courtyard, how cool, and what marvelous branches they had! And the memories that went with them, back to the worthy vicar who had planted them so many years ago. The schoolmaster mentions his name frequently, he has it from his grandfather. What a good man he was, and his memory was sacred to me always under those trees. I tell you, there were tears in the schoolmaster’s eyes yesterday when we spoke about how they had been cut down . . .”

Six

Back in Colorado:

T
hough Rock vowed to himself he was going to get a good night’s sleep—since what with fooling around with Rona under the sleeping bag and the stars, and fighting mutant carnivores, he hadn’t had much of said commodity for what seemed like a week. But he had scarcely had time to decontaminate, go back to his sleeping chamber and fall down, when his beeper began squawking madly by his bed.

He looked at the clock. Six
A.M.
He had gotten four hours. Shit. Hardly enough. But from the insistent call of the beeper, Rockson knew he wasn’t going to see any more sleep, maybe for a long time.

“Yeah, Rockson here,” he answered in not the friendliest of tones, pressing his mouth to the phone unit of the device.

“Rath. Sorry to wake you,” the Intel Chief replied, sounding not at all sorry. “But the Council kindly requests your presence. They’re having an emergency meeting in one hour to decide what response to make to the Russian demands. Now they, the Reds, are demanding some sort of answer—yes or no. They say Premier Vassily himself is on his way here—will arrive in a week. Freefighting cities are communicating with us from all over the country. Got messages coming in by radio, telegraph code, pony express, even birds from some of the smaller towns. Whole damned country’s in an uproar. If this is a real chance, then . . . And if not, then what the hell are they up to? At any rate,” Rath said, “you’re expected, as Century City’s top military field man, to speak. So—” He broke off the connection.

Rock had just started to ask, “And say what?”