Doomsday Warrior 01 (39 page)

His senses went on full alert as his heartbeat quickened, preparing for danger. They had gone about a mile further on the never-changing flat terrain when Rock heard it: the dim whine of a jet. From the grinding sound of the whine, it was a big one. Within a minute they could see the big Soyuz II transport craft. The huge loading doors of the plane opened up from the front and figures leaped out. As they hit the air, parakites popped open above them and they streamed down, dozens of Blackshirts from one of the elite special forces team. Figure after figure jumped from the slowly moving jet until the sky seemed to be filled with the quickly falling parakites.

“Let’s move it,” Rock yelled, raising his arm and quickly bringing it down. Lang would have to hang on. They tore across the plain, the hybrids quickly picking up to a good speed as there were virtually no obstacles to watch for. They gave it all they had as the Freefighters kept hitting them on the sides with the ends of the reins and whispering in their ears to move it.

But the parakite force easily kept up; their curving orbits brought them ahead of the Americans. They were going to be cut off, Rock could see that. It would be better to be in a good position defensively than to be picked off the hybrids’ backs. Rockson held up his hand—the stop signal—and the troop came to a whinnying, hoof-stomping, dusty stop. “Let’s fight it out, men. We’re not going to be able to outrun them so let’s get our defenses as strong as possible.” They quickly dismounted and broke down into their defense squads. Four men got out two machine guns and quickly set them up, using the pack ’brids, lying flat around the Freefighters, as shields. Berger and Perkins worked the small mortar and quickly set up range of 150 feet. Rock and the others set up their Liberators on the fold-out bipods that were built-in underneath the barrel. Detroit took out ten grenades and laid them carefully down in front of him. Five concussion and five fraggers. Each man did his job calmly and swiftly as the parakites came zigzagging down at steep angles. The Reds didn’t want to waste time either. They circled ever lower, nearly forty of them in black leather gear, oxygen masks and goggles to keep out the dreaded radioactive air and soil. Some of them began firing their .9mm submachine guns from the armrests of their nylon paragliders. Slugs bit into the parched earth just twenty feet from the Americans’ defensive circle.

“Let’s get them, men,” Rock yelled. He began firing his Liberator on full auto at the descending flying force. “And watch your backs—they’re swinging around.” He had hardly gotten the words out when a Red paraglider came swooping in from the back, barely ten feet off the ground and moving a good 150 mph. Rockson could see the leering face of the Blackshirt as he let loose with a burst of fire that cut right through the center of the defensive circle. One of the ’brids in the middle let loose with an ear-splitting bay of pain and began flopping around out of control. Rock opened up with his Liberator before the parakite had reached the other side of the circle. The bullets arced up, making target just as the skyrider zipped by. Rock’s hail of death pounded through the nylon of the kite and into the Red’s stomach and chest, slicing the man in half. His body, spitting blood like a fountain statue, fell from the parakite and into a lifeless lump about thirty yards past the Freefighters.

“That’s one down,” Rock yelled out to the Freefighters who were cutting loose with their own weapons. But the zigzagging patterns of the highly skilled Blackshirt parakite squad made them extremely difficult targets. Archer aimed carefully, shooting four arrows in ten seconds. Two found their marks, a hundred yards up and two hundred yards away, piercing the bodies of two of the elite squad troops. Their parakites wavered out of control and then plunged to the earth. The Freefighters cheered every time a Red went down.

But the first Blackshirt had landed. They quickly set up their assault-team equipment: light machine guns, a bazooka-type rocket launcher and other sundry Soviet field weaponry. Not waiting for the rest of their comrades to land, they opened up with the machine guns, hitting two of the pack ’brids in the side of the circle facing the Red gunners. They were ripped apart, dead before they had time to scream. It was a shame that the ’brids had to be sacrificed like this, Erickson thought. Lang, his foot resting up on a pack, handled the belt to the .9mm machine gun, guiding it up to Erickson. But their deaths meant our lives, Erickson rationalized. ’Brids had often saved the lives of their parties by affording protection where there otherwise was none.

With the machine gun resting securely on one of the dead ’brid’s haunches, Erickson opened fire, cutting a trail through the rippled dry earth straight toward the Red gunners. If the Americans had hardly any cover, the Reds had none. The seam of death swept through the machine-gun nest, tearing it apart with the force of a whirlwind. The big slugs tore through two of the Red gunners, chewing up their faces and necks into pulpy hamburger. The two flew backwards and lay motionless on the shell-cluttered ground. The machine gun, smacked by two slugs, exploded in the chamber, blowing apart and into a third Blackshirt, the barrel of the long machine gun ripping into the belt-handler’s skull, piercing him like a lance. Dead eyes rolled up, staring up at a godless sky.

Two more of the KGB Death Squad, still gliding down, came in for another try on the Americans. They soared in from two sides, firing their subs from atop their hang bars. Rock saw the stream of lead coming a second before it slammed into the ground where he had been standing, making little clouds of dust spurt into the air. He dove to the side in the nick of time then, lying on his back, fired at the two crisscrossing Blackshirts. His shots hit one of them in the neck, severing his spinal cord. He fell face-forward onto the glide stick as the parakite glided slowly down. The second Red pulled a grenade and droped it as he flew overhead. He soared past and headed for his comrades several hundred yards away who were setting up a steady stream of fire on the trapped Americans. An arrow shot from forward side of the defensive circle and, spinning ever so slightly, slammed into the fleeing Red’s buttocks at three hundred miles an hour, piercing the KGB elite’s intestines and then lungs. He let out a bloodcurdling scream and fell thirty feet, landing directly in front of his own men. They turned their heads in disgust at the still-lanced, bloody corpse and set up their lines of fire. Within five minutes all thirty-six survivors of the drop were organized into strike teams. One advanced slowly, crawling on their bellies, sending out a blizzard of fire from three machine guns, while the other two worked their way around to either flank. They would soon have the Americans cut off on three sides. Then they’d close in.

Rockson surveyed the scene. It was apparent what their plan was. He glanced around at his own men inside the defensive circle of hybrids. Three of the ’brids were already dead, on the edge of the circle facing the guns, their bodies riddled with bullets. But the thick hides and four foot width of the creatures made them good cover. He hoped no more would have to die.

“Anyone hurt?” Rock yelled out.

“I’m winged, Rock,” a voice yelled out. It was Slade, with his hand over his shoulder. “I guess it’s only appropriate that the doctor on this expedition get a dose of the real thing,” he said, wincing slightly as he shifted his body. “But my instant diagnosis, additional fee, of course, for visiting the patient, is that I’ll live. Could you hand me the medipack, Perkins?” Slade asked, sitting himself straight up against the back of the ’brid behind him. With Slade’s direction, Perkins cleaned and sealed the wound with the instant plastic sealant that even held the edges of the wound together, stopping the bleeding almost instantly.

The Russian firing continued, coming in from three sides as the Reds slowly moved their flanking forces forward. “This is the story men,” Rock said decisively. “They’ve got our asses cooked in about five minutes. There’s no way to outfight them from this position. So we’ll have to outflank them. Detroit! Chen! I want you both to go straight back, away from the Reds, and then circle around them, coming in from behind. You’re both exceptional runners so I know you can cover the ground in good time. You’ll have to be at least three or four hundred yards away from them or you’ll be spotted. Then come in on them while their attention’s on us. Detroit, you’ve got your grenades. Chen, do you want to carry grenades?”

“I’ve got something new I’ve been working on for the last few months with Dr. Shecter’s help. Here, Rock, I haven’t shown you these as I wanted to wait for the right moment to use them.” The Chinese martial arts master pulled out two five-pointed star-knives. The blades were round in the center with five razor-sharp points coming out like a starfish. “Made them myself—well, with Shecter’s help. They’re lined with explosives, Rock. High explosives. Go off on contact, with the explosive force of about half of one of our standard grenades. I’ve been working with them—they’re quite efficient. I’ve got ten of them in the back of my belt,” Chen said, lifting the back edge of his long, black jacket to reveal a row of knives, each in its own small, leather pocket.

Rock looked at the master of death, then said, “I’m glad I’m not a Russian today. Good luck to both of you.” The two headed out from the back of the defensive circle of ’brids, jumping quickly over the backs of the neighing animals and running as fast as their pumping legs could carry them in a line straight away from the advancing Red forces. They went about two hundred yards and stopped.

“Take it slow,” Detroit said, glancing over at Chen, who took two of the lethal star-knives from his hidden belt pouch.

“I’ll take it fast, if you don’t mind,” Chen retorted. They headed off in opposite directions, moving like blurs, bent over as far forward as they could without falling over. They circled far around the action, watching the Reds send out curtains of flesh-seeking slugs. Then they heard the sound of rockets. Good God, they were shooting goddamn rockets at the trapped men. The sounds of battle pushed the two Americans on, faster and faster, as they raced against time to save their fellow warriors.

Inside the circle of hybrids, Rockson directed the return fire. He had wanted to go out against the Reds but felt that he should stay with his men, just in case.

“Try to cut that right flank off with a steady line of fire right along that slight rise there,” Rock directed Erickson who shifted the machine gun over several feet.

“Will do, Rock,” he said, sending out a line of screaming slugs that tore up the dirt just ahead of the Red Blackshirts. They returned the fire and Erickson ducked as the Red bullets dug deep into the hide of the dead hybrid in front of the machine gun. The corpse of the animal shuddered violently and then was still. Erickson returned the fire, with Lang, now sitting wide-eyed, handing him the heavy belt of ammo.

Perkins and McCaughlin got the mortar going, slowly zeroing in on the Red squad directly ahead of them, less than two hundred feet away. Their first two shots fell behind the crawling soldiers but the third hit the outermost group of men and blew two bodies into the air like rag dolls. The two Freefighters looked at each other and patted one another on the back.

“A few more like that,” McCaughlin said cheerfully, “and it’s time for dinner.” But the Reds had gotten their own bigger stuff going as well. A Blackshirt jumped up from the left flanking group, the legs of his leather uniform covered with blood from some already wounded comrade. He aimed a long, tubular weapon at the Freefighters. It whooshed fire from the back and a rocket tore at them, forcing Perkins and McCaughlin to jump away from the mortar as both knew instinctively it had their names written on it. The shell landed nearly square on the mortar, blowing it into a rain of red-hot scraps. Shrapnel tore into Perkins’s back and McCaughlin’s legs. They both let out yelps of pain and then checked out the wounds. They’d live. The mortar gone, they raised their Liberators and began firing on auto at the constantly advancing lines of black-leather-uniformed troops.

As if on signal, three Reds suddenly jumped up, one from each of the three advancing squads and pulled their arms back, obviously to throw grenades. Every one of the Freefighters opened up and two of the Death Squad fell dead. The third got off his grenade before he too was cut down by the whizzing wall of death. The grenade spun gracefully through the air like a well-thrown football and plopped in the dirt dead center of the Freefighters’ circle. Lang, who was nearest the shrapnel cocktail, leaped forward without a moment’s hesitation and grabbed the grenade. Without stopping his motion, he lifted his arm and heaved the explosive device back out over the body of one of the dead ’brids. It went off just as it slipped behind the corpse. A burst of metal fragments tore into the hybrid’s cold side, just barely protecting Lang from the blast. He rolled back over to Erickson and, as if nothing had happened, said, “Hey, man, keep firing. We still got at least two dozen to go.” Erickson stared in amazement at Lang, who put his burnt leg back up on the pack and, smiling, resumed feeding the belt of .9mm slugs to the machine gun.

Erickson aimed the machine gun at the rushing troops, pulled his trigger finger back, and didn’t let go for twenty seconds, spraying the entire area to the right of them, creating a dust bowl of sand, metal and blood. Like hornets, the bullets tore into ten Red troops who had made a break for it, stinging, slashing, ripping at their flesh. The very air turned red with the spray of hot blood, shooting out from countless holes in the jerking, screaming bodies. When the smoke cleared after Erickson finally released the trigger, nothing moved in that direction. Nothing.

The other side of the perimeter was not doing as well. Slade, Perkins and Berger fired away at the advancing left flank. Rock and McCaughlin also slammed clip after clip into their smoking Liberators. Thank God the damn things hadn’t jammed, Rock thought as he pushed what must have been his twelfth clip of .9mm shells jnto the Liberator, clicking the catch into place. He raised the rifle and saw two targets. Two Reds, seventy-five feet ahead, with grenades in their hands. He knew they were about to stand. He waited until he saw the upward rise of their bodies and pulled the trigger, emptying the clip as he moved the rifle from side to side. The two Blackshirt uniforms of the grenade-throwers turned bright red where the slugs tore through them and exited out their backs, rivulets of thick blood gushing down onto the dry earth. Their grenades fell back with them. The surrounding Red troops crawling on their bellies saw the devices fall. One Red soldier reached forward and threw one out to the side. The other Blackshirts, about fifteen feet away, tried to run from the second grenade which lay ominously on the ground. As they rose, Rockson and McCaughlin unleashed a hurricane of lead into them. Five more fell to the earth just before the second grenade went off. Two more Reds screamed in agony, the side of their uniforms facing the grenade staining a deep red.