Doomsday Warrior 08 - American Glory (20 page)

“Well, let’s not waste any more time then, pal,” Rock said, slapping the unshaven, baggy-eyed Freefighter on the back. “Ran into a few sideshows on the road. You know how it is.” The entire team breathed a sigh of relief that they had actually made it as the journey had given them a little more action than usual. For the first time in days their stomach muscles relaxed and their lungs filled completely with air as they realized, unwinding, that they had been coiled as tight as springs about to snap.

They were led a mile through the woods, the immense Fort Minsk occasionally visible through the branches to the north of them, until they came to a camp set up beneath the trees—tents and hammocks strung along their lower limbs. The whole thing was somewhat constricting to get around in but necessary because of their proximity to the KGB-held fortress and the occasional chopper that flew overhead. The rest of the team headed for showers, fresh clothes, and food while Rock just stopped to grab a cup of steaming black coffee from one of the many coffee-pots that sat on no-smoke pellet stoves. He walked to the command post, a rectangular camouflage-patterned tent that ran fifty feet long but, because of the many branches overhead, was only about six feet high. He pushed aside the front flaps. A meeting consisting of Century City’s top ten military men was in heated progress, with General Hastings, the white-haired chief of staff, banging his fist down on the log table they’d lashed together, which was covered with maps and battle plans.

“Rock,” Hastings said, stopping whatever he was about to extrapolate on in mid-sentence. The military brass, somehow managing to be well-groomed, their uniforms pressed and straight, all looked up. Their eyes focused on Rockson’s face as if he was a mixture of the Almighty savior and a warthog all rolled into one. The military leaders of the subterranean city had always had an uneasy alliance with Rockson. Although highly successful in his military planning and maneuvers in the past—and therefore virtually immune to criticism—the man irked them in a thousand different ways. He never wore a real uniform, never saluted, or followed any of the customary procedures and rules that were the glue of any man’s army. He never had his special men march parade drill, wear regulation combat gear, or do army calisthenics or workouts of any kind. He just wasn’t—an army man. Yet, as the living symbol of America’s resistance, he had an official say and even ultimate veto over all major military moves. Not that he pulled rank—of that they were grateful. If anything, the man seemed most content when off on a mission of his own, by himself or just his five-man team. Perhaps deep down inside the hearts of each of the brass was a wish to be like Rockson—a born and perfect warrior. But only their jealous eyes expressed the feeling, as their mouths welcomed him to the meeting.

Rock waved his hands, not wanting to go through all the formalities. “Please, please, gentlemen. Just pretend I’m not here and continue with your discussion. You can fill me in as you go along.”

“Well, Rock,” Hastings went on, “we were just discussing—”

“Arguing,” General Spokes yelled out with a hard laugh.

“Arguing,” Hastings agreed, “about the best battle formation. We really haven’t had too much experience in laying waste a whole fortress. As you know, most of our military expeditions since Century City was founded have been hitting convoys, smaller bases. Strike-destroy-split. So none of us, in all honesty, has been really sure how to proceed. We dug up some old siege booklets from the Military Library back at Century City but they’re obsolete for a number of reasons.” Rock listened intently, nursing the coffee down to the bitter grounds, wishing there was more.

“So we were just dis—arguing about whether to send all our forces against one wall—mortar, machine gun, infantrymen—and try to bring it down. Or to attack all four sides, weaken their inner forces, disperse them and try to move in fast with a mobile commando unit and get inside. I must say I favor the one-wall scenario,” General Hastings added, wanting to get his point over first. “We know that Minsk is filled with heavy artillery up on the walls—auto-fire machine guns, rocket racks—the works. Assuming Killov and his men can handle what they’ve got there—then they’ve got a hundred times the firepower that we do. Intel Chief Rath convinced the Century City council to cut by 60% the number of Freefighters the city would send here.”

“Damn,” muttered Rockson. “That bastard Rath . . .”

“The way I see it then,” the General continued, “our only chance is to just keep blasting every goddamned bit of fire we possess on one section of one wall—rip it apart—and then get our asses in there fast.” The portly but physically strong-as-a-bull general finished and sat back, trying to gauge Rockson’s reaction.

“Sounds as good as anything I could come up with,” Rock said matter-of-factly, adding, “is there any coffee around here?”

“Orderly, orderly,” Hastings sputtered impatiently to one of several uniformed soldiers standing around the log table. “Bring two pots of coffee and some food. On the double.” The trooper ran out and returned with impossible quickness with the required items. Rock couldn’t help himself, as his growling stomach demanded it, and began stuffing his mouth with the various rolls, pastries, and assorted doughy items that were brought in as the generals continued their heated debate—each side of the argument sure that only their plan would bring victory, and the adoption of the other’s position—total, humiliating defeat.

Before they could make a final decision—and before Rockson had cleaned off the food tray, one of the outer forest guards came rushing right through the flaps of the tent where he hit into the edge of the branch-lashed table, sending it and himself flying over sideways onto the dirt.

“Sirs, sirs, sorry,” heaved out the young Freefighter through dry lips, gasping for air, his face bright as an apple in October. “Just run a mile ’out stopping,” explained the strapping lad, barely out of his teens. “ ’Cause some people showed up at the southeast woods—and sirs, they—they—they—” He couldn’t seem to find the words and every man in the room stared down incredulously at his wild-eyed face.

“They
what?”
Hastings asked impatiently.

“They’re weird, sirs,
weird.”

Fifteen

A
s Rockson came out of the southeast perimeter of the trees around the Freefighter camp, he could see immediately that the kid had been telling the truth. Weird wasn’t the half of it. For coming off the plains in a fifty-yard-wide line that stretched back a good mile was an army that looked like it was out of The Arabian Nights. At the front—the cavalry riding tall black steeds that looked more like the horses of the 20th century than the Freefighters’ own mutated ’brids. Atop them, carrying their fighting flags and banners, sat white-robed warriors with long pointed beards and with swords at their sides. Behind them came the infantry, long lines of turbaned troops bearing an odd assortment of both primitive and modern weapons—machine guns and bows, lances and bazookas. And far in the rear, Rock could see from atop Snorter, were men pushing immense wooden structures on roughly hewn wheels. There were ropes and pulleys and levers all over the damned things, but for the life of him the Doomsday Warrior couldn’t imagine what they were.

The two riders at the very front of the army drew closer and Rock saw that they were shielded from the sun by men riding alongside them holding large silk umbrellas. The men’s eyes were fierce, countless diamonds, sapphires, and blood-red rubies burning on their robes and turbans, set afire by the stabbing rays of the afternoon sun. They made quite an impressive picture, and Rockson knew by the calmness of their demeanor and the tornado just behind their eyes that they were fighters of the highest order—men who had killed many times.

“Bow, cur!” one of the riders spat out at Rock in perfect English as he and his bejeweled companion pulled to a stop before him. The entire army slowed down and the men began marching in place without missing a step. The fierce brown eyes stared down at Rockson.

“No thanks,” Rock said, spitting a mouthful of coffee grounds down next to his ’brid. “I don’t even bow to kings and holy men. What are you?”

“A general, fool,” the older of the two barked down, his eyes beginning to spark with fury. “And by what odious appellation are you known to those with the misfortune to be in your company?”

“Ted Rockson, an officer of the Army of the Re-United States of America.”

The mounted Sikh general seemed to turn to stone for a moment as his mind took in the words, and he looked at his partner with a quizzical glance as if wondering whether to believe it. The younger man looked down at Rockson with a little less antagonism and asked, “What can never be allowed to be opened?”

“The Seventh Seal, for within it lies ten thousand years of darkness,” Rock replied, giving the response that he and Rahallah had agreed to over the phone, so that Vassily’s forces would be able to identify themselves. Vassily’s Sikh army had arrived.

“You
are Rockson?” the silver-bearded Sikh fighter asked with barely disguised scorn. “I am General Sikh Panchali, and this,” he said, pointing a lazy finger to his right, “is General Ragdar. We are the Royal Indian Sikh Army under the personal orders of Premier Vassily to join with your—” he looked around and sniffed the air as if he found something not to his liking, “army, which I am afraid I do not see anywhere. Nor do I see lines of troops to greet us, or buglers signaling our arrival. This is not how we do things in the Asias! The ritual of preparing for battle is as important as the execution of it. I must say, I
am
disappointed.”

“Sorry, General,” Rock said with a click of the tongue and a quick smile. “We Americans never were much for all that ‘God-save-the-Queen’ stuff—but we’re kick-ass fighters. I promise you that. How the hell did you get here, anyway—just marching along out of nowhere?”

“Our fleet of transport planes touched down about fifty miles east of here,” Ragdar said, folding his wide-sleeved arms across his chest, emeralds sewn along the seams glistening like little tongues of green fire every time he moved. “So we marched.”

“Through the wastelands?” Rock asked, remembering snakes and such.

“Compared to the mountainous regions we have fought in,” Ragdar said, “your wastelands, as you call them, are like an oasis to us. We come from the least hospitable terrain on this planet, General Rockson. Landscapes that can only be likened to the dark side of the moon.”

“And your English, you speak so—”

“Of course we do,” General Panchali butted in, snapping loudly at Rockson. “Every Sikh officer speaks at least four languages, many five, even six. English is one. I must apologize for Sikh Panchali,” the younger Sikh said. “He has been killing men for too long to remember how to greet them, I am afraid. But for both of us I give greetings and prayers for success at our joint venture.”

“I hate to bring it up,” Rock exclaimed, looking past the two men at their army spread out across a mile of terrain, totally exposed to air attack. “But don’t you think your men should have better cover, should get into the woods, should—”

“We do not fear attack,” General Panchali said loudly, motioning for his umbrella bearer to put the thing away as the sun was dropping behind the trees and its direct light and heat were dissipating. “In the hundred years my army has been in existence—no one has defeated us, General Rockson. Those who dare attack us are welcome to try. We run from no man.” He turned on his gilded saddle and gave a simple head motion to his subordinate officers, who immediately ordered the troops to dismount and make camp right there in the open, just feet from the sheltering forest. Rockson shook his head in disbelief.

“And now,” Ragdar said with a smile, “you must inform us of your battle plans so that we may begin briefing our men.”

“Well, to be honest with you,” Rock said, feeling foolish, “we’d been wondering just that thing ourselves. You wouldn’t have any ideas, would you?”

“You want to take the fort,” Panchali said, snapping his fingers together. “It is simple. We are experts of siege, of laying waste to ‘indestructible’ structures. You have undoubtedly heard of our exploits, our conquering of the entire Tibetan armies, our taking of whole nations—even over here.” The silver-bearded general sat back on his wide elephant-skin saddle and waited for the praise to pour on.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Rock responded, “but we don’t get much in the way of international newspapers or the evening world news on television—so not too many of us are that well informed on world events. But I’m sure we’d all be fascinated to hear about your exploits. Your place—or mine—for the get-together?”

That night Rockson got his stated desire and more—as the Freefighters came to a banquet thrown by the two Sikh generals. Rock brought Kim, Rona, and the Rock team along with fifty or so Freefighting officers who would be leading the rest of the American men into battle. Rock and the top staff agreed that it would be wise for at least the officers of the two armies to meet and get a nodding acquaintance—since they would be fighting for their lives together within 24 hours. The Sikh generals, anxious to show off their brand of “having one over for a bite,” had erected a long brightly colored tent with high billowing silk walls and banners intricately embroidered with lions’ heads and dragons. Inside, the tent was like a dream of Asian jaded luxury—long tables filled with fruit, steaming platters of meat and fish, decanters and bottles of multicolored liquids carried around on silver platters by black-robed servants, musicians playing rhythmic but alien-sounding music that followed no tonal system Rockson had ever heard on long, curved stringed instruments.

The guests of honor were led in and to their places on immense, overstuffed satin pillows that lay around thick rugs which covered the entire tented ground.

“Excellent, excellent,” Ragdar said from his own pillow. Two young veiled, but bare midriffed women on either side of him were feeding grapes into his mouth. “So glad you could all come.” Rockson sat on one side of him as Kim and Rona each tried to grab the pillow closest to the Doomsday Warrior. Chen, Detroit, McCaughlin, and Archer all walked slowly around the place, gawking at the extravagant silks and weavings and gilded cow heads that hung on the tent walls. And the food—mountains of it, a feast one could only imagine in a dream. Vassily’s impromptu airlift of men and supplies must have been massive. But what about quality?