Doomsday Warrior 08 - American Glory (6 page)

Rona stepped forward, cocking a fist, ready to deck the blond bug before her with a single blow. At 5'10" plus, the one thing the statuesque acrobat and fighter was sensitive about was her well-developed physique. Sometimes in her most depressed moments she had felt that perhaps Rockson wanted a more feminine kind of woman—a petite charmer with dainty sex-kitten little movements and fickle tosses of the head. And Rona would never be that, could never play the coquette.

“But dear, you don’t look healthy at all,” Rona retorted, looking down at her rival, withdrawing her fist as she realized it wouldn’t help her cause with Rockson to smash in the teeth of his paramour. “You really should eat more—your ribs, everything—that is, what little there is to see—is poking out. Meat—eat more meat, my poor little thing.”

“She really is a remarkable specimen,” Kim said, turning her big blue eyes to Rockson, whose headache was threatening to jump back into his head, combat boots first. “With those thick arms and huge legs, perhaps she’s the female Homo Mutatiens, like you. Although from what you told me about Dr. Shecter’s theories of post-nuke evolution, she looks more like a throwback than a new species. Something more related to a Neanderthal, perhaps.”

At the word Neanderthal, Rona threw herself through the air at her rival, and only Rockson’s outstretched hand at the last second snatched her back by the hair as Kim raised her fists for a go at it. Rona turned around toward Rock, bringing her knee up toward his solar plexus as the chairman’s gavel cracked loudly several times. He coughed and looked down at Century City’s most renowned fighter and the two women who were about to set in tooth and nail. And even they had to soften under the stern gaze of council president Randolph, appointed recently after the disaster. He had a strong presence and had resolved to run all meetings under the full sway of the City’s laws and rules of decorum.

“There will be no fighting in this chamber as long as I am council president,” he said, severely admonishing the three of them, who melted under the words as hundreds of eyes peered over in astonishment from around the room. The trio, their faces red as burnished apples, sat down in the front row, not one of them daring to look at any of the others.

“And now that the little pre-meeting entertainment has ended,” Randolph went on, “we can begin.” The council president looked over suddenly to the right side of the stage and nodded his head quickly. A scratchy sound came over the P.A. system.

“Please rise,” Randolph said, as the words of the Star Spangled Banner began. “Please rise to welcome the President of the United States, Charles M. Langford.”

“Oh, say can you see,

By the dawn’s early light . . .”

Every man and woman rose as Langford got up from his chair and managed to slap a smile of sorts on his face. He walked toward the podium and, as if remembering the charisma of days of old, held his hands high over his head in a victory sign. The delegates cheered, tears coming to their eyes. They had all thought they were as cynical as they came—but the sight of the first president of the U.S. had had for a century cut through the veneer of sophistication. A man voted into office by a free election held among delegates from virtually every Free City in the country. He was old, half beaten—but he was their president.

“Thank you, thank you,” Langford said, obviously moved by the ovation. Rockson, standing with the rest in the front row, noticed that the man’s eyes seemed to light up with a sparkle they hadn’t had for weeks. Maybe, just maybe . . . Langford waved his hands up and down for the crowd to sit, but the people wouldn’t. The applause went on and on. And when the song on the record player ended, it was put on again. There were few moments like this—having a sense of pride and a feeling of truly being a part of an all-encompassing America instead of just a collection of quarreling, isolated hamlets, never really getting it all together. Langford was the living symbol that it was all possible—every one of their impossible dreams of freedom.

After the second singing, the crowd at last quieted and sat down, but on the edge of their chairs.

“Thank you, thank you, I am deeply honored,” Langford said in a low but firm voice. “Not just for myself, but for the office of the presidency, which I think is what you are really applauding, what you are really feeling.” He exhaled, trying to regain his total concentration, as if coming out of a fog that had hovered over him.

“Now, I have no great words of encouragement to offer you. We’re all grownups here. Have all been through the realities of present-day life. Things are hard—and getting harder. But I also sense a change. Something in the wind that says our day is coming. If we just work together, grow into something bigger than our separate parts—be like the America of old—indivisible, all fighting for and with all. We can win. In my heart I truly believe this. Our Soviet occupiers are at one another’s throats.
We can win!”

The delegates stood and cheered again as Langford seemed to tire suddenly and gripped the lectern with trembling hands. The crowd knew the words were clichés, generalities. But men lived by such and always had. For humans, above everything else, need hope or all is lost.

“Thank you, sir,” Randolph said, stepping forward and taking the president by the elbow and leading him back to his chair. He returned to the front of the stage. “And I think I can say for all of us, not just here in the Council Chamber, Mr. President,” he said, turning his head slightly toward the seated Langford, “but for every citizen of Century City, that we consider it a great personal honor to have you visit us here and want to let you know that you are welcome for as long as our facilities and personnel are of use to you.”

The delegates let out a stomping roar of approval for those words. The idea that they were, if only momentarily, the capital of Free America, that from within their granite walls plans and orders would be sent out to stir action in every part of the nation, was truly thrilling.

“But now, down to the business at hand. President Langford’s words came at a very appropriate time, I must say,” Randolph intoned grimly. “And to fill you in on just what the situation is around the country—I’ll let Intelligence Chief Rath provide the update.”

Rath came stage-center, greeted by a few half-hearted cheers as well as low grumbling boos. Rath, though a workaholic and highly efficient in his trade, was not a well-liked man. His personality was just a little too grating, and his need for 100% efficiency at all times from those who worked around him made him a hard and rigorous boss. But he got the job done. And in his business, that was all that mattered.

“We’ve received reports from our contacts all over the U.S.,” Rath said, glancing down at a sheaf of notes in his hands. “And frankly, things look even worse than we had thought. Colonel Killov has apparently made great successes in his rebellion against the Russian military government here. President Zhabnov is either dead or has fled the country—but is nowhere to be seen. Rockson’s attack on Killov and his forces in Washington has apparently forced them to flee the capital, which is now back in the hands of the Red Army. Killov is believed to be in Fort Minsk. As for the rest of the country, our estimates are that he and his men, turncoats and mercenaries, now control between 65% and 75% of all Red fortresses in America.”

Gasps could be heard around the room. None of them had realized things were so bad. Zhabnov had been a buffoon, a joke. But Killov—that was a different story. If he truly became the unchallenged Red ruler of America—it was over.

“I would say gasps are in order,” Rath said, letting the corner of his mouth turn up for a flash in a fraction of a sardonic grin. Then back to the pencil-straight expression that he wore eternally. “I would also say that the situation for Killov remains extremely unstable. He has taken, in some cases, fortresses containing up to 50,000 Red Army troops with his own attacking forces a tenth that size. But through surprise, the taking hostage of the entire officer corps of each fort, and the imprisonment or confinement to barracks of the lower ranks, he has thus far been able to keep a lid on the situation. As weeks go by, months—his hold will undoubtedly strengthen. And once he has a firm grip on the occupying forces—he will move against the Free Cities. And he will let nothing stand in his way.”

“What is your recommendation for course of action?” council president Randolph asked from several feet away.

“Strike now, while there is still time,” Rath spat out instantly, without thinking about it for a second. “This man cannot be allowed to get control of the Russian nuclear missile force over here. We must somehow launch an all-out attack on every one of these forts. As mad as it sounds—release the Red Army, free one enemy so that they can kick the other enemy, the KGB, right the hell into the dead zones.”

Voices of protest rang out from the audience at the concept of aiding the army that had burned and looted and raped and bombed out whole towns and villages in its constant effort to wipe out every trace of American resistance. The thought was repugnant to them.

As head of the City’s combat forces, Rockson rose and stepped up on the dais.

“Request chair’s permission to address the council,” Rockson said, looking at Randolph.

The council president glanced around to see if there were any objections and, seeing none, said, “Take the floor.”

Rock shuffled up to the center of the stage, squinting against the lights and the eyes of the delegates and civilians who packed the auditorium. He hated the limelight, and felt a deep blush threaten to slide up the side of his face. But those emotions were all bullshit when it was wartime.

“I’d just like to second Rath’s feeling that we strike. We’ve been carrying out small attacks for years, getting nowhere, really. When I was your delegate to the Re-Constitutional Convention at which Charles Langford was elected president, one of the other things all the delegates agreed on was the need for a national military council—a coordinated effort in which we could use our forces as armies not guerillas. We fought the Neo-Nazis as an army, and won. By uniting all the combat personnel of the larger Free Cities, we have nearly three-quarters of a million men ready to kick ass. The president’s task force at Omicron City has developed contingency plans for quickly uniting all these forces. We have come together before, but never like this plan envisions. United we stand, divided we fall. Killov almost got us last time. Just look around you at the blackened walls, the broken seats you’re sitting in. That’s as close as you get and still talk about it.”

“Course of action?” Randolph asked with a perturbed look.

“Call a national military council to meet here. Delegates—the top combat leaders of every city we can reach. We’ll map out a massive surprise attack. All our armies, under one command, one central War Room. We’ll attack, as Rath suggests. Help the regular Sovs throw out the KGB Blackshirts—and then retreat, causing as much damage to the Red fortresses as we can.”

“And the Red Armies themselves—when they’re freed?” Randolph asked. “We’re talking about upwards of 2 or 3 million armed men.”

“Well, I don’t think we’re ready for that battle right now,” Rock said. “We’ll do it on a fortress-by-fortress basis. As bad as Premier Vassily is, the man has at least stopped the use of nuclear weapons. Even the nuke-strike on Century City was Killov’s undertaking. We can’t let this nation take any more radiation. I’ve been out there—out in the wilds. America is wounded, damaged, but she’s coming back. Slowly. But life and death still lie in the balance. No more atomic weapons can be used here. None—or the balance will tip and this country will slide into the dark ages.”

There was a series of fervent shouts from the audience as delegates who agreed and disagreed with the Doomsday Warrior let him know it with all their hearts. Rockson stepped from the stage. He’d said his piece. It was up to the men and women whom the people of Century City had elected to represent them to make the final decision.

After nearly two-and-a-half hours of intense debate—for Century City was, if nothing else, egalitarian to the hilt, preferring the screaming and occasional fist-fighting of pure democracy than the appointment of an ongoing leader, or a proxy system—they came to a decision. The motion carried—237 to 142—to convene a National Military Convention to prepare for “K” Day—when Killov and his KGB murderers would be sent back to their lairs. Free Cities around the country would be contacted by every possible means, including coded radio messages, carrier pigeons, and pony express. The meeting was set for exactly seven days from then, come hell or high water.

Rockson exited out the side, unable to deal with the two women he had left, who sat glaring at one another.

Five

J
ed “Biscuit” Haverston flew around in the saddle of his big hybrid stallion like a buoy in a hurricane. It was amazing that the big tangle-bearded deerskin-clothed man could stay on at all, top-heavy as he was with rifles and ammunition, canteens and various pouches that hung over and around his large, round physique. And it was a lucky thing that the hybrid beneath him was as immense as he was—a good two feet taller and 300 pounds heavier than most ’brids—or it never could have carried the Pony Express rider for more than a few miles, let alone the hundred that they regularly trod.

Route 55, United States Pony Express System; and Jed was proud to be a part of it. In the ten years he had ridden for the organized and highly efficient delivery service, which was modeled after the Western postal carriers in America’s days of old, Jed had logged in over 10,000 miles of service, carrying messages, gifts, gold coins—anything and everything that Americans in one Free City wanted to get to another. He had been bitten by snakes a hundred times, been attacked by wolves, coyotes, wild dogs, and Russians, not to mention the odd cannibal or two. Had lost six ’brids, had withstood rains, snows, tornados, earthquakes, and drought—all just to keep his part of the line going.

For “Biscuit” Haverston considered his job an honor, a part of building the new America, a blow against the Red occupiers every time he completed a successful delivery, every time he pulled up wild-eyed and exhausted, with his bags of precious cargo. And this—this of all carries—a call-to-arms for all Americans to rise, to take their guns and kick ass. He leaned forward astride the big steed, pressing his face and shoulder against the sleek muscular withers to cut the wind. The day he had been waiting for his whole life—for the Reds to be thrown the hell out—had finally come. And he was a vital part of that process.