Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style (23 page)

Twenty-Three

W
ithin an hour, Rockson had his men at the gate of the White House, where heavily armed and flak-jacketed Elite Troops had set up barriers and machine-gun nests, just in case Killov tried to take them out. Rock and his team were waved through as Rahallah had given explicit orders. The Reds seemed uncomfortable about the whole thing and treated Rockson with contempt. But they obeyed. They were the Premier’s personal guard, under his second-in-command when it came to palace matters. Besides—they knew what Killov would do if he got hold of any of them. The mass beheadings of nearly the entire ship’s crew had been relayed back to the rest of them by their other units. Every one of them knew what the score was. Just what was at stake.

“Here’s the recording of Killov’s message,” Rahallah told Rockson as he and his team, along with the top officers of the Elite Guard—men Rahallah trusted—sat around on the chairs and rug of the presidential council chambers. “He broadcast it about an hour ago.” Rahallah turned a switch on a tape recorder on the desk in front of him and the device began turning as Killov’s high-pitched voice filled the room.

“Greetings to all Red Army forces and auxiliary forces around the U.S.S.A. and the world. This is Colonel Killov of the KGB. It is now three
P.M.
At this moment I not only have control of the
Dreadnaught
—the Premier’s personal warship—a missile cruiser/aircraft carrier capable of launching 20 atomic missiles to any point I designate on the globe—but I have also captured the Grandfather and President Zhabnov. I hold all the winning cards—you officials and officers who are hearing this . . .” There was a pause and then a slurping and swallowing sound, as Killov popped a few Benxidrils to keep him going. Then he continued.

“I
demand
that you surrender now. Operatives are waiting to assume control of all Russian Army posts, military and governmental centers of command—and the Presidium in Moscow. Make no mistake about it—there can be no resistance, no negotiations. If you do not immediately agree to my requests I shall be forced to begin firing the missiles—one every hour. Moscow will be the very first target. If my orders
are
carried out, the Grandfather and President Zhabnov shall live—no missiles shall be launched. An orderly transference of power shall occur between Red Army and KGB-Qarnain forces.
Three
hours to decide, gentlemen! Surrender or die!” With that, the tape recorder stopped playing the message and white noise hissed out of it. Rahallah leaned down and clicked it off.

“As I said, gentlemen, that was just about an hour or forty-five minutes ago. I have received word from some of the communications officers that the message was indeed relayed around the world. From the
Dreadnaught,
Premier Vassily made sure he had a communications set-up to the entire empire. Just in case there was trouble while he was sea or here in America. Secondly, from my sources at various major points, it would appear the madman may well succeed. There is some talk of resistance, but when the first missile is sent—I think we have no doubt that the Colonel
will
send it—resistance will crumble quickly.”

“So it’s in our hands, isn’t it?” Rockson asked loudly from where he stood by the front window of the White House, looking for a second out the window at the gathering storm clouds. “Somehow we get to him, or basically it’s all over—the whole fucking ball game is over.” For Rockson knew what Killov would do when he came to power. He would nuke the whole damn Rockies just to get Rockson. And that was just for starters. The man was on a suicide run. He wanted to take the whole damned planet out with him. World War III, as bad as it was, would appear a picnic when the colonel was running the show. That, Ted Rockson knew with every bone in his mutant body.

“Yes,” Rahallah replied, “it’s in our hands and—”

“And we’ve got to move fast. Damned fast,” Rock said, his voice rising now as he walked into the center of the room, his head spinning madly as he began trying to formulate some kind of plan—some way to strike back—save Archer, the Premier, if they were in fact alive—and stop the firing of the atomic missiles. Sure—
simple
task. Every day before breakfast, at least twice.

“I agree,” Rahallah said, bowing slightly to him as if deferring to his tactical knowledge. “Time is of the essence. And of equal importance is saving the Premier. I hope you understand that Rockson. There can be no quarrel about our common goal in all this. The Grandfather may in many ways be your mortal enemy—but he was here to negotiate and change things. You heard him just an hour ago, offering the boldest plan that has ever been presented in the post-war world. But beyond that, with the Premier dead, Killov will have no figure powerful enough to stand in his way to world domination. As you say—it’s the last ball game. The last inning, and the last strike—if my colloquialisms are accurate.”

“Yes,
quite.”
Rockson agreed. “You sailed over on the
Dreadnaught,
right? You know the kind of firepower they’ve got, conventional as well as nuke. It’s like fleas against an elephant. Ideas?”

“But perhaps fleas can penetrate into the cracks of the elephant’s toes, or as a saying of my Masai tribe goes—the mouse can dance between the elephant’s legs while the lion is grabbed in its trunk.” He walked dramatically forward, dressed in a fresh white tuxedo and gloves. Though it seemed a little strange to Rock and the team that the black man chose such garb, in fact he had dressed like that for over twenty years for the Premier. But now he would have felt naked without those clothes. Rahallah reached out and pulled down a cloth from a board, revealing a large, quickly sketched map of the ship and its different decks.

“Though almost all the plans and architectural drawing are on the
Dreadnaught
itself, I was able to pick up these from some Elite Operations Officers who had been using it for security purposes.” Rock and his men looked closely. The entire team was there; MacCaughlin, taking up half a sofa, Chen, standing, as Rock did, near a lamp, always ready just in case, Scheransky and Detroit—sharing a loveseat where Lincoln had drunk himself sick during the worst days of the Civil War. Ten of the top elite officers took up the other side of the room. They all paid close attention, every man’s eyes wide open from the intensity of the situation and sheer adrenaline. They all knew they might be witnessing the beginning of the end.

“There’s no way Killov can guard every single form of entrance to the ship. We’ve calculated from constant sightings that there can’t be more than a few hundred troops at most.”

“At most . . .” Detroit echoed him, as if that was just a trifle.

“Yes—and spread out everywhere,” Rahallah went on, waving his hands across the drawing of the boat. From the diagram on the 3x5-foot piece of gridded architectural paper, they could see that the thing was like a floating city, even larger on the inside than one could have imagined from her monstrous outer shell. There must have been a thousand halls and rooms, whole city blocks of nuclear engines, football-field long control rooms with independent manning of each of the different major weapons systems. It was true, Rock could see—Killov might be able to run some of the ships’ fighting systems, but not all, not by a long shot. Take away the men he’d lost already, plus those guarding prisoners or taking security positions around the dock, and it left him with less than a hundred spread over the entire battle machine. Maybe there was a chance. Maybe.

“Let me turn things over to Major Shivarsky now—Chief of Operations for Vassily’s Elite Guard,” Rahallah said, standing back and letting his place be taken by a bull-chested Russian soldier, a red beard down to his chin. The man looked like he’d been through it all—but Rock sensed a certain basic rough honesty in the man’s face.

“This is the situation,” Shivarsky began immediately. He held a pointer in his hand. “We’ve sighted the main forces of Killov’s troops here, here and here.” He pointed three times—to each end of the
Dreadnaught
and to a long warehouse, which sat on the dock against which the great war ship was moored. “They are armed basically with what they brought with them with their chopper strike force—machine guns, mortars, Kalashnikov semi-automatic rifles—and of course their helicopter fleet, of which they have approximately 23 left, a number having been shot down by navel troops and our own men. These Arab fighters or whatever the hell they are,” Shivarsky went on, “apparently don’t have any great technical know-how, because we haven’t seen any of the ship’s big cannons moving around. But—” he let the pointer drop slightly, “you never know.”

“What of the ability of the colonel to actually launch the atomic missiles on board? Can he do it?” Rock asked. Every man in the room leaned forward. The possibility of being caught in a nuke blast can get a man’s attention like nothing else.

“I’m afraid that our intelligence is minimal, to say the least,” the Russian went on. “But I would have to say
yes,
he can. The colonel, we know from past data, is himself capable of carrying out ship-launch. He might not be as fast as some technician, though. But—it’s something he took great interest in over the years, reading numerous technical manuals on the subject. He may, as well, have brought Russian technicians with him. There’s no way I can offer you conclusive data one way or another.”

“What is our remaining manpower?” Rahallah asked, his arms folded across his shiny white tux. “If any?”

“Of a total of about three hundred guardsmen who accompanied the Premier on his trip here—on the
Dreadnaught
or by separate transport—I would estimate we have approximately 70 to 80 left within the Washington area. Twenty of these are stationed around the ship, a dozen of the officers remaining are within this room and the rest are stationed around the White House to repel any attack by Killov.” He paused for a moment, then went on. “It’s not a hell of a lot—but these are tough fighting men. And every one of them is ready to die to save the Premier. I know—I picked half of them myself.” The Russian officer stroked his thick red beard for a moment, as if searching for something inside it.

“Any thoughts, Major?” Rockson piped up from near the window as he glanced away from the roses that lined the barbed-wire fence along one side. “On just how the hell we can crack that egg? You seem to have some knowledge of its security.”

“Yes, I do have some thoughts,” the Russian answered quickly, glad someone had asked. He spoke quickly, whipping the pointer around the schematic. “Here and here are the weak points.” He placed the tip a few inches below the waterline, then at the bridge itself. “There’s an underwater door that opens out down here—it’s for repair crews to be able to leave in scuba gear should there ever be any problem with the propellers or anchor. And here, on the bridge, there’s an override system that controls not just the steering of the ship, but its weapons systems as well. Whoever controls the bridge systems in effect controls the
Dreadnaught.”

“And just how the hell do we get in both those places?” Detroit asked skeptically. When he spoke, Rock could see that the other Russians got a slightly distasteful look in their faces. Not only were they being commanded by a black, but they had to work alongside one, too. Strange times. But they were loyal men, for they had been rewarded highly to protect the Premier, had been given training, status far above the typical Russian soldier. Thus they gritted their teeth and pushed down their emotions. They were professionals, after all, every bastard one of them.

“Five men from the Underwater Operations Squad have survived,” the major went on quickly. “They were carrying out security precautions about a mile down-river at the time of the attack. They have secured their position and are awaiting orders.”

“Son of a bitch,” Rockson said slamming his fist into his palm. Suddenly his mood of abject despair was changing. Maybe they had a chance after all. The chance of a snowball in hell surviving and growing up to be a fat old snowman—but still a chance.

“Are there any helicopters available?” Rahallah asked. “Referring to your idea of attacking the bridge. Perhaps—”

“None—sir,” the man said with disgust. “The ship is filled with the damned things—but we can’t get to them. And Killov, master strategist that he is, sent out a few of his choppers to bomb the local airfield. The Red Army has a whole fleet about an hour from here, but they’re not prepared—there’s no battle plan worked out. I don’t think we can count at all on them. Not with the time parameters we’re dealing with. Killov could launch before we—”

“What’s this?” the Doomsday Warrior asked, walking across the Persian rug on the briefing room floor and right up to the Russian officer. “You said a warehouse. How far is it from the ship?”

“I’d estimate about seventy-five feet,” the officer replied, moving the pointer from the loading building to the ship and back again. “But we know that the commandos are stationed all along that side of the ship—in fact that’s where the main bulk of their visible guards are. Trying to get across by rope—or whatever—would be impossible.”

“No, I wasn’t thinking of that,” Rockson said cryptically. “Tell me, how long is the width of this warehouse—I mean from the far side to the ship side. Maybe we could run a vehicle up—and make the jump!”

“About two hundred feet,” Shivarsky guessed. “Give or take ten yards. But there is a long ramp running up the back of the building with an exit to the second and third floors. Though I don’t see what the hell you could do. Like I said—they’d blast any team that tried to pulley itself across like tin cans on a fence.”

“I wasn’t thinking of going hand-over-hand,” Rock grinned with a strange twinkle in his mismatched eyes. “No, we got us this big old truck we—uh—borrowed. I was thinking maybe we could drive ourselves in—special delivery, Evel Kneivel style.”

Twenty-Four

A
n hour and a half later, with exactly twenty-seven minutes remaining before Killov carried out his threats, six men slipped into the waters of the Potomac about a half-mile from the ship. Five Elite Guards and Rahallah—clad only in leopard-skin loincloth—a “garment of magic power” worn these many years under his white man’s tux—and scuba gear. Bubbles were all that could be seen of their presence, had anyone been looking. But as the waters were getting a little rougher from winds down from the north, the bubbles disappeared among the foaming crests that ran up and down the Potomac.