Doomsday Warrior 17 - America’s Sword (5 page)

“Rock, look out,” Chen screamed out, pulling the Doomsday Warrior from his erotic reveries atop the half-ton animal. Rock suddenly saw a huge branch coming in at chest level. It would take him down like a bowling pin hit by a death ball. Rockson’s senses were suddenly on full alert as he swung himself fast down over the ’brid’s right side, hanging there like a trick rider. They passed safely under the tree as Chen and the others had the troop ride around the thorned branch of the rare “Swat-Elm.” A tree that disliked people coming too close. It was one of the many nasty mutations from the Great War’s radiation.

“Sorry about that,” Rockson said sheepishly, as Chen came riding up after they’d all passed around it. “I was, uh, thinking—”

“Come on, Rock,” Chen said with a narrow grin. “You just gave us all this big lecture on survival out here. And then you’re in dreamland. Let’s get it going. You of all people should know there’s no time for dreaming.” Chen was playful but there was an element of seriousness. Rockson was in just too important a position to allow his concentration to slip, not for even one moment. Rock got the message and took a cold swig of water and then two mega-caffeine pills. Within minutes, he swore he could feel the caffeine moving through his blood and sort of opening his eyes a little wider, making his brain feel like there was something going on inside.

The crystal blue morning filtered down through the towering fir forests all around them as the birds went wild, chirping and cheeping up a storm as if they were enjoying the crisp, clear beauty in their own feathered way. The convoy had already made good time, all things considered, and Rock started relaxing just slightly. He always felt tense at the beginning of a mission; the preparations made him nervous, afraid he’d forget something. But once out in the wilds, his mutant nature took over and he was just a tightly coiled system of muscles and perceptions on the alert.

But his mood changed drastically when they came to a series of narrow trails that he had used for years to get down out of this section of the Rockies. The pathways were now virtually wiped out, whether by avalanche or washout from the rains he didn’t know. And it hardly mattered what the cause was, for Rock knew that without the trails they would easily add a day or more to the journey—by having to crisscross all the way around this mountain.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself as he held up his arm, bringing the force to a lurching stop. He motioned for Chen and Detroit to come forward. The Freefighters atop their ’brids soon looked down over the long slope below with their commander.

“What do you think?” Rock asked, looking down at the snow-sprinkled decline.

“About what?” Detroit asked with a snort.

“About us going down that way,” the Doomsday Warrior replied. The other two grew a little pale. “The ’brids have been trained for that kind of descent,” Rock said, knowing the words didn’t sound all that convincing. “We’ll just lose too much damn time if we take the Western route.” The men looked down, surveying the almost forty-five degree angle drop that looked like it went down a good mile.

“Unfortunately I think you’re right,” Detroit spoke up first, shaking his head slightly from side to side.

“Let’s move, Rock,” Chen chimed in. “We just don’t have the time to waste a day or more. I’m with you on this one. There are too many people back at C.C. waiting desperately for our return.” Although Rockson was the leader of all combat missions, he wasn’t infallible. The advice of his top men was extremely important to him and he listened to it much of the time. He probably would have decided yes anyway in this case, but it helped to have his officers agree with him.

“All right, men,” Rockson said, sitting high on his saddle and addressing the rest of the unit. “We’re going to do a little butt-sledding, down this snowy slope here.” The recruits looked at each other with fear in their eyes. They glanced down the long, steep, snow-strewn slope like it was the last thing they’d see. “So, I want you to tighten up the gear on your ’brids. All saddles and junk should be firmly in place. My officer-team will go around to make sure you got it right. We’ll send the pack-’brids down first. They’ve all been trained for this,” Rockson didn’t add that some of them, the newer ones, hadn’t. “You’ll come down behind them to avoid getting crushed, if one of them goes over.”

It took about fifteen minutes for them to get everything prepared and then the ’brids were led to the edge of the descent. Rockson had Snorter go first. He knew the big steed wasn’t afraid of such drops; in fact, it had taken a few before and had seemed to enjoy the challenge. And the hybrid would show the others that they could do it too. The main thing was not to have the ’brids panic on the long slide.

“Go ahead, boy,” Rockson said, slapping the animal on the flank. With a surge of its legs, Snorter leaped over the side. It landed on its right side, since it was impossible to stand up all the way down. And immediately it proceeded to slide right down the slope like a sled made of fur and hide. The snow formed enough of a cushion for the animal to avoid scraping itself up on gravel beneath, and the icy sheen allowed for almost frictionless passage. Then the elite team’s seasoned ’brids were sent down. Rockson wanted the other untrained ’brids to get a good look at just what was going on before they made their “jumps.” The first of them did so neighing and looking pretty uptight. But the animals quickly seemed to understand that staying on their feet wasn’t the way to go and they fell into the side-sledding that the ones before them did.

All in all it took about five minutes to get them all going down, giving a twenty-second space between each one in case there was some sort of collision. Then it was the Freefighters’ turns. Rockson went first, sliding in a sitting position, with his field jacket tucked under his butt to keep it from freezing up like a slab of ice. He pushed off and a big smile crossed his face. He hadn’t sledded for years, but it immediately brought back memories of his teenage years when he and other youth of the city had spent weeks at a time out with real homemade sleds in their mountains. The tear-proof Freefighter pants would hold up. He built up speed, but used his hands to slow a little. Behind him he could hear yelps and laughs as the rest of the team followed close.

Rock flew down the hill like a bobsled without a rudder, his face flushing with the rushing air. Below, he saw the ’brids had already gotten to their feet and were walking around in dizzy circles, waiting for their riders to join them. Rock came down out of snow like a rocket and rolled over a few times as he hit the flatter terrain. He slammed into the side of a ’brid and then rose up, dizzy himself from the exhilarating ride. He had to reach out and steady himself on the ’brid’s mane, but after a few moments, he regained his bearings and balance. He looked up the slope and saw the whole crew coming down like bats out of hell. Rock positioned himself by the bottom of the slope and helped stop the men as they came tearing down. The others who reached the bottom quickly joined in and grabbed hold of each man as he rolled down the bottom of the incline.

When all was said and done, everyone accounted for, Rockson was pleased to find that there had been no major injuries among the men. There were plenty of bruises and scrapes, but nothing really bad. Except for one of the ’brids. It had broken a front and a rear leg. It was not going to make it.

If it had just been one leg, they might have tried for an instant-splint and sent it on its way back to Century City, as the animals were trained to wander their way home. But two legs—there was no way it would make it. It was cruel to leave it out here in the woods. Wolves, snar-lions, bears, God-knew-what, all would be out soon enough to see what was cooking.

“Sorry, pal,” Rock said, taking out his shotpistol as the hybrid horse lay on its side with a look of intense pain in its big eyes. He lowered the .12 gauge to the side of the ’brid’s head and fired just behind the ear. The big steed slumped over into the snow, blood seeping out like a pool of bad luck around its head and neck. Rockson could see the other men, the new recruits, looking at the death scene with anger and fear.

They better get used to it fast, Rock thought. Death was everywhere out here. The ’brid’s blood was only the first of much that would be spilled.

Six

T
he recruits kept looking at Rockson with a mixture of fear and hostility for the next few hours. The officer-team didn’t even think twice about it. They’d seen it happen before and no doubt would again. Several of them had, in fact, had to eat their steeds on past missions when it became necessary. Though they didn’t particularly like to talk about it—they all knew that survival sometimes belonged to the ruthless.

Rockson didn’t pay attention to the emotions of the green recruits. They might as well get used to it all now, and fast. Things were going to get a hell of a lot worse than a dead ’brid. Death so early on the mission would keep them on their toes. He noted their expressions were already hardening as their eyes swept back and forth across the woods of the lower Rocky Mountain slopes.

They came out of the steeper section of the mountains and down into the foothills. Here the vegetation was harsher, the trees stunted, the wildlife seemed less prevalent. And with the opened skyline Rockson felt his paranoia fill his chest. For the sky was pulsing with blue and red waves of energy. It was as if the strontium clouds were dropping down and mingling with the unusual aurora borealis. He had seen it many times at night, but rarely in the day. Its irridescent colors looked ominous against the bright daytime sky.

Rock could see that the men were beginning to grow restive. He could hardly blame them what with the frightening light show above. Still, they made good time once they reached the sparse, rolling foothills. The first-day anxiety of the mission had filled the whole team with adrenaline and fueled them along past their fear. As the sun dropped out of the sky, Rockson saw a rise, about thirty feet higher than the surrounding bush-dotted terrain. It looked easily defensible and was wide enough, about a hundred feet across, to bivouac the whole crew.

“Hold up, Freefighters,” the Doomsday Warrior said, raising his arm and rising up in the saddle as he turned to face them. It took a good twenty or thirty seconds to get the whole unit stopped.

“We’re going to camp out for the night,” Rockson addressed them. “Up on that hill. I know the first day was hard, especially on the butt.” The men laughed, happy to feel their mouths move in something other than a downward direction. “So dismount and lead your ’brids up the side of this rise,” Rock said, pointing toward the flat-topped hill. “Don’t need any more injuries—at least on the first day,” he added sardonically. He knew he could have ridden Snorter up, but there was no sense in showing anyone else up. He jumped down from the saddle, and taking the reins of the big mount, led him slowly up the medium-steep slope. The steed made it easily without slipping. Though many of the recruits seemed to have a little trouble with theirs, as the animals stumbled and made quite a storm of dust and sound.

But soon they were all up top, and they tethered the hybrids on a long nylon line set up between two pine trees at either side of the hilltop. They took down feedbags filled with the super energy concoction of Shecter’s tech-boys. The ’brids slurped the stuff up, not realizing that that was all they’d eat—it was not just an appetizer. But though the bags would leave the animals a little miffed at not having more, the vitamin and energy infused oat-like material would give them plenty of strength for days. Before they started really losing any weight.

The men set up their sleeping bags—aluminized outers to protect not just from cold, but also rays. And even with the confusion of the large team, everything was actually more or less together within about fifteen minutes. The men sat around shooting the bull while they rested up their pained thighs and shoulders and butts. Riding for many hours, especially over rough terrain, did wonders for the entire musculature, making a man feel like he had just been thrown into a blender, set on high and left there for a month or two. But they’d toughen up.

They had been in camp about half an hour when Archer came striding up the hill, back from a little hunting in the thicker brush about a quarter-mile off. His huge crossbow that looked like it could take out the side of a tank was over his shoulder and over the other shoulder of the black-bearded mountain man was a small unicorn-like deer creature. It wasn’t huge, maybe fifty pounds, but the men let out a cheer as he walked along the plateau. Archer raised the thing up, the huge arrow hole visible in its chest where he had made a perfect strike, and he got a big smile on his face.

“FOOOOODDD,” he said, holding it by its single horn like a trophy. Then he got a funny look on his face as he suddenly realized he was supposed to share it with all of them. He walked over to McCaughlin, a/k/a “Cookie,” who had set up a small cooking area. Archer dropped it at the man’s feet with a look of great pride.

“All right, my good man,” the Scotsman said, beaming. “I was going to make some protein soup from dry mix, for the crew—but now I think you’ve made their day. Mine too,” he added with a twinkle in his eye. He lifted the thing and took it to the edge of the rise and began butchering it with a trail-designed laser cutter. Within an hour, as the night turned totally black but for the shimmering magnetic bands of aurora above, they were all sitting around eating a delicious stew of dried vegetables and fresh meat.

After that, they pretty much fell out, crawling into their sleeping bags as Rockson set up a four-man watch at each point of the hill, to be changed at two-hour intervals. When he awoke, the dawn was already cracking open the night’s blackness and spiderwebbing down subtle weavings of blue light. For a moment he was pissed off, as he had told Chen to wake him at three to check on the camp. But the Chinese martial arts master walked over even as the Doomsday Warrior was rising up, with a steaming metal cup of McCaughlin’s famous synth-brew.

“Sorry,” the Chinese Freefighter said with a lopsided grin as he handed Rock the mug. “I didn’t wake you because I could see how beat you were. I know you want to keep your hands on every damn thing going on here. But it won’t do any good if the commander of the mission falls out of his saddle and splatters his brain all over the place.”