Doomsday Warrior 02 - Red America (12 page)

“And from the sound of it,” Rock added, “this Pavlov fortress is armed to the teeth. The officer said, under the mindbreaker, that this was his second trip there and that they had the place absolutely porcupined with heavy artillery and a full fifty unit helicopter, twenty MIG air force squadron ready for just such an assault. No! Zhabnov or Killov or whoever the hell is hatching this plot is shipping rubles in by the ton and they’re protecting the place with everything they’ve got.”

“Exactly,” Shecter said. “That’s why we can’t risk the particle beams. It would be madness.”

“Or a big strike force,” Rock added. “They’d make mincemeat of anything we could throw at them with that kind of firepower. But someone’s got to go in. One man might just be able to do it. Get inside and find out what the hell is happening, just what their defenses are, and get that information back.”

There was silence in the chamber as all eyes focused on the Doomsday Warrior. “Yeah me,” he said coolly. “I’m volunteering.” Numerous voices spoke out at once in protest, insisting Rockson was too valuable, too important a catch for the Reds.

“I’m the only one who can,” Rockson responded. “I know the way through that section of the country better than any man in this city. I can get in, find out what the story is and get out again.”

“What of an expedition to get more of the black beam weapons from The Technicians?” Shecter asked, somewhat irritated.

“Have Erickson mount a second expedition,” Rock replied. “He knows the way and The Technicians know him. Only this time he can take twenty men and teams of hybrids. They’ve got to bring back as many of the damned weapons as they can. The Technicians had them piled to the rafters in their laboratory.”

The council discussed the proposition to mount a second expedition and agreed to bring it to a vote in a remarkably short time, considering their usual habits of debate. The motion carried. As for Rock’s volunteering to go to Pavlov City—that was a military decision. Although the council members had numerous objections and both Rath and Shecter seemed disturbed about it. As the highest ranking military officer of Century City Rockson himself had the final say. With much trepidation they wished him well. But Rockson didn’t wait around to hear the eulogies; he was already off to Supplies to prepare for the long trek to the brainwashing fortress of Pavlov City. Though he had volunteered for the mission, it wasn’t something he would enjoy. Of that he was sure.

Nine

T
here were four huge gates to the walled fortress city of Pavlov—one facing each of the four points of the compass. At dawn on October 27, 2089
A.D.
in the driving snow, nearly five hundred KGB elite troops under the direct command of Colonel Killov arrived at the East Gate without notice, in their desert halftrack carriers, all coming from scattered directions and converging only within sight of the sixty foot high concrete walls—a maneuver to avoid any attack on the convoy by American freefighters. They found the puzzled fortress guards, high in their machinegun posts atop looming towers, looking down with confused expressions. But all recognized the death’s-head emblem of the KGB on the armored vehicles and especially the crossed falcon escutcheon of the commander himself, Colonel Killov.

Word was sent immediately to the post commander when Killov and personnel alighted and demanded entrance citing Section Six of the Bilateral Agreement between Soviet Army and KGB forces (1999). None of the commander’s staff had heard of such a law but they could indeed find it in the thick Occupation Regulations Manual. “My God, we have to let him in,” the commander, Peshtro, said to his staff. He made a quick call to Washington D.C. where Zhabnov’s personal secretary awakened the president.

“What the hell is it?” he snarled sleepily, pushing the drugged body of a young blonde to the side of the bed as he grabbed the phone.

“Is the Grandfather dead?” Zhabnov asked hopefully, thinking that would be the only reason they would dare wake him before the sun was even up.

“No, no, this is Commander Peshtro at Pavlov City, Mr. President. I’m calling because Colonel Killov and some five hundred men are here at the city walls demanding entrance—”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Zhabnov yelled, sitting bolt upright in the silk-sheeted bed. The young girl beside him groaned from out of her drug stupor and then settled back into a relatively blissful unconsciousness.

“They’re demanding entrance, sir,” Peshtro repeated, somewhat nervous at speaking to Zhabnov. “Colonel Killov is citing the Section Six of the Occupation Regulations or something—”

“Section Six, Section Six,” Zhabnov ruminated. “I vaguely remember something about that.” He pushed a button by his bed and a servant came running in. “Quick,” Zhabnov said, “get me my legal advisers right away. I want them here in my room within ten minutes or heads will roll.” The servant ran out whitefaced. He could see that Mr. President was heading into one of his ornery moods.

“Stall them, commander,” Zhabnov blurted into the phone. “Say anything. I’ll get back to you within half an hour.”

“But—” the phone clicked dead.

Back at the walled fortress of Pavlov, Killov was growing impatient.

“Are you going to let us in?” he screamed up at the tower guards through his halftrack P.A., “or must we blow the gates apart?”

“Forgive us, colonel—our orders are not clear,” shouted down the nervous young Red Army lieutenant.

“Then I am giving the order—let us in!”

“Commander Peshtro is on the phone to Washington sir, he—”

“I will give you thirty minutes. Then my men will begin firing. Under Occupation Regulations the KGB has the right, as protector of the Soviet doctrine and enforcer of ideology, to inspect any army fortress at any time. Tell your commander, that fool,” Killov said, his voice icy cold, “that I’m not the type of man who plays games.” He slammed his hand down on the P.A. switch, nearly breaking it. Killov settled back in the relative warmth and comfort of the sixty foot black monstrosity of a halftrack as the snow began falling heavier outside. It was multi-colored flakes, common in the Midwest—purple, green, orange, spinning, dropping like flecks of a rainbow. The head of the KGB watched the gate through a periscope. Zhabnov had undoubtedly been awakened by now, he thought, and was calling in all his advisers. They’ll tell him he doesn’t have a leg to stand on—he’ll have to let me in. In the power politics of America, Killov was about to humiliate the president. His thin white lips, narrow as a pencil line, stretched out into as much of a smile as the KGB commander’s face ever allowed itself.

In Washington D.C. the Oval Office was filled with half-dressed groggy-eyed legal advisers. President Zhabnov, still in his nightshirt, had squeezed himself into JFK’s antique rocker and was tapping on the arms with his fingers, drumming out an impatient beat.

“What you’re telling me, all of you, is that I’m bound by this ridiculous article—nearly ninety years old—to let my mortal enemy—I mean of course, our distinguished leader of the KGB—into my most important fortress of Pavlov City.” Zhabnov looked around at his advisers who wouldn’t meet his angry eyes. “Does this mean he has the right to know everything about Plan Lincoln as well?”

“No, Your Excellency,” hastened Swerdlov, the youngest and brightest of the sorry lot. “He has the right only to enter, station troops, check for possible cells of subversion, which comes down to talking with senior officers, receive adequate food and lodging and care of their vehicles, and in seventy-two hours, depart. He is not required to have access to any classified army documents.”

“What the hell is he up to?” Zhabnov asked aloud. “To destroy Plan Lincoln, or to spy? That’s it. He plans to find out what I’m up to. But he won’t. We’ll let him into the city, but keep an eye on him and all his damn Blackshirts. I’ll have my men trail every one of them, keep on their heels like Goddamned dogs.” Zhabnov got the commander of Pavlov City on the phone and gave him explicit orders about keeping the KGB men on a tight string and to report back to him the moment they left. With that he returned to his bedroom and the girl who was just starting to stir.

The huge East Gate was opened at last and Killov and his men rolled in in their vehicles, sending up waves of smoke from the diesel-powered engines. These damned outland fortress cities aren’t even paved, Killov thought with disgust, contrasting the shoddy look of the place with his own immaculate Denver headquarters. He stared out the periscope of the lead halftrack. When I am Supreme ruler, much more attention will be paid to modernization of all Russian fortresses in America. If something wasn’t done, the entire Red Army would collapse into dirt and barbarism within a few more years. All of Killov’s men were spit and polished like mirrors, their black collars starched as flat as paper. The colonel demanded nothing less than perfection in everything and everyone around him.

They exited their vehicles once parked inside the fortress and were given quarters, from hovels for the lowest ranks to luxurious suites for Killov and his top brass. Killov was escorted by the commander of the fort and his right-hand men who greeted the KGB leader with huge phony smiles and plastic warmth. Killov smirked at the gestures and the slovenly appearance of the army personnel. No wonder he would win—if these were the fat fools who were his only obstacles to ultimate power. The moment he was inside the suite with the fort’s commanding staff around him, he ordered his own Plan Pavlov into effect.

“Seize them,” he ordered his elite bodyguards, who immediately pulled out their Pushkin 7.2mm service revolvers and lined the six top ranking officers of the fortress and the commander against the wall, disarming them.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Commander Peshtro asked, turning his head toward Killov who stood about ten feet away. One of Killov’s guards swatted the commander in the face with the butt of his pistol, snapping the man’s face back around toward the wall.

“I’m taking over the fortress,” Killov said coolly. “Isn’t it obvious? My, you army types are slow. Tie them up,” he commanded his men. The ranking officers of Fort Pavlov were trussed and bound like so many pigs to be slaughtered and set in the center of the V.I.P. suite. Around the fortress, squads of Killov’s KGB commandos were carrying out their operation with clockwork perfection. The Communications Section were taken at gunpoint, the radio and telephone operators imprisoned, and Killov’s own men took over control of all incoming and outgoing communications. Nerve gas cannisters were hurled into the officers’ sleeping quarters, knocking out all eight hundred and fifty men as they slept. Within fifteen minutes the elite forces had managed to completely take control of one of the most heavily protected fortresses in America.

Killov sat down in the velveteen armchair of the luxury suite as the phone rang. “Yes?” he said, picking up the gold French antique phone.

“The entire city is ours, Excellency,” reported Antonovich, the head of the commando units.

“Excellent, excellent,” Killov replied, popping a pill in his mouth from an ample supply in his inner pocket. He sipped some cold water from a crystal goblet on the phone stand. “Casualties?”

“Sixteen of our men—about a hundred of theirs. Most wounded, perhaps twenty dead,” the commando leader replied.

“Good. Kill the wounded. Round up all the officers who are on duty and imprison them. Once the fortress is completely secure I want you to take a hundred men and take control of the mindbreaking facilities. Do not interfere with the operation, just control it. I will be there shortly to see just what our friend Zhabnov had been up to.”

“Yes, Excellency, immediately,” Antonovich snapped. Killov hung up the phone and turned to the commander of the fort who held the side of his face which dripped blood from a long gash opened by the gunbutt hit.

“So,” Killov said to the man, who this time kept facing the wall so as not to receive another smash in the face, “You see we are already in control. Now, just tell me where the records are being stored of this Lincoln operation and perhaps I will let you live.”

“Never,” Commander Peshtro said loudly, trying to sound brave to himself as much as to Killov.

“Never?” Killov laughed. “Please do not bore me with a dramatic scene of bravery. I will find the records anyway. My men are already searching for them. Your life means nothing to me, but I would imagine it holds some sort of meaning for you.” Peshtro’s face twitched with indecision. If he told Killov anything, Zhabnov would have his testicles torn out. If he didn’t . . . Somehow he feared Killov more. “I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you,” he blurted out, avoiding the accusing looks of his senior officers.

“Good, wonderful, in fact. Please have a seat,” Killov said, pointing to the chair next to him. Peshtro, still holding his hand to his cheek as blood oozed through the pale fingers, sat down several feet away from the skull-like visage of Killov.

“You’ll find the computer tapes of progress to date in Sector Seven-B. The file reports are in the Central Storage Warehouse behind the main brainwashing building.” Killov snapped his fingers and two of his aides ran from the room to find the records.

“Now tell me, Commander,” Killov said, smiling a fearsome thin grin at the trembling Peshtro, “Just what are you all up to here in Pavlov City anyway?” He poured the man a drink, a crystal glass filled with golden brandy from a decanter and handed it to him. Peshtro drained the glass in a second and, gasping for breath, told Killov just what Zhabnov’s plans were for the creation of an American worker army to fight the freefighters. Killov listened intently.

“How ingenious,” the KGB commander said when Peshtro had finished. “I really didn’t think that the fat man had so much imagination. I’ve underestimated him. But tell me one further thing. Did not Zhabnov also have plans to use this American army against my own KGB forces, knowing that his regular Red Army troops would be loathe to fight me?” He looked at Peshtro who seemed to wince at the question.

“I—I—” he stuttered, too nervous to answer.