Doomsday Warrior 02 - Red America (18 page)

Fourteen

P
remier Vassily in his sickbed was feeling slightly better. He was thinking, musing about the latest information about America. The rebel attacks were growing more frequent, more daring. In some ways the freefighters, Vassily realized, having read his history well, were like the aboriginal Indians of that continent three hundred years ago. They raided convoys that traveled through their land, were hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned, were scattered and divided, yet fought valiantly on against the conquerers who controlled their land. The analogy was quite complete. The premier had to admit he felt a certain respect for the brave but doomed fighters. He hoped that someday—and it could happen if Tchilichev, the young moderate whom Vassily was grooming to take over—succeeded him instead of Zhabnov or Killov. Perhaps there could be some sort of peace. Some kind of reservations established for the American freefighters in the United Soviet States of America, the way the old Indians, the Apache, the Navajo . . . had made peace treaties with the white man and finally stopped fighting against him, against the inevitable.

Of course, many of the so called treaties had been broken or ignored by the American government. No doubt, he had to admit, being if nothing else realistic in his appraisals, the Russian government would ignore many of the treaties as well. But still, he hated to think of the total destruction of every last American freefighter, even the legendary Ted Rockson. After all they were brave and resourceful much as his own people had been in their struggle against the German Army in the Second World War. Surely land could be set aside for them—wastelands—they were somewhat resistant to radiation anyway. Yes, a good idea, Vassily decided firmly. I will propose it to Tchilichev. Peace—peace . . . He fell asleep thinking of passing on peace to the world. He coughed weakly, his breathing shallow, spasmodic.

Outside the premier’s room the three doctors from the Moscow College of Surgeons conferred. They didn’t see any chance of the premier’s surviving the week. Now that they had regained regular access to Vassily, they had been able to increase the dosage of the slow acting poison.

“Ah,” said the bearded Minkin, as they slipped down the staircase of the premier’s mansion. “It is a good thing the premier has allowed us to continue the treatments. Killov will surely make his move for power soon. Then we shall be rewarded.”

“Shut up you fool,” Sverdov snapped. “Even here someone could have a listening device. Spies are everywhere. Keep your mouth shut. It is by no means over yet. Have you seen any more deterioration since we began leaving the injections for his nigger servant to administer?”

“No—” Minkin said nervously, “but—”

“Perhaps the premier only said that he would have Rahallah give the injections in order for us to stop pestering him. Sometimes I wonder if he is really taking it. He still looks too well for a man being given intravenous doses of cancer toxin.”

“If so—what will we tell Killov?” Minkin asked as they reached the front door and another black servant handed them their thick overcoats. “That we have failed? That he must rearrange his plans? We must somehow arrange an accident for the black bastard and regain direct access to His Excellency.”

“Outside—outside in the park we will talk more,” Sverdlov said. “Not here.” They reached the bottom of the red-carpeted outer stairs and walked out between the ceremonial guards standing stiffly at attention in the subfreezing temperature, their faces white as the snow that fell constantly from the dark sky. Photographers flashed pictures as the trio of physicians hit the sidewalk.

“How is the premier?” asked the senior correspondent from
Pravda,
holding a microphone in front of them.

“He is progressing quite well due to our treatment,” Minkin said flashing a toothy smile. “And of course, His Excellency’s strong constitution is helping him along. However, I must be candid, the Grandfather remains critically ill. We should all hope for his speedy recovery for the sake of the empire.” Other questions were shunned and the doctors walked to their waiting limousines. They had their chauffeurs drive them to Gorky Park where the snow was covering the statues of the Soviet Unions’ great heros, and the pigeons sat on the heads and arms of the famous Russians, oblivious to their stature. The three physicians walked to the Rocket Pioneers Cosmonauts’ Fountain to talk amidst the cooing of the pigeons and the blanketing cover of snow. Here was one of the few places in Moscow they could be sure they weren’t being bugged. They sat on a cold wooden bench and discussed further how to kill the most powerful man in the world.

The premier summoned Rahallah when he awoke from his dreams of peace and had him squirt out the hypodermics that the doctors had left and dispose of them. Then the educated servant read some selections from Rilke to the aged premier. Rilke was the Grandfather’s favorite poet. Rimbaud, he considered immature however evocative, Blake, too ethereal, Pound and Eliot overly intellectual. But Rilke—Rilke had said it all. The book was inside a cover stating,
Lenin—Glorious Leader
by Menshekov. Just in case someone should glance at his shelves in his library. Rilke was on the proscribed list of forbidden readings. A premier could, of course, have anything. But it was not good for morale or for the underlings, the nurses and housekeepers, to see the premier of all the Russians contaminating himself.

“Read it to me again, Rahallah,” the premier said softly. “You know—my favorite.” Rahallah opened the book and his clear strong voice recited:

This stood once among mankind

stood in the midst of fate—the extinguisher

stood in the midst of not-knowing—as though it existed

and bowed stars from the established heavens towards it

Angel I’ll show it to you as well—There!

In your glance it shall stand redeemed at last

in a final uprightness—Angel gaze for it is we

o Mightiness, tell them that WE were capable of it.

“Ah yes, beautiful my faithful servant. How beautiful,” Vassily said, his eyes remaining closed as they had through the reading. “And you enunciate so clearly, catching every nuance of the poet.” He drifted off to sleep once again, a smile on his peaked face.

Rahallah put the book back on the library shelf and went over to the bottle. He had squirted the last doses of the medicine the doctors had left for him to give the Grandfather. He was sure there was something wrong with the stuff—it smelled funny. He sealed the lid on the bottle and put tape on the outside. On it he wrote,
TO MKVD CENTRAL LAB
—
FOR ANALYSIS
—
TOP PRIORITY
—
A. VASSILY. TOP SECRET
. The chauffeur was handed the container inside a small box and he was off. Now we shall see, Rahallah thought. Now we see . . .

At six-oh-seven the next morning, five large men plus local MKVD officers, members of the premier’s elite private forces, kicked down the door of Dr. Minkin’s three story house on Plepalsky Place and entered his bedroom, machine pistols in their hands. The doctor was sitting up in bed, his wife, fat and naked, next to him, having both awakened as the heavy wood door splintered apart.

“What is this intrusion?” Minkin demanded. “I’ll have you know I am the chief surgeon of—”

“Shut up, traitor,” one of the beefy goons snarled. “Move aside madame.” He continued staring down at the terrified wife of one of Moscow’s elite. The five officers filled the bedroom, their muddy feet dirtying the white rug around the bed. The wife knew about the poison. She was privy to all of her husband’s dealings. So she knew why they came. She had also planned what to do in this case. She would not go with him. She slipped out of bed, wrapping herself in the down comforter, and walked to the other side of the room.

“No!” her husband screamed once before the peaceful domestic scene was shattered by the firing of five machine pistols. The lifeless body of Dr. Minkin slammed into the wall, spurting blood through innumerable holes.

Simultaneously in the Moscow suburbs of Dzernsk and Omsk, similar squads of the premier’s private army mowed down the other two conspirators—one making it to his car and getting out of the driveway before high velocity armor piercing bullets smashed through the windows and door, killing him and his chauffeur. In Omsk, the youngest of the trio got down on his hands and knees and begged for his life. The hail of bullets nearly tore his head from his body.

The lab tests had found the poison. The order had been given, signed in the shaky hand of the premier himself when told of the plot by Rahallah. It was over. The conspiracy was over. Now the Grandfather might actually recover. Perhaps he was not nearly as ill as had been thought. Only time would tell. But at least he had bought some extra time for himself, for determining who would rule the world when he was gone. It
was
Killov. The young doctor had blurted it out as his scrotum was crushed before he was liquidated. And Vassily knew that the KGB colonel was already carrying out an operation in America, probably timed with the plot of the doctors to finally finish him off. The last dose of medicine would have done him in within forty-eight hours. There was enough poison in the hypos, the lab tests had said, to kill a horse.

He stared at the aerial reconnaissance photos of the colonel’s attack on Pavlov City in the central part of the United States. Not American attackers but Killov’s KGB forces had taken over the Soviet science city and taken command away from Zhabnov’s Red Army forces. Radio had been cut off but satellite intel was able to eavesdrop on bits of conversation within the fortress city, conveyed over walkie talkie and phone. Indeed, without question, the city had fallen to KGB forces with Killov in direct command.

So, his nephew Zhabnov and Killov were now fighting openly to take control of America, preparing to broaden their power base when the Grandfather died. If it were not for Rahallah’s watchful eyes . . . As much as he had tried to avoid it, Vassily could see that he would have to enter the struggle for power. He could not allow Killov to win. No way. The man was a servant of the devil. Even he, though not a religious man, could see that. But how? How to fight an enemy as clever as the colonel, with so much power, so well protected.

Rahallah brought the Grandfather the medicinal tea he had prepared for the premier from his ancestral herbs. Vassily eagerly drank the restorative liquid. At least he had one man around him who was not trying to kill him. No—he, the Grandfather, had been too soft, too pacific. He had thought that the others would struggle but remain at least nominally civilized. But that was not the case. Killov was an animal. He had directly challenged the premier. And now he must die.

Fifteen

R
ockson came to with the sound of rifles firing nearby. He opened his eyes. He was in a cell, chained down. His body felt like it had been through a meat-grinder. God, did he ache. He remembered those last few moments—an avalanche of Reds enveloping him. So they had him. For the first time in his life, in his thirty-four years of beating the odds, the Russians had captured him. And worse, he wasn’t in the hands of the Red Army from whom he would have a good chance at escape—but the KGB, who would watch him with the eyes of a hawk. They wouldn’t allow the man they had spent millions upon to get away now. It didn’t look good. In fact things were so bad that Rockson had to grin. He found a kind of detached amusement in such a hopeless situation. But no fear. Death had been his companion for so long that it was more like an old but known adversary than a force that terrified him. Ted Rockson didn’t know the emotion of fear—it wasn’t in his nature.

One of the guards walked over to the bars of his cell and peered through with a sneer. “Wouldn’t you like to know how close you are to the end? Ted Rockson, the mighty Ultimate American, just a prisoner like all the other idiot bandits who think they can defeat the combined power of the Russian Empire. Do you admit now who is stronger, Rockson? At least will you admit the truth?”

“Why don’t you step in here with me for a moment, compadre,” Rockson said. “You and I could have a little fun. See, I’m all chained up,” he held his manacled hands in the air. “You KGB like to get your kicks.” Rock smiled a come-hither grin.

“And get crushed in your mutant arms? No thank you, Rockson. But I think Colonel Killov will be down here shortly and he will get what he wants from you. I’ve seen our commander work on prisoners. He is a true master of the black arts of getting the information that he wants.”

“I’m sure,” Rock said cynically. “If there’s anything that Killov is an expert in it’s torture.” The guard walked off to check other prisoners down the hall who began yelling obscenities. Rock sat on the cold concrete floor looking around the small cell for any opening, any weakness. Who was in the next cell? There was a sheet drawn across the bars between the two cells. His imprisonment looked pretty solid and yet . . .

Several minutes later he heard the sounds of approaching footsteps. He knew who it was—his sixth sense told him. At last they would meet face to face after all these years. Colonel Killov walked up to bars of the cell and looked in, his rat-like face twitching from the combination of all the pills he was now popping and the excitement at capturing Ted Rockson.

“So you walked into our trap, Rockson,” the colonel said with a lopsided smirk. “I thought you were uncatchable—a legend in your own time.”

So it had been a trap. This whole takeover by the KGB of Zhabnov’s Red Army forces in Pavlov City. Rock kicked himself mentally for not seeing it ahead of time, although exactly what he could have done instead he wasn’t sure.

“I’m flattered,” Rock said looking up through the bars. “You make me feel so popular.”

“So you have steady nerves and cool eyes, do you?” Killov said sneering, his own body trembling lightly. “Maybe I’ll wind up making those eyes decorations on my trophies wall,” Killov said, agitated.

“Go to hell with your absurd threats, Killov. You’ll get nothing from me. Why don’t you come in here and we’ll see whose eyes wind up on the cutting room floor.”