Doomsday Warrior 02 - Red America (22 page)

The men sent out to get the flammable liquids came back dragging bottle after bottle of the stuff. Rock directed them over to the stairs where they piled it all up. The sounds of gunfire grew ever closer on the floors below and retreating, wounded workers came pouring onto the floor. When the Reds sounded like they were on the floor below and the first spray of fire could be seen rounding the stairs, Rock yelled at the men to fall back away from the door. He kicked out at the stacks of gasoline, ether, alcohol, lubricating oil, and God knew what, sending them tumbling down the metal stairs in a roar of glass. The liquid from the broken bottles poured out and down the steps, an instant waterfall heading toward the Reds. The flame-throwing troops waited a second for the smoke to clear ahead of them, not noticing the pungent stream beneath their feet. They shot the flames forward again, hoping to fry more American flesh. Instead they hit the chemical streams flowing inexorably down.

It ignited with a roar and a flash that shook the floor, nearly knocking Rock and the freed prisoners to the floor. The Reds for three floors below, the flamethrowing team, and about a hundred troops crowded just behind them were burned instantaneously. The river of flaming death sent up a sheet of flame that reached to the ceiling. The Russian soldiers turned into torches of human flesh, their hands, faces, uniforms rippling with beautiful yellow and blue tongues of flame.

“That will hold them below this floor,” Rock said to the freed workers gathered around him.

“We’ll have to head up now. Most of the top floors are controlled by us. If we could just get hold of some choppers—” The Rock force headed up, leaving a small lake of the flammable liquid covering the floor. When the Reds hit the grenade that Rockson had rigged up by the fire stairs’ door they’d get their next big surprise of the day. By the time Rock and his men reached the officers’ offices on the top five floors the brass had already fled by helicopter. Colonel Killov had choppered to the ground and reentered the first floor lobby where he directed the Red Army in their attack. The KGB commander knew he had the Americans trapped. Rockson had escaped from one cell but he had just run into another. The rebelling workers were sealed in from below by nearly a thousand men and from above by machine-gun mounted helicopters. It was only a matter of time. And this time Killov would make sure that Rockson wouldn’t live again to repeat his heroics. He rubbed the painful wound on his cheek. The man had hurt him. No one had dared strike him, ever. How the man had been able to cause all this damage amazed Killov. He had underestimated the freefighter. The muscle-bound, weird-eyed, white hair-streaked mutant was one of the cleverest and toughest adversaries the colonel had ever faced. But all his cleverness would end in a hole in the ground within the next few hours.

“Send in more flamethrower units,” Killov commanded over a walkie-talkie. “And have the helicopters start dropping that nausea gas from up top. We’re going to squeeze these rebels till they bleed.”

Rockson and his army of nearly a thousand freed American prisoners fought on for hours, somehow holding back the overwhelming strength of the Reds. Another three hundred and forty of his men were killed or wounded. Rock knew it was only a matter of minutes before the choppers overhead would land or drop bombs or something unpleasant. He could hear from his momentary command center on the fortieth floor their whirring engines just fifty feet above him, an army of them it sounded like.

It was over. But he couldn’t tell them. He hadn’t lied to them and said it was going to be easy. Yet somehow he felt guilty. He had led them into the lion’s den. And Kim. He turned to look at her across the floor by the window, smashing out the glass with the butt of her submachine gun. She, too, had turned into a warrior over the last few hours. He couldn’t bear to think of her hurt or . . . damn! He slammed his massive fist into the palm of his other hand, his twin-colored eyes glowing like beacons in the darkness of the sea of death that threatened to envelop them all.

The men were exhilarated as well as frightened. For the first time in their lives they had fought back—had felt what it was like to be a man among men. They hadn’t listened to Russian commands but shot at them. And it felt good. They looked to Rockson, whispering among themselves as to his plan. The Rockson—the one who would free them from this damned building of pain.

Rock heard the choppers drop their loads of bombs and the jarring roar of the explosions above. Plaster fell like oddly shaped snowflakes onto the freed prisoner’s heads. They threw their hands above them as if trying to shield whatever was about to descend on them.

“I know you’ve all fought hard today,” Rock screamed out to them. “I told you you would be free—well you are. Free to die as free men. I’m proud to be among men like you. You’ve proved yourselves Americans as tough as any freefighter out there.” The workers seemed to take a pride in Rock’s words. The Rockson had come to them and they hadn’t failed him. Rock walked over to Kim and put his arms around her.

“Baby, I’m only sorry that you’re going to—” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

“I’m with you,” she said. “And believe it or not, Rock, that’s all I want.” Several more bombs fell and Rock could smell the first acrid odors of gas. The stairs filled with low rolling clouds of smoke and the men began coughing and retching.

Something was happening. Far above, Rock could hear explosions. But they weren’t hitting the building. They were going off in the air, as if the choppers were exploding. There were more of them, the force of the detonations rocking the walls of the building. Rock pushed through the crowds of workers and tore up the metal stairs to the roof. He threw the rusting door open and stepped out. Above him was a battle of the skies that had not been witnessed for over a century. About a hundred feet up and spread out over nearly half a square mile were nearly thirty Red helicopters—but half of them were already in flames and falling from the sky. In the distance, nearly a mile away, Rockson saw a single chopper speeding in, in a zigzag pattern firing a beam of pure black energy.

The particle beam! Suddenly the Doomsday Warrior
knew.
The Rock Squad had come from Century City and they had a particle beam—probably against Shecter’s orders. Rock smiled broadly, his white teeth and violet and aquamarine eyes sparkling in the light of the flaming Red helicopters. The black beam swept through the skies again and again like a sword cleaving the very heavens in two. Every helicopter the particle beam touched, even briefly, imploded into a ball of white fire and dropped in shards of glowing metal, twisted beyond recognition.

The Red gunners attempted to fire back. The renegade helicopter was still nearly half a mile away. How in hell could it be firing so accurately and what kind of weapon could be causing such destruction? The Russian craft continued to fall like flies and the last remaining five of them fled like bats out of hell as the chopper approached the roof of the mindbreaker building. The stolen Red helicopter soared in at two hundred miles per hour and stopped on a dime over the concrete rooftop. The craft quickly dropped down to a landing and before the blades had stopped spinning the attack force on board came out in a crouch, guns at the ready.

Rock ran to greet his rescuers. Out popped Detroit, followed closely by McCaughlin. Then Chen, knives in hand; Perkins and Archer with his huge crossbow slung over his shoulder, ready for action. The whole damn crew! Rock almost cried tears of joy for the first time in his life as his comrades in arms crowded around him, slapping him on the back and joking dryly.

“Heard you were having a party, Rock,” Detroit said, a slight gash over his right eye that he had received while stealing the Red chopper, “so we brought the candles. Shecter’s probably screaming up a storm but—”

“Just in time,” Rock said. “The Goddamned Reds are nipping at our toes in there.” He pointed to the building where freed workers were emerging like ants through the roof door. “I must confess I’ve never been so glad to see your ugly mugs as right now,” Rock said. “But we’ve got a battle on our hands.” Detroit held one of the particle beam weapons, Perkins the other. Perkins walked over to Rockson.

“Want to give it the honors?” the freefighter asked grinning.

“With pleasure,” Rock said, hefting the now familiar weapon. The Technicians were about to save his ass once more, Rock thought, remembering the small bald men with fondness. He headed toward the stairwell, making his way through the milling released prisoners.

“We’re going back down now, men,” Rock yelled out to them. “And this time we’re not coming up again.” The workers looked at The Rockson in disbelief. Even The Rockson—how could he fight what must be a thousand elite troops below. Rock introduced Kim to his Rock team. They all could see how his eyes glowed when he was near her. So the tough guy had finally fallen. They immediately felt protective toward the vulnerable-appearing blond beauty. Every one of them would instantly have given his life to save hers. She was Rockson’s woman and therefore one of their own.

Rock headed down the fortieth floor fire stairs. Below he could hear the troops firing, preparing for their final assault on the trapped rebels. He set the particle beam rifle on the widest beam—a beam that would instantly knock out any man touched by it for hours. He took a deep breath and with the workers crowding behind him headed down. He waited until the flamethrower team had stopped for a moment to let their troops wipe up any lingering resistance above. Rock met the first wave of assault with the two foot wide beam. The Red troops crumbled to the floor. Taking advantage of confusion and a surprise counterattack which the Reds wouldn’t be expecting, Rock tore down the stairs, his finger on the trigger of the three foot long nearly cylindrical plastic rifle. The troops fell like ducks in a shooting gallery. There was no warning, no noise, nothing—just instantaneous unconsciousness. The troops below didn’t even know what was happening to their advanced forces. Just a strange quiet which slowly descended down through the building as the freefighter came down. The Reds fell by the hundreds, collapsing onto the stairs, their rifles clattering to the floor. Not a Russian could withstand the power of the futuristic weapon. Slowly, floor by floor, Rockson took out the attack force.

From the roof of the forty story brainwashing building, Detroit set up a line of fire with the particle beam, sighting up the troops barracks, the munitions warehouses, the rows of tanks and armored vehicles parked in an immense concrete square at one end of the city. He put the black beam on maximum power—six inch wide beam. The rifle positively quivered with energy—more powerful than that of an atomic bomb. Whatever was touched by the pure blackness of the ray instantly exploded into its component atoms. Foot thick armored tanks went up like puffs of pine bark, exploding with sharp cracks. The barracks were sliced in half and then the fleeing troops picked off en masse. Detroit waved the black beam of death across the entire city as it erupted into flames everywhere.

Forty stories below, Colonel Killov beat a hasty retreat from the lobby as he saw which way the tide was turning. He fled to his waiting limousine and escort vehicles staffed with the top brass of his four hundred man force. The convoy of KGB bigwigs tore out to the airport, leaving the remainder of their force to face Rockson and his army of workers. Killov shook with fury inside the staff car. Again Rockson and his blasted freefighters had defeated him. Again, they carried those deadly beam weapons, the likes of which Killov had seen just once before when they shot nine of his ten helicopter attack force from the sky. He had barely escaped with his life then and now . . . The convoy raced to the airport as Red troops poured from the now flaming mindbreaker building, fleeing for their lives.

Killov grabbed the wireless phone from its wooden box built in place behind the front seat and pressed his priority code. After several seconds of static a voice answered, “Yes sir!”

“Who is this?” Killov snapped.

“Lieutenant Shirovsky and who is—”

“This is Colonel Killov. I am leaving Pavlov City. Get General Manislav on the scrambler and have him ready a bomber jet loaded with two neutron bombs. I want the target to be Pavlov City—dead center. Use the large building as ground zero. When I am airborne I’ll call you back and give the order to drop. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, sir,” Shirovsky replied without hesitation. He could hear the rage and fury in Killov’s voice and knew this was not the time to make even the slightest mistake. “Order received and carried out.” The line clicked off.

“Faster!” Killov screamed through the intercom to his driver. But now his grimace of defeat and fear had turned to a smile of contempt. Let them play back there, Killov thought. Soon they will all be bubbling charcoal. He would loose four hundred men—but he would get Rockson and destroy those damn super weapons. The trade was worth it. He would have sacrificed a million men at that moment to see Rockson burned to cinders. “Faster!” Killov screamed again as the convoy of white-faced KGB men sped, wheels spinning on the dirt road to the waiting private jet. Behind them, the black beams continued to slice apart what little remained of Pavlov City that wasn’t yet burning.

Eighteen

W
ithin an hour Rock and his small army of American workers had fought their way to the edge of the city. With the particle beam at his command the Reds fell like flies. Detroit, Chen, and Archer kept up the attack from the roof and arranged to rendezvous with Rockson at a small hill just to the north of the city. Rock led the now seven hundred man force up the steep slope of the first of a series of hills that surrounded the open plain on which Pavlov City had been built. The men stopped at the top and turned to look at the damage that had been wrought. Pavlov City had been reduced to smoking rubble. Everywhere were fires roaring high into the sky, billowing clouds of thick smoke from the burning wooden barracks. From time to time another store of munitions would go up with explosive fury, shaking the ground around them. The men cheered and cheered. Never had they felt such emotions. Emotions of winning, or conquering, of destroying the Reds. They turned to Rockson with worship in their eyes. The Rockson
had
saved them. Everything they had ever dreamed about the mythical freefighter was true. Rock gathered them around him and quieted them down. With Kim at his side and Perkins and McCaughlin standing proudly in back Rock addressed them.