Doomsday Warrior 03 - The Last American (6 page)

Dr. Elston listened in fascination. She’d never heard Rockson speak about his own beliefs or philosophy before. There was a power, a directness to his words that was almost hypnotic. Her eyes grew large and bright as she listened, hardly breathing at all.

“But in this case, the battle was different than my usual physical confrontations—it was much—sounds crazy—gentler. I knew that if I tensed up, that the poison would win. Christ, it was already making my body tense as stone, every muscle felt like it was being pulled to the limits of cellular strength. I knew I had to relax. And to relax I had to make my whole body become one. Had to get all the different parts of myself working together as a team rather than as a bunch of separate organ systems each doing their own thing. I was able to get into a very soft, ultrameditative state of mind—a wholeness, a dimension beyond the material. I’ll tell you one thing—a Russian—with their crass, material attitude—their godlessness—would have been unable to direct his healing powers. That machine, incidentally doc, is great. I felt the rays, the heat, working inside of me.”

“Yes, the Laser beams cross holographically inside your body and actually heat and excite the light-sensitive decoagulants so they become more effective. It’s a derivation of that healing device you brought back from the Technicians—it’s given Shecter and our medical people a lot to work with.” She questioned Rock for nearly an hour until she noticed he was getting tired again. She politely excused herself, wishing she could spend more time with the man. He was—fascinating. So different from the run-of-the-mill males who constantly approached her with their lines, their macho smiles. Ted Rockson didn’t need all that stuff—he was the real thing.

Four

P
resident Zhabnov, supreme ruler of the United Socialist States of America—or so it was supposed to be—he thought ruefully, was staring out at the new blast-deflecting concrete walls being hastily constructed and strung with razor wire around his lovely White House in the center of New Lenin, formerly called Washington D.C. The fifteen-foot walls were directly bisecting his lovely rose garden, which was in full bloom.

“Ruined,” he mumbled out loud, looking out from the third floor window of his office, the room that had served as the decision-making seat of all of America’s presidents. Their pictures hung on the walls around him, huge, imposing, in ornate gilded frames. Zhabnov turned away from the window in disgust. The eyes of George Washington caught him full on, almost shocking him with their intensity as they seemed to glare down at him in none too friendly a manner.

“Did you have to put up with this sort of distasteful occurrence?” he asked, staring back up at the white-haired first father of the United States. “No, I’m sure you didn’t—sure you didn’t,” he answered himself, turning quickly away from the somewhat ghostly presence of the powerful man. He walked over to the Executive Desk and seated his portly frame, decked with rows of elaborate medals, into the antique wooden armchair that sat behind it. But I must take precautions. I must armor myself, make myself as impervious as possible to my enemies. My
enemy,
that is, he corrected himself, as he sipped a cup of darjeeling tea from the presidential crockery and munched on a croissant freshly baked and still steaming from the ovens of the ten-man-staffed kitchen in the basement that were kept going twenty-four hours a day to respond to any of the supreme president’s culinary needs—convenience that had made him grossly obese.

It had to be Killov’s doing, he thought with that gut-wrenching feeling in his stomach whenever he thought of the commander of the KGB in America. The one man of whom he was truly terrified. Even in the presence of the skull-like face, although he himself was theoretically Killov’s superior, he felt like a powerless fool. The man’s strength, his evil ambitions, made him burn like the fires of hell itself. And those eyes, set back in that pale, gaunt face—he couldn’t bear to look in them. Of course, he couldn’t be a hundred percent sure that it was Killov who had destroyed Pavlov City, the giant experimental complex that had been implementing Zhabnov’s greatest plan—Plan Lincoln—to create a brainwashed army of American rabble to fight the freefighters. Pavlov City had been using the recently created Mindbreaker, a device capable of taking over the brain and will of any but the strongest and forcing them to do whatever the operator of the machine wished. It had been going well, the complex taking in nearly two thousand men and women a day and successfully transforming about a third into Zhabnov’s “American Army,” as he called it. The other two-thirds had become mindless wrecks who had had to be disposed of. Unfortunate, but such is the start of many noble experiments, the president thought. All Zhabnov knew was that Killov had entered the city on some pretext of checking on traitors among the army staff who ran the brainwashing city—Killov controlled the KGB and some air force units in the western part of the U.S., while Zhabnov had firm rein on the regular occupation troops and all other armed services. Killov had brought several hundred of his elite forces in with him—and then radio silence. What happened next was unclear, but apparently there was some sort of violent confrontation with the American rebels. A small nuclear device had been detonated over the fort and . . . that was that. Zhabnov’s greatest plan, his height of intellectual achievement, and millions upon millions of rubles, not to mention nearly one thousand of the complex Mindbreaking machines, all had gone up in the swirling fires of a mushroom cloud. Killov was back in his Denver eighty-story Monolith—a black, windowless building as unsettling to the citizens who could see it for nearly twenty miles around as the KGB commander himself—within hours. He had called the president to sadly inform him that the American rebel forces had stolen a nuke artillery shell and fired it from a tank. The president hadn’t believed a word of it, but had thanked Killov profusely and expressed delight that the commander had been able to make his own escape.

But Zhabnov knew the truth. The KGB, under Killov’s command and perhaps working with other Blackshirt forces as the KGB was also called back home in Moscow, were trying to wrest control of worldwide Empire from the Grandfather, Premier Vassily. Zhabnov was next in line to be premier—after all, he was the old man’s blood relative, his nephew. But Killov and his cronies had other ideas.
They
had destroyed Zhabnov’s Pavlov City, fearing it would make him too powerful with an army of zombie Americans under his control, and the KGB had recently even tried to assassinate the premier. Doctors working for the Blackshirt commander had tried to poison the Grandfather, but somehow the plot had been discovered in time—as the premier lingered on his deathbed. Vassily had formed mass execution squads in Moscow to kill the plotters in the KGB and among the power structure. He had purged the capital of the world, at least for the moment, of his enemies.

“Now, it’s up to me,” Zhabnov muttered to himself, tapping his fingers on the cherrywoood desk with the presidential seal inlaid on the top. “I must protect myself and my legitimate power as authorized by the Politboro, from those power-mad maniacs in the KGB. I must launch small attacks against Killov, until the Grandfather is strong enough to send more supplies and troops.”

Civil War—worldwide—within the Empire. It was happening. Unbelievable! At a time when the Empire was in grave danger—attacked by rebels everywhere. It was not the time to war among themselves. The entire planet seemed to be ready to die. It was as if all the subject peoples of the world were in touch with each other—which was, of course, impossible—and were planning their attacks in unison. In India the Sikh warriors with their long, curved swords were rioting again. They seemed to have no regard for their lives, attacking armored Red columns with hand weapons. Still, they made the Russian forces pay an ongoing price. In South China a warlord was creating a frenzy among his people—eighteen thousand fanatical Moslem followers of the Muabir, the flame of Allah. They had done serious damage to the occupying forces, armed as they were with only rifles and small explosives. They would sweep into Red encampments on horseback, screaming, unafraid to die, and decapitate every Russian they could lay their hands on. Zhabnov had seen secret papers and photographs of what they had done. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

It seemed to be that way everywhere now. The Zulu chief, Mobogutu, had managed to organize a ragtag but dangerous army of a number of different tribes; the British, the French, the Spanish—all growing stronger and bolder with every passing day. South America, passive for nearly a century, was now becoming a deathtrap for Red soldiers, who couldn’t walk down the peasant streets at night without getting their throats slit. And here in the U.S.S.A, a land that had been totally subdued for generations, Zhabnov was hearing disquieting reports about the increasing strength of the freefighters. This Ted Rockson of theirs had somehow become a national hero to the peoples of the hidden cities, and even the workers in the Russian Fortresses. Such a man was more dangerous than a whole army. He gave hope to the slaves, made cowards unafraid, gave unity to a land that had been nothing but isolated hamlets for many, many years. Times were changing, even Zhabnov could see that. He knew he was not as smart as Killov or Premier Vassily, but he could see the proverbial writing on the wall. He had tried to be a just conqueror. He made sure that the workers were fed, that, as much as possible, more nuclear weapons were not used—in the fight against the rebels. But . . . that would have to change now. If he was to survive, he must make himself as ruthless and bold as Killov.

He rose from the immense desk and walked around it to the nearly ten-foot-high mirror that sat between the portraits of Lincoln and Washington. He looked at himself—not bad for a man nearing fifty-five. He was very broad and meaty, with a typical Russian physique, big-boned, strong, and quite heavy. His face had a squarish bulldog kind of look, with thick black eyebrows and puffy hedonistic lips. Not bad at all, he thought. Not as fearsome-looking perhaps, as Killov, with his high cheekbones and piercing eyes and the scar along his cheek that according to Zhabnov’s spies had been placed there by none other than Ted Rockson. He lifted his shoulders, pulled in his stomach, and pretended to stare Killov down. Around him, the American presidents of past days fixed their oil eyes on him with cold accusation.

Outside, the sound of heavy machinery building the defensive fortifications came blasting through the windows, disturbing Zhabnov and his narcissistic reveries. He rushed over and pulled the thick purple floor-to-ceiling drapes closed. He was besieged! On all sides. He had ordered his generals and security staff to ignore the growing menace of Rockson and the freefighters and instead to concentrate on Killov as their most probable attacker. In the East here, in New Lenin, he would be safe—unless someone undertook a suicide mission: a truck full of high explosives driven by some drug-maddened minion of the Blackshirt commander, or a plane. The president began growing nervous as he thought of all the possible ways they would try to get him. The air cover around the White House—planes, Laser cannon, rapier missiles—were enough to ward off that menace. But . . . a human bomb, a Brutus among his cabinet . . . He
had
to get Killov before the madman got him, it was simple. Kill the head of the hydra and you kill all its appendages as well.

From outside he heard what sounded like singing. The American slave laborers were singing some sort of song. Singing was forbidden. Why were his guards allowing it? The words cut through the thick drapery like rapier blades.

The sun sets on the Red Empire

Like it is setting now

Arise ye prisoners of starvation

What was a king is now a clown

The mighty of the earth now tremble

Neath the rifles of Ted Rockson’s men

The Doomsday Warrior will triumph

The Red rule of death is at an end.

Zhabnov slammed his thick fist down on the intercom button.

“Grudonov, get those workers outside to stop singing. Have the guards shoot a few of them. I must concentrate!” Shortly, there were a few bursts of gunfire and the singing ceased.

He took out a folder marked TOP SECRET from his desk and looked through it for the twentieth time that day. Plan Jefferson. Colonel Killov thought he had the monopoly on terror and murder, but Zhabnov was about to join that club, too. Plan Jefferson—an elite deadly hit squad whose sole purpose was to assassinate the Blackshirt commander. Zhabnov had read once how super commandos in WW II had gone after the Reichsfuehrer of Czechoslovakia and had succeeded in killing him. British commandos. It had worked then, and it would work now in the Post WW III world. He liked history—if one knew where to look, it was full of instruction.

For three months seventeen specially selected men from Red Army Elite forces had been training in Langley Virginia, at the old CIA headquarters, now a Soviet Army espionage and counterinsurgency commando school. They had been narrowed down to the best, the toughest, of the lot—four men, deadly efficient men of high intelligence, with a deep hatred for the KGB stemming from events in their own pasts—early KGB purges that had claimed family members or loved ones. They were more than ready and willing to give their lives to take out the ruthless Blackshirt commander.

The door knocker rapped twice and the immense oak door swung open. His male secretary, Gudonov, said, in his strangely high-pitched voice, “They’re here, Mr. President,” Zhabnov brushed his graying hair back, adjusted his medals, and announced in his most presidential timbre, “Send them in!”

Four large men walked into the Executive Office, led by General Zhilinsky, head of Espionage, a short, totally bald man in an impeccable gray uniform, carrying a leather attache case. The four men walked up in front of the long desk and stood at attention. Zhabnov looked them over appraisingly. They were big—so big that they looked almost American—with blond, rugged features. They remained absolutely silent, staring straight ahead.