Doomsday Warrior 13 - American Paradise (11 page)

He then produced a large folded piece of paper, “I can give you map that will take you safely through the lava field. And gifts for the great walking fish that lives there.

“Whenever anyone go into the lava land without gifts for walk-fish, they disappear! Attacked and eaten! When they are searched for, we find their clothes and sometimes huge fish scales around their bones!” The man nearly keeled over in excitement.

“Hey man,
cool out,”
Murf said. “Life’s a beach!”

“No, it isn’t! If you go through the lava lands, take some of my green tikis. Hang them on the scrap heap in lava land. The great fish accepts these trinkets as gifts. It find them pleasing and does not eat the travelers who bring him such gifts!”

The fisherman went over to and opened a small carved chest, extracting several trinket necklaces. He put them over each of their necks. “Remember, leave these out there, for the great fish—or you will all die!”

“Thank you, Nakai,” Rockson said, touched at the man’s desire to help. Then he asked, “Do the Russians steer clear of the lava zone?”

“Yes, they only go into bad place when they have to repair big white pipes that bring power from the sub-earth flames into the city.”

At the first light of dawn they set out into the lava lands. Soon they came upon giant pipes—thermal power conduits—rising out of the slag and basalt rock.

“So that’s where all the electricity comes from,” Rockson exclaimed. “Killov sure lucked out to find this island!”

Onward they went, single file, following Nakai’s map through a hell-like land of bubbling lava pools and twisted sharp tumulus. Then there was a faint noise, like a snarl or labored breathing.
“The fish?”
asked Scheransky, dry mouthed.

“No, just bubbling water,” said Rockson. “Come on!”

Ten minutes later they came on piles of scrap: pipes, old cables, the detritus of civilization. Jutting from the waste were rusty iron rods, and tiki necklaces hung on them, swinging in the fetid wind.

“Let’s add our gifts to the pile,” Rock suggested, “to be on the safe side. Pretty tikis to placate a walking fish.”

“Aw,” said Detroit, “I like my tiki. It’s pretty.”

“Just
leave
it,” Rockson insisted, hearing
slithering
noises over a smoldering pile of slag. “And then, let’s get going!”

Murf also scoffed, but he put his tiki up on a pole, “Bah, a walking giant fish? There aren’t such things in the world. I’ve been all over. I know. You guys have got to get
laid back!”

One by one the others added their gifts to the iron rods. When they were about a half mile farther along the twisting “safe” route, Rockson climbed a pumice hillock. It was a bright morning, and he didn’t like being out in the open.

They were on target. From the top of the hill, he could see green—and a rambling low house surrounded by a bamboo fence. Chimura’s house!

Fourteen

R
ockson simply went down and knocked on the door. Shortly there was the soft padding of small feet inside, and it swung open. The man who opened the door was bent and wizened—like a 600-year-old dwarf bonsai tree.

“Irasshai,”
the old man said softly, apparently not the least bit surprised by the unlikely figures outside his simple house. “Please come in. I am Chimura; remove shoes, take slippers,” he said in English.

Exchanging their footgear for slippers was easy, except for Archer. The extra-large American had to skip the slippers. The largest pair would not fit his size 18’s. They walked inside, Archer in his stocking feet.

“You are just in time for
kabayaki-ya,”
said the old man, gesturing for them to enter an exquisite—if low ceilinged—room. There were many decorative vases and subtle flower arrangements.

“NOOOO CHAIIRS,” complained Archer, anxious to rest his big buns.

“Please to sit on tatami mats, near lacquer tables,” Chimura said. The old man seated himself. The others, with more or less skill, also got down and sat cross-legged, thighs under the little tables. Archer had to use his table as a lap tray.

Rockson was about to take a seat to the left of Chimura when the old man said, “No, please take place over there.”

Detroit whispered, “He is offering you the place of honor—take it. You will have your back to the
tokonomo,
that little alcove in the wall. You see the twig and the little calligraphy scroll?”

Rockson nodded. He remembered reading somewhere about
tokonomo.
It was the place in a Japanese room reserved for the most beautiful thing: a painting or a poem in exquisite calligraphy; or some subtly-formed twig of pine—the sacred tree. The
tokonomo
expressed some subtle and rare beauty. To be given the place before it was indeed an honor.

Rockson bowed and took the seat.

That formality dispensed with, a kimonoed woman, who Chimura introduced as Reiko, his wife, bowed, left, then came back with a tray of some sort of raw fish on rice—
sashimi.
She put six small servings on a little wooden tray and put one on each of their little tables.

Archer looked at the serving disheartendly. “TTTOOOO SMALL,” he muttered sadly.

“Shhh!” Detroit said. “You can have more later!”

Rock said, “Chimura-san, could we speak on urgent business?”

“Oh yes . . . but first,”—Chimura smiled—“we will have tea with our snack. You will be tired after your walk.”

Rockson nodded. How long could tea take?

After five cups apiece and lots of talk about the weather and flowers, Scheransky blurted, “Lenin! How long can this go on? Time is wasting . . .”

Their host looked up, somewhat perturbed.
“Shhh!”
Detroit advised. “Better not offend. In Japanese houses you don’t raise your voice; it’s taken as a challenge. You don’t want to fight this nice man, do you, Ivan?”

Chimura sighed, then put down his cup. “We of the New Tokyo council know of your coming. We received signal from the fisherman’s flag that you were on your way. I know who you are and why you’ve come. And I welcome you as friends.

“We of the council fear that the new ruler of the island, Killov-san, will do something very evil soon. The device he puts atop our tower—”

“Means death for millions worldwide,” Rockson finished for Chimura. “And it means the subjugation of the entire human race once it’s finished. When Killov’s gang was first landing, why didn’t you fight? You have many men and some weapons, too, I am sure. It might have been possible to stop the KGB forces then. Why didn’t anyone fight when they first, landed?”

“Rockson-san,” said the host, “the hardest, most painful operation of all is the opening of one’s eyes to the true nature of things. All life is linked, and violence begets violence. Contemplation reveals that life is all one’s own karma. Life is
our own
subtle illusions, so why fight phantasms?

“I contemplate this fact often. In the garden . . . Let me show you my garden.”

“Later,” Rock said. “The fisherman spoke well of you. He said you have a large cave—that might be used for a base for our forces. But your property is small. Where could such a cave be?”

Chimura got up stiffly, aided by the woman. He said, “It is large, but it is in my small garden! Come!” He led Rock through a sliding paper door into the house’s interior courtyard. The old man waddled on his wooden clogs over to a low, mossy boulder and bent down and snagged a twig.

“Cave is
here!”
He pulled the twig. A hidden door opened. They went down steep steps, then into a narrow corridor.

Rock found himself inside a 100-foot-wide, stone-walled chamber, illuminated by a single huge candle. “It burns for days,” Chimura said, “so I leave it lit. The Zen monks meditate here at full moon.”

“Wow!” Rock exclaimed. “You could hide an army here! The fisherman was right. This would be a good base of operation. But realistically, from what the fisherman told us about the Soviets being well dug in, a handful of us will not do for an attack. Chimura-san, aren’t there any people on this island that will fight alongside us?”

“Yes . . . the Bushido will join you. They wanted to fight before, but we of the council dissuaded them, saying rulers come and go, and that we would absorb and change the Russians. I am embarrassed to say that I myself pointed out that we Japanese feared the American occupation after World War II and were wrong. These KGB have proven different: they brutalize; they mock our institutions; they even chop down our blossoming cherry trees for military barriers. Now that these things have occurred, I will call together the ten elders, and we will vote again on whether to unleash the Bushido from their vow of non-resistance.”

“Good. How many Bushido are there?”

“Forty-seven—same as the number of Ronin. A good number, yes?”

“It will
help,”
Rock said, “and with the element of surprise, it might be possible to overwhelm Killov. But how can you hold this meeting under the Soviet’s noses?”

“Right here—in the cavern—tonight. The council members are all stooped old men with wispy beards, like myself. We are so old and decrepid—” Chimura laughed—“that they let us come and go, shouting our poetry like Basho! The Russians laugh at us and let us pass. We will meet tonight, and I think the council of elders will allow the Bushidos to join your attack on Killov. I shall raise the red dragon flag atop my house—the council will come.”

Fifteen

R
ockson was very grateful that the Freefighters had managed to keep hold of three of the little submicrowave belt radios. One radio was aboard each of the ships. He had the third and used his device to call Chen aboard the
Dragon.
Chen was briefed about what had happened so far and what the landing team had accomplished. Rock ordered, “Get everyone except skeleton crews for the ships here at once—Leilani too. The fisherman will set you on the right path.”

Rockson gave standing orders for the crews of the two ships to sail at the first sign of the attack beginning. The ships would come around the island and evacuate the team, once they had blown the crystal from the tower. That was the objective.

Just before dawn, the Doomsday Warrior, watching from a rear slit window in Chimura’s house, saw Chen and the others coming down the pumice hill toward the compound.

The newly arriving Freefighters and their Polynesian tribesman allies were led through the house and down into the cavern where a general meeting was being held.

Rock presided, saying, “Shortly the eight-man council of this burg will meet. Chimura promises they will allow a group of their samurai called the Bushido to assist us. My plan is to spend a day here once the Bushido arrives to run through attack plans. Whatever mode of attack we devise, it has to result in using our explosives to blow the crystal to pieces. If the explosion doesn’t destroy it, the thousand-foot fall will. There’s some stored food and a lavatory in the adjoining chamber. Make yourselves at home. There’s an extra pair of torches on the wall.”

There was obviously a great lack of enthusiasm. McCaughlin went over and picked up one of the unlit torches, ignited it with a match and held it high. “Give me your tired, your poor muddled asses, yearning to breathe free.”

It broke the ice. Everybody laughed, and the palpable gloom lifted.

Detroit spoke up, “Even with forty-seven more men, we’re outnumbered nearly ten to one. The power for the crystal comes from the conduits in the lava lands. Why can’t we simply blow them up and get the hell off this island?”

“There are a
hundred
power pipes, Detroit. If we blow them, more can be constructed in a few days. The source of power is the island’s volcanic core. That
can’t
be destroyed. Besides, the crystal has been storing power; that’s how it works. No, unless the crystal is destroyed, we will fail to stop Killov.”

They all were startled when the stone door creaked open and Chimura, holding a yellowish lantern, descended to join them. “The council is in my house,” he reported. “We have all agreed. You may have the Bushido. But there is bad news. The Bushido leader Morimoto has been imprisoned. We don’t know where he is. The Soviets have several detention buildings throughout the city. The Bushido will be hard to round up without Morimoto’s help, but we of the council will try. It could take days.”

Rockson was sickened by the news. Without the Bushido’s help, there wouldn’t be a chance.

Suddenly Leilani cried out and swooned. Detroit caught her and lowered her onto a blanket thrown down on the rock floor.

They revived her with smelling salts. “What is it?” Rock asked, holding her under her head.

“Oh,” she said, “much . . . horror. I feel it—they die . . . horribly, degraded!”

“Who
dies?”

“Girls—Japanese girls. Oh! Great pain and anguish! They call out to me, to anyone. They plead for help.”

“Where?”

“North . . . a big building. At least five floors—strange. Through the power of crystal . . . I see . . . many levels, each with—red roof. Stacked roofs—on one another. I sense ancient wood. Oh help. Help . . .”

Chimura said, “Many roofs? A pagoda! The
red
pagoda! The Russian officers use it as a place of pleasure. They take many women there, and none come out!”

Rock checked the map. Chimura, his face illuminated by the lantern so just his eyes and his white beard were seen, pointed out the pagoda. “The old red temple pagoda is not far from the center of the city.”

Leilani sat up, her eyes focused now, alert. “Oh, Rockson, these girls are being tortured! You’ve got to rescue them.”

Rockson didn’t know what to say. The lives of a few pathetic captives—was it worth jeopardizing the mission? If the Freefighters went into action on their account, it could tip their hand. As far as Rock knew, Killov didn’t even
suspect
they were on the island . . .

And yet—since the Soviet officers used the red pagoda—maybe they could capture a few, interrogate them, find out Killov’s weak points. They
were
short of information. Besides, it would be some time, if ever, before the Bushido could be gathered, and he itched for action!