Doomsday Warrior 15 - American Ultimatum (5 page)

But the “Rock Team” met by torchlight in one of the smaller conference rooms, three flashlights set upright on the table casting their faces into demonic-looking presences. McCaughlin, the joker of the group, was none too slow in commenting upon how “handsome” Archer appeared, or the fact that Detroit almost disappeared in the shadows with his midnight black skin.

“Can it,” Rock said. Then Rock looked around the table at the men who had worked and fought and bled alongside him for years. Men who would walk anywhere beside him, fight any enemy—the devil himself, if Rockson asked them. Aside from his fighting prowess and mutant sixth sense which had saved them all more times than they liked to think about, Rock had something else—the ability to lead men. The ability to make them feel that he was going to get them through it all no matter what. And if somehow he didn’t, well, not a one of them could think of a man they’d rather go down fighting next to than Rock.

He had already gone through in his mind just who to bring along for the cross-oceanic journey. They were all good-spirited, tough men, each a specialist in his own way, each with his own niche. Detroit, the black bull of a man, was shorter than Rock, but with shoulders and a chest that would have made Mike Tyson, the great heavyweight boxer of the last century, green with envy. Next to him sat McCaughlin, the huge Scotsman, cook, joke-teller, and general all-around bone-crusher when the going got rough. Then Chen, whose martial-arts abilities and exploding star-knives made him, in Rock’s mind, one of the toughest dudes on the face of the planet. Though they had sparred numerous times—sometimes one, sometimes the other coming out on top—Rock didn’t look forward to ever really fighting it out with him. It was one battle he couldn’t even imagine the outcome of. Then Archer, the towering seven-foot-plus near-mute who Rock had rescued from a quicksand pit years before. The man had been like an obedient puppy to Rock ever after, ready to dive into a volcano if Rock requested it. His tremendous strength and immense crossbow—which he carried around his back—made him a super combat man. Then Sheransky, the newest member of the Rock Team, a Russian defector whom the others had at first been very wary of, both because of his Russian background and because they hadn’t been all that happy about welcoming another man to their elite group. But after a few skirmishes with him along, after they had seen that the man was neither a traitor or a coward, but the equal in heart and ability of any of them, he had been warmly accepted.

Pound for pound Rock knew he was looking at the baddest bunch of asskickers around. And he also knew he could only take three of them with him on a trip from which they very possibly might not come back. Not with Killov holding the reins on a herd of mountains which he could raise up and squash down on you like you were a goddamned ant. So it made it hard to choose, both because they were most likely going to rejoin those dark ashes from which they had sprung—and because he knew his men would all want to be included in the fun and games more than anything on this earth.

But he had already made the decision. The choice could only be dictated by need, as logically and with as much foresight as possible. Rock had mulled it over in his “conventional” mind and then turned to his mutant sixth sense to see if the choices matched. They did. That made him feel certain of the correctness of it. For it meant that the left and right sides of his brain, and mutant factor, were working more and more in synchronicity these days. If he could ever get the whole damned nervous system operating at maximum, he’d
never
make mistakes!

Dr. Schecter was always urging him to push it, see what his mutant abilities really were, how far they extended. As if Rockson could somehow just snap his fingers and make it all happen. It wasn’t that easy at all. But it was true. He could feel it, see the super abilities that lay just beyond him, tantalizingly out of reach. Abilities that were awesome compared to his normal abilities. It was like this thing called enlightenment, from what he’d read about it. It was there—right in front of you, waiting for you to pick it up like an oyster from its shell. Yeah, right!

He suddenly spat out the names like bullets issuing forth from his mouth. “Chen, Archer, Sheransky—we’re going to Africa. Maybe see some elephants.” He smirked. “Tarzan too.”

“Hey, Rock, now that ain’t fair,” McCaughlin said quickly. But Detroit was right behind him in his protests. None of the men could imagine that a Rock combat team would be quite complete without their specialized skills.

“Sorry, boys,” Rockson replied, raising his hands. “I can only take three men, since most likely we’ll be riding the skylanes in a Red MIG 7X fighter. It’s a four-man job. Mostly because that’s the only intercontinental jet I’ve had any real experience flying. Also, that’s the main trans-oceanic jet of the Soviet occupation force. And since things have been quiet, they leave them lying around like transport trucks. I hear they’re just parked along the edges of Red Air Force bases—with the keys hanging in them.”

The men laughed.

“But that means four—that’s all it seats. I’ve carefully gone over the most likely requirements for this operation. It’s nothing personal. And besides, you two men will be C.C.’s field operations commanders while I’m away. You’re in line behind me for all military operations other than strictly defensive army operations of Century City. It’s a necessity. I need you both here. We can’t leave this place without some kind of real combat brains. Men who’ve really fought, who’ve bled, who know what the hell it’s all about. Not just these aging generals who sit around in their overly large offices twenty levels below the ground, plotting war games on half-busted computers.”

The men laughed again. Rock had a way with words when he was in the mood.

The two men who were to be left behind—Detroit and the bear-sized McCaughlin—both brightened considerably at the words of praise. There was a lot of prestige attached to the field operations position, even if it was momentary. It would up their lot in C.C. at a number of different levels, not the least of which would be with those of the female persuasion. Perhaps most of all, the fact that Rockson trusted them—not just their battle prowess, but their intelligence and leadership abilities as well—made staying behind palatable. It was the greatest trust he’d ever placed in them.

“Anyway, that’s the story, fellows—and we’re leaving at dawn. I’m having some ’brids supplied up, though we’re going to travel pretty light. Needless to say, we won’t be taking the hybrid horses on the jet to Africa with us. Whatever we need we’ll get there—in Africa, I hope. So sleep, eat, screw, whatever . . . but be ready and at the outer ’brid chamber at the stroke of six.” Rock looked around at the men. “Any questions, comments, or problems with what I just said?”

Archer was squirming around in his seat like he had the question of the ages to ask, and Rock nodded toward the big man.

“Yeah.” He grinned over the huge bushy beard with food particles from the last meal wedged firmly in numerous nooks and crannies. “I drink too much beer. If meeting over, I need
battthrooooommm.”

The whole room broke up, and Rock hooked his thumb toward the door.

“You understand—six o’clock—we go to Africa,” Rock said. The towering Archer nodded vigorously. Rockson never quite knew for sure if the big fellow really knew what the hell he was talking about. Or if he just nodded yes with a crazed look in his eye because he had learned that was what Rockson wanted to see. Archer rose from the table and shot out the door like a rocket.

“Detroit, McCaughlin, come with me to my ‘office.’ I want to go over some of the things involved in combat ops.” Rockson’s office was a notorious and sick joke as far as he was concerned, a room hardly larger than a closet that the bunch of them could barely fit into at the same time. One dangling light bulb which sputtered as if it were thinking about supernova’ing out, a file which leaned at a steeper angle than the tower of Pisa and had botched requisition forms sticking out of it everywhere, and a desk.

“Look, I’m not going to go over all this bull that’s in here,” Rock said as he, McCaughlin, and Detroit stood inside the room. He pointed to the exploding files. “I’ve never looked at a word in there. The main thing is, should there be any need for field operations, you have to notify General Abrams or General Harris immediately. They’re in charge of getting the units together, because if it’s any kind of major attack that you have to launch—like a big Red convoy—we could be talking about other Freecities too, or at least thousands of men. You know the story. You’ve both been involved in full-scale military operations. Now, of course the generals will be in charge of the actual movements of troops, but they’ll work with you. What it all means is that your roles would be to conduct a knowledgeable oversight for the whole mobile strike force. You make the decisions together, and I mean that. You both know when and where the shit will hit the fan. They don’t. Work around the generals if need be. I’ll back both of you on this one hundred percent.”

He looked them both hard in the eyes, back and forth, and then spoke more softly. “And God help you both should you need to buck the generals. Because it’s always scared the hell out of me. It’s not a responsibility that one carries easily. Now, I gotta get out of here. Got a date with a lady who’ll kick my butt if I’m late.” He winked and headed out of the room, leaving the two men to stare around in sudden horror at the overstuffed file, with the realization that they ran the “Field Operations” office now.

Rock stopped off at the hybrid horse stables on Level 2. The ’brids were just below the top level, so they could be gotten out of the city quickly in case of emergency. He found McKinley, the tall, still-acne-faced young man in his early twenties who ran the stables. He was exceptionally good with the animals. Rock had noticed that before. Rock came to the riding ring, where the lad was trying to train a wild ’brid that had been captured recently, and saw that McKinley had the extremely wild beast from the wastelands already turning in circles. The new ’brid was following the lad’s basic instructions and tugs on the long training reins. The young man knew the secret of working with animals—make them want to please you. You never had to say a harsh word, or even hit the beasts. McKinley clearly knew that particular animal-truth, even if some other humans might not. The lad noticed Rock.

“I’m going to need full combat junk for three of your biggest and fastest ’brids,” Rock yelled over to him. “I know Snorter has been having hoof problems,” Rockson said, referring to the hybrid horse that he had used for several years, an immense beast with more brains than a lot of humans he’d known. “So you pick someone good for me, okay? Need ’em by six
A.M.
”

“Sure, Rock.” McKinley smiled back. Even though he had seen the Doomsday Warrior walking around C.C. for years, and had helped to outfit a dozen or more of his other outings already, the young horseman still felt somewhat in awe of the man. “Full combat! Right!” McKinley beamed. “I’ll pick the cream—the ones the generals like to use to parade around at parade time.” The young horseman added with a wink, “We’ll give them generals some mules!”

They both laughed, and Rock knew the guy was a winner. Maybe someday he’d invite him to take on a mission with the Rock team. On second thought, forget that, Rockson admonished himself. Century City needed a good horse-trainer far more than it needed another combat soldier, more fodder for the cannons.

“Oh, and I think Dr. Shecter’s field-test boys will be bringing you a few new inventions for us to try out,” Rock added. Shecter was a madman with his feverish attempts to constantly upgrade combat equipment. In a way, every time Rock and his men went out on a mission they were guinea pigs for all kinds of bizarre new Shecter-gear. Some of it had worked extremely well, had even saved Rockson’s ass several times. Other inventions had been complete fizzles. “I told him to keep it under five pounds a man—and compact. So you shouldn’t have too much trouble making room for it.”

“Will do, Rock. I’ll watch out for you, you don’t have to worry about that none,” McKinley replied. “I’ll pack ’em right!”

“I ain’t worrying, man,” Rock said. “I got other things to worry about.” Rockson looked down at his watch—7:30. Rona was going to kick his butt all the way to Level 20 if he didn’t move fast. Nothing makes a woman angrier than being stood up for dinner. Rockson had discovered that years before. But even though he took the back stairs three at a time, it still took him nearly ten minutes to get to the damned place. To make it properly romantic, the Sky Lounge was built at the top of the mountain in what was essentially a cave. When the elevators had worked, the club/lounge, built from faded woods and Art Deco antiques that search teams had found over the years, had been endearing. But now, with hundreds of feet of twisting metal stairs to climb, its charm seemed quite lost on Rockson.

He reached the lounge at last and barreled out through the emergency exit doors onto the long restaurant floor with its hand-carved stone tables set here and there among ivied pillars of marble. Above, the sky could be seen, though it wasn’t actually right overhead. By cleverly rigging up a series of mirrors along a chasm that rose another hundred feet to the actual surface of Carson Mountain, the builders of the restaurant had created the illusion of the whole cosmos floating by overhead, day or night. From outside, no passing Russian spy drone could see it on video camera. The place was usually quite popular, being the only sector of the entire city that you could actually “see” the sky from. And though hunting and combat groups often went out into the “real” world, many others found themselves inside Century City for many months at a time. A trip to the Sky Lounge was essential for sheer mental health every once in a while, so they said. But not now!

“Where the hell have you been, mister?” Rona hissed, with icebergs in her voice. “Some damned meeting or other, I imagine. Perhaps you had to discuss with the council whether the triggers on the new automatic Liberator rifles should be two inches long or three?”