Doomsday Warrior 09 - America’s Zero Hour (11 page)

“What’s the Sasquatch Woods?” Rock asked.

“The Sasquatch, I believe, is what your people once called the ‘Big Foot’—great hairy beasts with the strength of twenty men. Olmo may have been the offspring of human and Sasquatch parents. Although they have few weapons, except the huge rocks they throw—and they can throw enormous boulders—they have taken over all the land north of the Sasquatch River. They do not cross it, however. They fear deep water. At this time of year, they usually hibernate in caves.”

Rock could hardly believe all he was hearing, but he would soon find out. He decided that the Eskimos were great storytellers and that Tinglim was one of the best. But it was time for practical matters, not tall tales.

“I’m going to need supplies,” Rock said, looking the Eskimo chief squarely in the eye.

“Whatever we have is yours—for a price,” Tinglim replied, giving a coy look. The Nara leader took a long, slow sip of the hot buttered tea and then said, “I will sell you one sled with a husky team thrown in, for, say—one of your rifles and two hundred rounds of ammunition.”

“I’ll give you four rifles,” Rock replied, “and a hundred rounds each, but I want eight sleds and dogs—one for each of my men. I’d like to leave here in eight hours.”

“Ah,” said Tinglim, “are you in a rush? If you are in a rush we can jack up the price. Are you in a big rush?”

Rock’s mind raced for a second, “Well, not a
big
rush . . .”

“That’s more like it,” said Tinglim. “Tell you what. We send for your big arrow-shooting friend. He can bring some samples of your trading goods, particularly your skis-of-metal and your rifles, here. And I want to see some of your clever objects, like that compass you carry on your belt. Maybe I can make a counter-offer.”

Tinglim slapped his hands together. A very pretty Eskimo maiden, whom he introduced as Wiglim, came in with hot tea and some odd buns—lichen bread—on a tray. Tinglim instructed the girl to find Archer and tell him to bring all he could carry that might be a sample of what Rockson had to trade. Rock started to wish he had allowed Tinglim to consider him a god. It could become a costly mistake not to have done so.

In a matter of ten minutes, there was heavy breathing at the door, then the entrance shook. Archer came into the igloo carrying a vast mass of equipment: a giant armful that could have bent the chassis of a truck.

“Put if over there,” frowned Rock. “Right by the door.”

“Would your friend like some lichen buns?” asked Tinglim.

Rock’s eyes rolled; “Would Archer like
food?
Does Lenin have a beard?”

Tinglim carefully inspected the Schecter skis, the compasses, sextants, knives, pistols, and camp gear Archer had brought in. “I take
all
this,” he concluded, “And I give you four sleds and dog teams.”

“No dice,” Rock said.

This brought a pleased expression to the Eskimo’s face. Out here men spent hours bartering—happy for the companionship.

“Very well, let us inspect your other goods.”

The two of them walked outside to Rock’s ’brid, Snorter. Rock unsheathed his new Liberator rifle from alongside the saddle. It was one of the newer models that Rock had recently acquired from the arms factory.

Tinglim’s fat brown hands ran covetously along the barrel of the perfectly machined .9mm rifle. He looked at the weapon closely, snapped the fifteen-round banana-clip in and out, admired the superlight magna-steel simulated-wood take-down stock. The weapon seemed to cause something approximating love in the man. He clicked the trigger, with the magazine out, of course, and then sighted along the barrel and gave an exclamation.

Tinglim had pointed it toward a husky, and had seen a tiny little red spot appear on the dog’s fur.

“It’s just the laser-locking mechanism,” Rock said. “When you sight a target, the rifle shoots forth a harmless red laser beam. The beam leaves a trace of light-activated phosphorescence where it was focused. Then, if you pull the trigger and are off a bit, the bullets will skew to the right or left to find the target.”

“Amazing,” Tinglim muttered. “Amazing. Perhaps I could up my offer for some more sleds and dogs,” Tinglim said, a greedy look in his eye. The Nara chief motioned to some men, said something in Naraese. Rock was then led back into the big igloo.

The Nara men brought in all kinds of artifacts, even jewels that Rock really didn’t need, but couldn’t resist looking at. The Doomsday Warrior nearly gasped out when he saw two neon-blue rabbitskin robes. They were beautiful, soft, and iridescent, catching every bit of light and reflecting it. Rock wanted them for Rona and Kim. The robes were of two sizes, one just right for each of the women.

“It took a hundred and fifty rabbits apiece to make them,” Tinglim boasted. “And not ordinary rabbits. Neon rabbits. They have pelts that are dazzlingly blue, like the feathers of a peacock. It takes great skill,” said Tinglim, “to catch a neon rabbit. Then the pelts have to be dried and hung up in narrow strips. Then they are dressed and sewn together with walrus gut—very strong. Then they must be hung up in evergreen trees to catch the light of the aurora borealis, enhancing their color so that these robes are almost ultraviolet and glow. The coat that is made from them is light and warm. Wrapped in furs like that of the neon rabbit, a woman could walk in the coldest night without freezing.”

Rock thought later that there might have been something in the tea to loosen up his mind. For he ended up trading quite a lot of supplies for the furs. Tinglim gave good value back, though, for another four rifles, some rounds, and compasses. He would board the ’brids while Rock traveled north, and promised to return the mounts, no strings attached, whenever the Freefighter came to claim them. They would be given foodstuffs for the trip, some of the harpoons the Eskimos used, a sled and six dogs for every member of the party, warm pelts, and a brick of Eskimo black tea, guaranteed to heat up the blood. Plus four clay gourds filled with highly volatile seal oil. “They might save your life—fuel to keep warm. Or to just make tea.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Rock said. But he began to wonder suddenly if his men had enough experience in cold-weather survival to make the journey.

Almost as if reading his thoughts, Tinglim said softly, “You need me too, Rockson. I am coming along to help you—friend. We leave after a good rest for yourself and your men.”

Rockson nodded and yawned. Some shut-eye was a good idea.

Twelve

A
n aged, frail man sat reading in his electric wheelchair on his “solarium,” a glassed-in veranda overlooking Moscow. He was reading
On War,
by the Prussian military officer, Carl von Clausewitz. The book had been the basis of military strategy for the entire nineteenth century. He wrapped his shawl more closely about him as strontium-filled clouds passing over a wan sun cast chilling shadows over the city. Vassily, “the Grandfather,” Premier of the world, gazed at the gray clouds that seemed to be threatening to envelop his empire. He’d just been reading of a campaign that had been won because the enemy had been blinded by the glare of the setting sun. That sort of strategy would never work now, he thought as the sun reemerged, resembling a shimmering stone in a pool of water.

Life must have been simpler then, Vassily thought. There were too many conflicting, constantly shifting forces in the world today. Not only were there rebellions in Afghanistan and China, but now even in the U.S.S.A. The Soviet forces were divided into two camps—the KGB Blackshirts versus his Red Army.

Vassily cursed himself for the hundredth time for leaving those missiles hidden in America. He cursed himself for not having disposed of Killov when he had the opportunity many years ago. His nephew, Zhabnov, though in general a fool, had repeatedly warned him that Killov was getting too powerful. Vassily had ignored him—putting it off to jealousy on Zhabnov’s part. How could he have been so wrong? He was too old for all this. His life hung by the sheer slender thread of his willpower. But how long would the thread hold? One thing he vowed: he
must
last long enough to see Killov destroyed. Then he would gladly sink into the abyss.

Rahallah, Vassily’s black manservant, appeared at the doorway carrying a red phone. The Premier looked up at the descendant of African kings and wondered what he would ever do without him. The strength emanating from Rahallah’s sculpted face with its high cheekbones was more than physical—it was character. The kind of character that had made him Vassily’s most trusted aide and adviser. “The operator has finally reached Washington,” Rahallah said quietly as he placed the phone on a little table beside Vassily. The Premier of all the earth nodded as he placed his book in his lap and pushed the little button that activated the phone.

President Zhabnov was handed a steaming cup of demitasse by Gudonov. He leaned back in the restored and enlarged JFK rocking chair, which had somehow survived the KGB invasion, and took a relaxing sip. The low winter sunlight was streaming pleasantly through the Oval Office’s casement windows. This was more like it. He felt fully relaxed for the first time since he’d arrived back in Washington.

Suddenly the red phone rang.
Vassily.
It was
Vassily!
Zhabnov’s trembling fingers put down the cup. Gudonov brought the phone over and handed him the receiver. Zhabnov, sitting at attention, placed it to his ear. “Hello?”

“This is the Premier, Nephew. How are you?”

Zhabnov replied, “Just fine, Uncle. You should have seen the trememdous welcome I received here. The people love me; they showered me with flowers . . .” he lied.

“Yes, yes, Nephew. I know it must be gratifying to receive such a welcome. I am sure everyone is glad that you are back.” Vassily said—the tone of his voice revealing he didn’t believe his nephew for a second. “Have you read the orders I placed in your briefcase before you left Moscow?”

Zhabnov paled. What orders? His mind groped for words.

“Oh,
those.
Of course I read them,” Zhabnov lied, wondering what could be so important in them. Bureaucratic things, no doubt.

“Well, what have you done to implement them?” Vassily asked with growing impatience.

What in Stalin’s moldy face was he talking about, Zhabnov thought anxiously. “Why, everything possible . . . under the circumstances,” he answered hesitantly.

“What circumstances?”

“The White House is a shambles. Leaks are everywhere. We’re operating with a skeleton staff . . . and, and my rose garden is ruined and—”

“Stop whining, you fool. This is a matter of extreme importance. Intelligence has reached us that there may be KGB agents left in your area. They must be wiped out. You must reestablish your leadership over your scattered army—before there is a counterattack.”

“But Uncle, Killov is dead! He died when Rockson blew up the Octagon prison.”

“Nephew, you are forever misinformed. Killov lives and has stolen five Megon missiles. He is now somewhere in Canada.”

“Tell me but where, Your Excellency, and I will instantly destroy him.”

“Fool. I’m already taking care of the matter. I don’t need your inefficiency to gum up the works.”

Zhabnov turned red, and after a pause, to control his blood pressure said, “I am sure, Uncle, that you will handle the matter
most
efficiently. But if I could be of any assistance . . .”

“I will let you know. But you will be of most assistance to me and yourself if you rally your troops, if you secure the eastern United States once more, round up the fragments of KGB traitors that still exist. Get your house in order, Nephew, before it crumbles around your head.

“If this is beyond you,” Vassily continued, “I can replace you with a smarter man . . . Rahallah, for example?”

“That witch doctor!”

“Ah, Nephew. It would be wise to watch your tongue. Rahallah is my invaluable assistant and adviser.”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” Zhabnov answered resignedly. He heard the
click
as Vassily hung up the receiver.

Zhabnov groaned. “There must be a way . . .” he muttered.

General Barishkov sat panting in a storm drain on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. He’d been on the run ever since Zhabnov, commander-in-chief of the U.S.S.A. Red Army, had announced on TV that he wished to meet his officers at the Capitol Building the next day. Rain mixed with sweat fell off his brow. God! it’s cramped in here, he thought. Meet! That’s a good one. Barishkov would be stripped of his rank and thrown in the brig. Spetsnaz Commandos in their green uniforms were probably arresting generals all over the city. He’d be lucky if he got demoted to private. He deserved to be shot for skulking away when the going got rough. He knew it. He felt ashamed. He never even knew what hit him. He had been taking R&R on the Silver Bullet when it was commandeered by the Freefighters. When he’d begged for mercy, he was forced to strip to his underwear and then squeezed with two officers into a reinforced nylon mail bag. He and two others had been left swinging on a hook of the train line’s mail service somewhere in Indiana.

That would have been hard enough to live down. But when his troops were defeated at the Washington train station by KGB Blackshirts, he’d snuck away, hiding for his life. He’d kept secreted in his apartment—until he heard the knock on his door, then he’d slid down the rope to the alley and then here.

He glanced out the entrance to the storm drain. Barishkov thought he’d heard a noise—perhaps a cat? No, he heard martial footsteps outside the drainpipe.

He made a run for it to the other side of the culvert—but
too late.
There were two guards on the other end of the tunnel. It was no use to resist. He crawled out, his arms waiting for the bullets to tear into his flesh. One of the Spetsnaz troopers motioned with his automatic. Barishkov walked between the two guards until he was roughly shoved into the sidecar of a motorcycle. “Got another one,” said the guard ominously. “It’s getting late. Better take him directly to the Capitol Building.”

“Yes,
sir,”
saluted the driver. As the motorcycle shot off leaving a burning trail of rubber behind, Barishkov bounced in his seat. He stared at the leather-jacketed driver as the bike sped through the city streets. They sped up Pennsylvania Avenue past the Grant Memorial to the Capitol Building front steps.