Doomsday Warrior 09 - America’s Zero Hour (7 page)

Scheransky wet his lips and resumed his seat. “They’re antimatter drains. They have to be attached to the missiles when we find them, inserted near the warheads. They deplete the antimatter. It’s the only way to disarm the warheads. Aside from pulling a few wires in the electrical system, disarming the missiles is child’s play. But we have to be very careful placing these ‘little red boxes’ as you call them next to the warheads. They must be placed in such a way—they are polarized—to reverse the poles . . .”

“But they can’t explode by themselves, can they? You said they were ‘drains.’ How can a drain explode?” Rock asked.

Scheransky smiled. “Antimatter drains have that capability, especially if jarred. Creates the explosive force of a hand grenade. The technical explanation is quite—”

“We’ll handle them gently from now on. Detroit, why don’t you go tell Chen before he starts juggling the last red boxes.”

“Will do.” Detroit exited with all due haste.

“Now,” Scheransky said, putting his pale hands back flat on the table, “I volunteered for this mission. I hope you understand there will be—there
must
be no failure on your part, Rockson, to help me deactivate the missiles. They are not to be merely captured. The agreement is that the missiles will be returned to their owner—the Soviet Empire.”

“We don’t need or want your fucking missiles. We’re winning without nuclear weapons, or antimatter weapons. Because we have freedom on our side. Vassily knows that we’ll never use weapons of mass destruction. History has taught us that’s a short-cut to hell.
We
want this planet to survive.
My
side will go through with the agreement.”

Scheransky eyed this strange bronze-skinned mutant American. He stared into the mismatched violet-aqua eyes. He had been told Rockson was exceptional—and he was.

“I will tell you what you need to know to help disarm the missiles, Rockson, just in case something happens to me. We must make haste. If we lose Killov, we might not be able to pick up his trail. We must never be more than ten days behind him. Nine to be safe.”

“Doesn’t this meson radiation the missiles give out hurt people?” Rock asked. “That might be good to know.”

“No. It passes right through the body. And it’s likely to imbed itself into the ground or ice below the trucks as they pass. The A-M meter
works.
I’ve tried it in Siberia, when we lost one of the missiles being transported by air. Led us right to the crash spot.” He bit his lips.

“So,” said Rockson, “you have more of these babies. Vassily said there were only these five.”

“No. There was one other, also being transported to Idaho—the Premier was afraid they would explode by themselves, which is theoretically conceivable, though unlikely. He didn’t want them on Soviet soil if . . .” Scheransky trailed off and looked at the floor. “Anyway,” he mumbled, “the sixth missile was damaged beyond repair and deactivated by one of those red boxes over there on the floor.” He looked up again. “I am telling the truth.”

Now it was the Doomsday Warrior’s turn to assess the man before him. He decided to trust Scheransky—for now. He had a hunch this wasn’t the worst Red he’d ever run into. He was a scientist; his eyes bespoke real intelligence and thought. He lacked the hard eyes Rock had seen so often in Russian officers. But he’d keep an eye on him anyway. Rockson knew that Vassily was likely to double-cross them, if he could.

Six

I
t had been a routine flight from Moscow for the returning Russian President of the United States. With the traces of his last meal having just been cleared away, Zhabnov absentmindedly took a sip of bourbon. The three ice cubes tinkled reassuringly in his glass. His escape flight to Moscow a month earlier hadn’t been so pleasant. He’d
warned
Vassily repeatedly that Killov was getting too powerful, but Vassily had been preoccupied with his damned books. When the inevitable happened, and Killov’s KGB Blackshirts stormed Washington, Zhabnov had the cunning and foresight to have a chopper pilot on twenty-four-hour alert on the back lawn of the White House ready to carry him to a Mach 5 jet waiting on a hidden runway.

Even then, he’d barely escaped the jaws of Killov, the Skull.

A single tear came into each eye as he thought of his loyal palace guards who’d bravely fought the KGB Commandos. He really must raise a monument to them. They’d laid their lives on the line and had been sacrificed so that he might be saved. Oh, how he had wanted to stay in Washington and fight, but it was of paramount importance that he, the logical successor to the pinnacle of Red Power, survive. The twelve men of his field staff that he’d magnanimously allowed aboard his escape jet understood his importance. The long flight back to Moscow had been filled with toasts of his heroism and brilliance in preparing the daring escape.

But he had been amazed, when he arrived in Moscow, that he didn’t get a hero’s welcome—a red carpet, an award ceremony.
No.
He’d been met with jeers, been called a yellow coward by Vassily himself. His reward had been pushing papers in the Kremlin under the watchful eye of Vassily’s black servant, Rahallah, whom he loathed even more than the paperwork. For four weeks that voodoo priest had made him feel like a slave, a lackey. Imagine he, Zhabnov, President of the U.S.S.A., doing mere clerical work under a blackie; his mind was meant for greater things. Leadership. Management of the Red forces of the entire U.S.S.A. And with his uncle Vassily lingering on his deathbed, it was only a matter of time before he would run the world. When news reached Moscow that the KGB troops occupying Washington had been defeated by the combined attacks of Red and American troops, Vassily had finally relented and given Zhabnov permission to return.

He looked out the jet’s window and watched the sun streaming through the clouds, forming canyons as great as those of the Grand Canyon. He marveled that up here he was privy to the sun’s first rays while the earth below was still enveloped in darkness. He loved heights. The ascent after takeoff had been glorious. He’d felt as if he were a bird able to fly with his own wings . . . His wings may have been clipped in Moscow, but now once again he was a soaring eagle. He, Supreme President of the U.S.S.A., was flying to reclaim his birthright, his destiny.

His reverie was suddenly interrupted by a flashing light above his seat and the sound of the pilot’s voice intoning, “Fasten your seat belt, sir. We’re approaching Washington.” This was the part he hated. Zhabnov squirmed deeper into his specially designed seat, wide enough for two ordinary men, and struggled to fasten the seat belt over his protruding belly. He hated descents. He was always afraid the jet would crash. Over and over he’d been given flying statistics which indicated that fewer accidents happened in the air than on the ground. But al though he loved statistics, he knew only too well how easily they could be manipulated. He hadn’t been above such things himself.

The two glasses of bourbon were provided for him, as he had ordered. One for each fist. He gulped them both down and his knuckles grew white as he gripped the armrests in his hands. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes tight like steel doors—so if death came, he wouldn’t have to see it.

The sun was just coming over the horizon as the Soyuz Stratocruiser landed at Lenin International Airport. The sleek supermodern eight-engine jet, equipped with the most advanced Russian computerized technology, landed like a living thing. Its wheels seemed to reach for the ground like claws. The pilot lowered the wing flaps and the engines reversed. Zhabnov opened his eyes in time to see the blur outside his window turn into hangars and ramps as the jet slowed to a taxiing speed down the runway. Zhabnov was back in Washington.

He unbuckled his seat belt. At last he could get its annoying pressure off his stomach. Not only did it bother his belly, but it crushed the jacket of his bright olive uniform. He detested frumpiness. He was a spit-and-polish man. He wiped the nervous sweat off his oily countenance with a handkerchief and smoothed the few wisps of blond hair across his scalp in the reflection of his pocket mirror. He’d have to look his best for the brass-band reception that was surely waiting for him now that Killov had been routed out of Washington; out of the U.S.S.A. for that matter. The thought of Killov being on the run like a hunted animal caused Zhabnov to lick his lips with great satisfaction.

The plane came to a halt. Zhabnov peered anxiously through his window for the crowd. They must be on the other side of the plane, he thought. He stood up and threw his shoulders back and sucked in his gut. Sticking his cap under his arm he strode purposefully to the exit. It came as a shock when he descended the staircase with four guards that no one was there to greet him. Not a soul.

Zhabnov put his hand to his eyes to block out the morning sun’s rays and stared off into the distance. Maybe he was early? He dimly perceived a moving object coming down the runway to meet him. It was one long, low black vehicle—the White House Zil limo, with his presidential colors flying. His disappointment was pushed aside by the thought that it must be for his security, national security, that the runway had been cleared, that the crowds had been forced to disperse. Yes, that was it. It’s better that way. Safer.

No sooner was Zhabnov seated than the door was slammed shut and the driver floored the pedal. The Zil limo with its presidential colors waving madly was off like a shot from a cannon and Zhabnov was thrown back against the seat.

They raced over the mighty Potomac on the Arlington Memorial Bridge and drove past the Lincoln Memorial. It was still there—unscathed. But that was more than Zhabnov could say about the rest of the mall. It looked as if a titanic tornado had passed through. Zhabnov gasped. Instead of the fall foliage he had expected to see, the cherry trees were almost bare. Some were twisted as if by a giant hand, uprooted and then tossed on the mall. Other trees were leaning precariously over the gray choppy Tidal Basin. The remaining ones were split open showing their open wounds—broken, dead limbs were everywhere. The Washington Monument appeared cracked and crooked, as if it were about to topple. There was only twisted rubble where the Octagon prison had stood.

They raced past the ellipse, where Zhabnov got his first good look at the White House. Even from the car, Zhabnov could see that his weatherproof plastic dome above the Capitol and grounds had been shattered. His foot-thick, transparent, three-hundred-foot high, impenetrable, plastisynth weather dome that he had built for security around the Presidential mansion had been smashed into shards. The entire East Wing was a shambles; and the West Wing had been utterly destroyed. KGB choppers had ground his roses to a pulpy red paste as they’d landed by the South Portico. His children. His creations. His precious genetically spliced hybrid stock of roses had been wiped out. He might never be able to recreate them. He, who had won top prize every year in the Taskent Rose Competition for his
Rosa familiaris cruxae
and American Beauty Roses among others, wouldn’t even be able to enter this year. Might never be able to show his face at the Taskent Horticultural Show again.

The Zil limo sped down the driveway from Pennsylvania Avenue through the White House gate which hung open askew on one hinge. The White House lawn was nothing but torn-up earth, as if an earthquake had hit. The Zil limo screeched to a halt outside the White House steps. Zhabnov got out of the limo in a daze. No one was on the sidewalk to greet him. He walked up to the rubble-strewn steps. The blackened wood door to the entrance was locked. He rang the bell but there was no response. How humiliating that the President of the U.S.S.A. was actually banging on his own door to be let in, he thought, enraged. Heads would roll.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the door was opened by a frail woman carrying a bucket of sudsy water and a mop. “Who are you?” she asked in a weak voice.

"I’m me, the President of the U.S.S.A.,” Zhabnov responded.

“President Zhabnov isn’t here. He’s in Russia.”

“I’m not
asking
for him, I
am
him,” Zhabnov screamed.

“Him who?”

“Him! I am President Zhabnov.”

“I told you already, he isn’t here.”

"
I’m President Zhabnov,”
he shouted, growing red from neck to forehead.

Suddenly a pale, bespeckled face appeared wearing a perplexed blank expression, which widened into a look of astonishment. “President Zhabnov!” the pale man exclaimed in the thin shrill voice that usually set Zhabnov’s teeth on edge.

Zhabnov shouted, “Gudonov!” and greeted his male secretary with a bear hug. Never had he dreamed he would be so thankful to see a familiar and hated face.

Gudonov didn’t know what to make of this hearty, emotional bearhug. He felt as if his bones were being crushed, and Zhabnov’s breath was steaming up his glasses.

Zhabnov recovered his poise. He abruptly stepped away from Gudonov, his shoulders back, and raising himself to his full height, he bellowed, “What is the meaning of all this? Where is everyone?”

“You weren’t expected until tomorrow morning,” Gudonov gasped, trying to get back his wind. “Things are damaged. I hoped—”

Zhabnov gazed about him. Paint hung from the ceiling in strips. Plaster had fallen from the walls and ceiling. The burned ragged curtains hung in frayed tatters. Buckets had been placed everywhere. He raised his eyebrows.

“The roof has been badly damaged by the KGB attack and the buckets are there to catch the leaks,” Gudonov explained to the unasked question. “As you can see, there is only a skeleton crew on duty since so much of the White House has been destroyed . . .”

“Show me, Gudonov,” the fat, jowly man ordered.

Gudonov took Zhabnov on a quick tour of his “palace.” The presidential office was a mess. Its shiny white paint was water-spotted, and the charcoal gray smudges gave evidence of a fire. Zhabnov’s floor-to-ceiling purple velvet drapes had been torn and they sagged to the floor. The veneer of his immense cherry-topped desk inlaid with the presidential seal was charred. The figure of a skull and the initial
K
was carved into its surface. Killov! The vandal! His suite of Empire salon furniture, recently upholstered in an eagle design of blue and gold, was faded, threadbare, and frazzled. The balcony hung precariously, as if by a prayer. The ten-foot-high mirror that hung between the portraits of Washington and Lincoln had been smashed.