Doomsday Warrior 04 - Bloody America (25 page)

The computer digested the information and then spat out.
Airport?
Again he keyed in, hoping he could bluff the assist system.
No Airport—Special Mission—Top Security Clearance. Will Advise Later.
The computer again digested the somewhat strange information and then a green light blinked three times.
Course America—Await Advisement.
The jet shot forward, banking sharply to the left. They were on their way.

“Just sit back and enjoy the trip, hey Archer.” But Archer wasn’t enjoying it at all. He looked green around the gills, looking out the window at the clouds rushing past them and then, just as quickly straight ahead, trying to focus in on the back of Rock’s seat and not to think too much about what was happening. Rock hoped the Russian Air Force supplied paper bags. The night grew clear after about ten minutes as the big puffs of moisture pressed ahead into the heartland of Mother Russia. Above them the stars twinkled like a billion billion eyes looking down on the strange planet Earth, a world of so much violence and death. Rock wondered if it was the same out there. Were there worlds where people loved instead of hated, where they evolved instead of tearing each other and their planet apart? Somewhere, somewhere out there in the infinite reaches of space, there must be at least one civilization that had learned to quench its violent instincts and produce rational beings. Perhaps creatures like the Glowers.

Suddenly an amber light sparked brilliantly to life directly in front of him.
Radar Picks Up 3 Fighters Locking In With Missile Tracking Equipment. Instructions?
Rock quickly typed in through the keyboard—
Options?

The computer didn’t hesitate this time.
Impossible To Destroy Enemy With Onboard Equipment.
Then it seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if unsure about questioning its controller and asked,
Why Is This Fighter Being Attacked By Craft Of The Russian Air Command?
Rockson gulped. He had lied to humans with some success in the past but a computer . . . He keyed in
Top Secret. Unauthorized Information For Any But Code Red Clearance. Direct Orders of Premier Vassily.
The computer again assimilated the data, its various command imperatives struggling furiously against one another, trying to sort things out. Rock looked at the radar screen. He could see the three small blips of the jets closing fast. They were a mere fifty miles away. Within a mile they would be within air-to-air missile range.

His eyes snapped back as the computer screen flashed on again.
Data Accepted. Evasion Mode Only Possible Method Of Nondestruction Of Craft.
Rock instantly typed in a command, his fingers dancing across the keyboard.
Carry Out Evade Mode.
The jet dropped from the sky like a stone, falling almost straight toward the earth, the nose pointing at the hard mountains far below. Behind him, Rock could hear Archer gurgling softly. His own stomach wasn’t taking too kindly to the maneuvers. The MIG dropped for what seemed like an eternity until it at last leveled off a mere one hundred feet above the ground. Then it accelerated to nearly fifteen hundred miles per hour. Rock glanced out the cockpit window. He could see the vast Russian forests flying by below, mere blurs of gray. Every few seconds a reflection of some isolated village’s lights would glint up and then just as quickly be gone. Sonic booms shook the ground behind them, leaving a trail of broken windows and fallen branches. Rock glanced back at the radar screen. The three MIGs in pursuit were breaking out of formation, each flying off in a different direction, searching for him. It had worked. They couldn’t track the jet down so close to the ground, their radar unable to distinguish between the ground and moving piece of metal lost in the immensity of the solid earth below.

Rock took the breather to check his wound. His back ached painfully, but the blood flow seemed to have stopped. He could see a small swollen wound in the right side of his stomach as well. The slug had passed right through him. All the better. He didn’t have to concern himself with taking it out. He keyed into the computer console.
Medical Supplies?
The computer immediately shot back with a long list of onboard medicines, bandages, drugs. Rock chose two
—Coagulant and Antibiotic Injections.
The memory took in the request, and then a small compartment swung open at the right side of the cockpit panel. A stainless steel tray containing two hypodermic needles filled with a thick, clear liquid whirred forward on rollers. Rockson took them out and emptied the load around the edges of the entry and exit wounds. Just as he finished injecting himself, he had the sudden paranoid thought that perhaps the computer was trying to poison him. But then grinned, realizing the absurdity of it. In a strange way one could trust machines: They wouldn’t double-deal or stab you in the back. Man’s best friend.

They flew for hours, the world below the MIG totally indecipherable to anything but the computer—just blurs and terrain melting together, moving by too fast for human perception. Occasionally, as they approached a mountain range or a towering forest, the jet would rise sharply and then just as suddenly drop down again to the lowest possible altitude.

Suddenly there was blue below them—flickering tips of waves and the glistening reflections of the galaxies of stars lapping at the top of the water’s surface.
The ocean,
Rock realized. They were out of Russia, off the continent entirely. America lay ahead. The Doomsday Warrior felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. He hadn’t slept for days. So much fighting and blood. At last his head leaned over onto his shoulder and he fell into a deep sleep. Archer’s loud stuttering snores mixed with the roar of the jet’s engines as they flew across thousands of miles of empty ocean.

Rockson was in a field of lillies, tall and white. They moved slowly from side to side in a soft breeze. The sun was pure and yellow, sending down streams of soothing warmth. He heard a voice and turned—it was Kim, her golden hair falling softly around her silky shoulders. She rushed toward him and pressed her soft breasts against her chest. Together they dropped to the fertile earth and kissed softly. Robins and nightingales sang out sweet harmonies around them.

“Oh Rock,” she whispered in his ear. “I love you so much.”

“And I you,” the Doomsday Warrior replied, his heart bursting with passion. He felt his soul opening like the soil itself to receive her love.

“Rock,” she said again. “Rock, Rock,
Rock.”
But the voice was growing louder, screaming in his ear until it hurt.

He awoke with a start and shook his head a few times until he remembered where he was—in the MIG. The dream disappeared like a ripple across a pond, though his heart ached to return to the fantasy. The computer screen was blinking, and an alarm was sounding over and over, shrill and frightening.

Fuel Is Nearly Gone—Fuel Is Nearly Gone—Fuel Is—
Rock typed in
Can We Reach The United Soviet States?

Destination Unclear. Possible To Reach Land. No Airfield Within Landing Possibility.

Make Land,
he keyed in, and the alarm shut instantly off. He looked out the cockpit’s curved glass. They were still above the ocean but close—close to home. He could feel it in his bones. Far off to the north the aurora borealis twisted in rainbow curtains of color, stretching off into myriad shades of blue and gold and violet. The magnetically excited light writhed in constantly shifting patterns of the most subtle gradation. But as the dawn sun broke behind them, the multi-colored waves slowly faded into the pale blue skies.

Suddenly Rock saw land ahead—America. How long had they been away? Weeks—months? It seemed like forever. An endless procession of enemies trying to destroy him. But he had survived yet again. The gods were still on his side, perhaps on America’s side.

The computer alarm went off again and the screen lit up.

Fuel Remaining—Two Minutes. Ejection Process Beginning.

Ejection Instructions?
Rock typed in.

Parachutes Below Front And Rear Seats. Push Button For Manual Release. Otherwise Ejection Will Occur Automatically At Moment Of Zero Fuel.
The jet began slowly rising to three thousand feet, the minimum altitude for a jump.

Thanks Pal,
Rock couldn’t help but type in, wondering what the computer would make of it. But it remained silent, unable to digest the data. Rock leaned around in his pilot seat to wake Archer, but the Freefighter was already alert, staring back at him through sick-looking eyes.

“Time to leave,” Rock said softly. He pulled out the parachute from beneath his seat and strapped it on around his back, showing Archer how to do the same. The big American became more and more concerned as he struggled with the straps, realizing what was about to happen.

“Noooo fall,” he mumbled through tightly gritted teeth. “Archer nooo falllll.”

“It’s okay,” Rock said soothingly. “These will take us down.” He pointed to the chute on his back. Archer looked at the Doomsday Warrior with fearful eyes but continued strapping the chute on. He trusted Rock even though his heart beat rapidly, filled with unknown fears.

The MIG continued to rise, skimming just below some low-flying misty clouds. They passed the shoreline, and Rock could see the green and brown of the forests below. The morning sun rose higher into the sky, shedding a pure light on the jet and its occupants. Far off in the distance he glimpsed lakes—five of them—blue and sparkling. The Great Lakes—so they were up at the very northern border of the United States. It would be a long trek home, but the clear waters were a beautiful sight to his eyes.

Suddenly the warning alarm went off again. The computer flashed the words
Automatic Ejection—10 Seconds.
Archer struggled furiously to get the front strap of his chute closed across his broad chest. The jet automatically slowed to two hundred miles per hour, and at the very instant that Archer snapped the locking mechanism closed, the cockpit covering flew off into the air above them. Their seats shot up and out of the falling plane. Rockson could hear Archer let out little yelps of fear as they flew out into the cold morning air.

Twenty-Three

T
housands of miles away a group of creatures sat in a wide circle, their eyes shut tightly. They glowed with a blue sparkling electricity as their bodies pulsed with energy. They looked as if they had been turned inside out—their organ systems on the outside of their flesh—heart, kidneys, liver stomach, and brain all visible and pumping life through them. They called themselves only The People though they were known by another name to the human species: The Glowers.

They sat on small pillows, absolutely motionless. Their minds were linked together in an ever-changing pattern of thoughts and visions. They knew that Rockson was back. They could feel his energy as his body entered into the airspace of America. It was good. He was alive. They had not been sure he would survive when he had been taken away. Their powers of prophesy had been strangely clouded as if fate itself had been unsure what to do with him. But now he was returned to his land of birth—this man of ultimate destiny—Ted Rockson. But they could feel something else. A terror looming in the future—very near and very terrible. There was so much pain and blood in the vision they shared that they could barely stand to feel it. But they had to. That was their destiny—to see all, to know what would be. And only Rockson stood in the way of the darkness, the destruction. But they could not see beyond. Once again the future seemed uncertain as to its course. There was much possibility—for good—and for evil. It would be up to him. He alone could alter the time lines of mankind’s future. But the darkness, the terror was strong. Very strong. They had never felt such a black energy, such evil. What the man Rockson was about to face would be the battle of his life, pitting the very elemental forces of the universe against one another—a war between the darkness and the light.

Twenty-Four

R
ockson fell slowly to the earth below. Above him he could see Archer’s chute had opened as well, though the freefighter was kicking furiously as if trying to stay aloft through sheer leg power. The Doomsday Warrior looked down. The land spread out below him in all its crazy-quilt patterns of beauty and ugliness, life and disease. But it was his America. His country. And he had just struck a major blow against the Reds. Attacked them on their home ground for the first time in a century. And he had wounded them. The consciousness of just who was the strongest had tilted dramatically to one side on the changing scales of history. Things would be different now.

Rockson swung slowly back and forth in the wind as he fell lower and lower towards the fields of America.

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