by Ryder Stacy
“But how to demonstrate strength? How to show I support Killov? How to combine the two?” The Negroes stood, still as statues, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall, their hands folded neatly at their waists. President Zhabnov paced back and forth, his eyes blinking madly, as he bit his upper lip, deep in thought. “I’ve got it,” he suddenly yelled, throwing his brandy glass to the floor with a crash. “I’ll do what Killov did—bomb a hidden American city with neutron bombs.” He would do what the KGB Death’s-Head leader had done on his own initiative. “Yes, in retaliation for the attack on Stalinville from within and without. Yes, and that will make it look as if I’m supporting the KGB who were so cowardly attacked in their flame-thrower mission.” Oh, how clever he was. The others thought him not as sharp as Killov or the cagy Vassily, but they were wrong. Yes, that was absolutely the thing to do. His own intelligence reports had determined that a city called Union City by its inhabitants existed in the mountains of South Dakota—right in Killov’s back yard. Why tell Killov and let him get all the glory? Why not use this opportunity to strengthen the morale of his United Socialist States Air Force. He could have their Sukoyov-97 bombers attack the Americans with the N-bombs.
He would call in his top officers that afternoon and give them two days to prepare to attack—all in the name of retaliation. But the attack had to succeed, as Killov’s had. He had heard disquieting reports that his air force had been cannibalized by Moscow officials who needed the parts for the Eastern Front—the war with China that was growing rapidly in intensity, as the Chinese mounted their thirty-fifth attack in the last century against Red forces on the border. But surely he had enough functioning planes left to mount a small bomber attack.
He picked the phone up and called his top air force general, Lavkov. A weary-sounding Lavkov answered the phone. He claimed he had been on duty for forty-eight hours without rest, that there had been a number of rebel bands sighted throughout the country and reconnaisance flights had been going out in droves.
“I want to see you immediately,” Zhabnov said brusquely. “Drop all that stuff. I’m calling a meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for tonight—nine P.M. in my Oval Office—you will inform whichever of your staff must be in attendance. Make sure they’re absolutely trustworthy. You know what I mean.” He hung up.
That night at 9:00 exactly, the meeting began. The mood was uneasy, for there had been no meeting like this since the Black Rebellion in the Detroit fortress back in ’82. Then the army had been called out to decimate twenty thousand rioters, resisting a thirty percent decrease in food rations.
Zhabnov gave a speech about the defense of the conquered territories. And just in case one of the officers assembled was KGB, he offered warm praise for Killov’s recent actions.
“I think we can all be grateful for Colonel Killov’s recent success with atomic weapons. He has been an inspiration to me. Now we will carry out our own attacks with atomic devices as well.” A murmur of amazement went through the Oval Office as the twenty-seven assembled Red brass glanced at one another in confusion.
“The air force will carry out the attack using two neutron bombs, but I want the army as well to conduct massive maneuvers near Stalinville so that the civilians and the rebels in that sector will know of the president’s determination to have order maintained.”
“The air force will have ten bombers up within hours of receipt of the neutron weapons,” General Lavkov said loudly, rising from a chair near Zhabnov.
“I was thinking more like fifty or a hundred,” Zhabnov said right back. “As a show of strength. Fly over Little U.S.A., blacken the skies, the mountains around the area with aircraft—”
“But, Mr. President,” Lavkov interrupted imploringly, knowing he was treading on thin ice. “With the equipment we have—the shortage of parts—orders from the premier to cooperate with Moscow Central’s requests—we would be lucky to get twenty bombers up there, Besides we’ll only need one if we’re dropping two devices.”
Zhabnov’s face grew red. “I said fifty, Lavkov. Didn’t you hear me? This is not just for the rebel’s benefit, but for Killov and even Vassily. I want them to know that the damned army and air force are still powerful here in America. That we can move and move fast, that we can strike like one of these American rattlers and kill. Do you understand me?” The general staff were amazed. They had never seen Zhabnov like this. So there was something there after all. Perhaps they had all miscalculated the workings of Mr. President.
“Yes, Mr. President, but—”
“Well, get as many as you can up there, Lavkov—at least forty. Do you hear me? Send up fighters, anything. I want them all to feel the power and might of the Soviet forces. We need good press in Pravda. How long?”
“Seventy-two hours, Mr. President,” Lavkov said glumly.
“Don’t fail me on this one,” Zhabnov said.
“Yes, Mr. President,” the Red air force general replied. “I’ll get them up there.” He saluted and headed out. He’d have to get every damn air base on the East Coast on ready to pull it off. And he knew he’d better pull it off. His head was on the chopping block and he could feel the ax descending.
By Lenin, I’m getting to be a tough customer, Zhabnov thought later, after the generals had left with their orders. He called up his research-and-experimentation director and asked how Project Lincoln was going—the plan to turn American slave workers into fighters against their own countrymen, the Freefighters.
“We are making slow progress,” Kaminski said, “but just a few more weeks and—”
“No weeks. I want a thousand Americans in two weeks, totally programmed to go in and attack the rebels in the mountains.”
“But—”
“Do it.” Zhabnov hung up the phone. He had never realized it was so simple. Command—that’s what it was. You just had to command them with the proper authority. Make them obey your orders with veiled threats. Zhabnov suddenly saw himself in a changing light. Perhaps he was even cleverer than he realized. The black servant filled his brandy glass. He was feeling quite heady. He was becoming a power on this planet. Killov and Vassily would be surprised. Surprised—and frightened.
Admiral Kashkin was on the phone to Colonel Killov minutes after leaving the president’s meeting. He was, in fact, one of five KGB agents that Killov had planted in the top echelon of Zhabnov’s military structure. And none knew that the other was an agent. Killov liked it that way—confusion, of which only he knew the truth. The colonel thanked Kashkin and hung up.
What the hell was this action by Zhabnov? And why all the praise for me? Was the fat fool up to some sort of intrigue? Killov stared out at the black silhouette of the Rockies at four A.M. He stared and thought and finally decided that the president was scared of him—that was it. Zhabnov wanted to show his support now that Vassily had knuckled under to Killov’s policies. Yes, Zhabnov was doing all of this to ingratiate himself with Killov. He knew that soon Vassily would be dead.
But Killov would not allow the insincere act of Zhabnov’s to sway him. Once he was in power, Zhabnov would be banished to the gulag—or perhaps eliminated, as he appeared to be slightly more intelligent than Killov had given him credit for. Killov loved to dwell on the thought of himself being the premier of the world. He knew what he would do when that day came—how he would extend his power efficiently, ruthlessly until it was truly a world empire. He would be the first man in history to rule the entire world. The entire world. And he would not hold back when it came to fighting resistance. He would use whatever means were necessary. Of that the rebels could be sure.
He sent a message back to the admiral to keep him apprised of all developments.
Then he called his intelligence chief for the East Coast to find out why he hadn’t known about this Union City that Zhabnov was going to take out. That was the one really disturbing thing about this whole scheme—it showed that Zhabnov’s own separate intelligence net was working at least as well as Killov’s. That could sp
ell trouble. Perhaps the president even had his own agents inside the KGB. He had half a mind to attack Union City himself first. But why? Let Zhabnov succeed or fail. It would be useful to know Zhabnov’s real strength—when and if it came to a power struggle once Vassily died. Yes, let the attack on Union City and the army maneuvers proceed. It would all be very interesting.
Twenty-Six
Ted Rockson took the lead as the Expedition Force left Century City. His nine-man team would be aided by Brady’s crudely drawn map, but Rock knew that much of the land was unstable and that the landmarks would change. Also, they would push further, much further into the unknown land, following the directions of the little man. And there was no knowing if his directions were correct. But Rock was prepared for danger. His entire life had evolved in the center of the hurricane of death and disaster that was modern America. He was forged to an iron toughness and thrived on forces of destruction that existed everywhere, behind every tree, beneath every rock. Rockson always met danger head-on and, more times than not, it was the attacking force that fled.
The line of snorting horses, with their wary riders atop, rounded the base of Twill Mountain, the next tallest mountain after their own Carson’s Peak, beneath which Century City was built. Soon they were out of sight of their base. The horses crossed a babbling brook, stomping up a spray of icy water which brought the force to attention as it slapped their groggy faces. Beneath them the mountain trout swam madly off avoiding the horses’ powerful hoofs. With the moon settling down to some privacy behind the hiding walls of the Rockies, the night became black, inky with the moving eyes of the burning stars following the Freefighters as they slowly made their way through winding mountain trails and pebble-strewn passes. The Geiger counters that each man carried on his waist, hardly bigger than a pack of cigarettes, courtesy of Dr. Shecter, were silent. The trees stood tall and healthy. Pine cones littered the ground. Owls hooted out their mournful song hidden amidst the gently blowing branches.
It sometimes looked in this part of the country as if there had never been a war, a cataclysm. After a hundred years these forests were coming back strong. But Rock knew that this was in some ways an illusion. The vast majority of the United States was still sick, hovering between life and death as it tried to cast off its shroud of radiation. And from Brady’s account—much of what lay to the northwest was more lunar than terrestial terrain. This was the last they would see of the old Mother Earth for a while.
The next three days were fairly uneventful as they made their way through wooded, mountainous land that was fairly healthy and lush. On the fourth day, they left the higher ground and hit the plains. Here the change in weather conditions had had a catastrophic effect. The wide open country had turned into a virtual dust bowl. Parched, with only tumbleweed and an occasional struggling cactus growing, the Freefighters had to wrap bandanas around their faces and put protective eye coverings over the hybrids as the dust and sandstorms raged around them. They walked slowly, single file, tethered one to another by rope. If a man became separated out here in this bearingless desert, it would most likely mean his demise. Rock kept the column going for eighteen hours. The hybrids moving at slow speed were able to keep up the energy expenditure. At last they came to a changing terrain. Still dry, but with vegetation: palm trees, fields of purple and brown cacti stretching ten, twenty feet into the air.
“Whoa, Freefighters,” Rock yelled out, holding up his right hand. “We camp here.” They had been on the move now for nearly thirty hours. There was too huge a distance still to cover to get tired out now. Rock knew the importance of rest for the men and the steeds. Later, they might not be able to stop. The men bathed in a nearby bubbling, underwater spring and Erickson actually found some fruits and edible spinach-type leaves. They had a huge Special Salad as the Swedish cook called it and the men relaxed around a fire built from dead, dried out cactus.
“All we need is some damn marshmallows and I’d be in heaven,” Detroit said, resting back on his pack.
“What the hell is a marshmallow?” Chen asked, sitting back in his black ninja outfit, the only clothing he felt comfortable in. His nunchakas hung loosely at his side. He carried a Liberator but no small arms. If he was in that close, his hands and his deadly feet, his nunchakas and star-knives would be quicker than any gun.
“A marshmallow,” Detroit said, still smiling, his white teeth glowing like pearls in the center of the coal-black face, “is a piece of heaven. Or so my mother told me. Now I must confess, being the honest man that I am, that I have never actually had a marshmallow. But my mother, who claimed to have had one when she was a child, told me the wonder of them. Americans used to roast them over fires like this. My mom used to say, ‘Ain’t no fire complete without no marshmallows.’ ” The men fell asleep wondering to themselves what this elusive marshmallow looked like and tasted like. One of the past foods of America that might never be known again.
The next day they made good time. The land was quite flat and easily traversed. They rode for a good eight hours before they reached the rim of the pink-misted lands that Brady had mentioned. The radiation picked up fiercely on their counters and Rock told the men to suit up in the anti-rad suits Shecter had given them. They rode into the mist which rapidly grew thicker. It had a sour taste to it, as if the very air were rotting. The ’brids kept spitting out gobs of saliva, as if trying to dislodge the taste from their long mouths. The Geigers went wild as they moved deeper into the pink fog. They could barely see ten feet in front of them as they traveled over loose dirt and gravel for hours. They kept heading downward at an increasing angle. Rock knew they must be far below sea level now. For men raised in the mountains the air felt positively thick down here at the lower altitudes.
Finally the mists thinned a bit and they came to the three volcanos that Brady had mentioned. The hot mineral baths too, which the men took instant advantage of to wash the grit and grime of days of travel from their greasy bodies. They camped on the base of one of the dormant volcanos and slept deep, their muscles relaxed as babies’ from the heat-giving waters.
The next day they passed two huge H-Bomb craters, each some fourteen hundred meters wide. Still radioactive after a hundred years, although a black spikelike plant seemed to be growing around the edges of the crater, feeding from the hot soil. Once again they entered the pink mist, which became thicker for hours and then thinned out again as they came upon the expanse of jungle that Brady had described. Creeper Valley—creeper vines spawned by the mutated genes of the area’s prewar vegetation. A dark dank jungle that should have been in Africa not the U.S.A. Another insane dislocation of the world’s ecological balance. They headed into it, holding the reins of the hybrids tight as the animals seemed to be quite nervous about the terrain—and the squeals and croaks of a thousand hidden birds and arboreal creatures. They moved through the tangled world of beauty and death, through giant ferns climbing impossibly high, through huge multicolored orchids and flowers with petals as big as a man’s hand. The going was slow and the men had to dismount and begin hacking their way through the dense growth with machetes and long knives.
A sudden stirring of the bushes to Rockson’s right made him instinctively reach for his shotgun pistol. Not a second too soon. A huge, tusked wart hog dashed from the thicket right at Rock’s palomino. The hog was only about three feet long but fierce as a tiger. The hybrid reared up in fear, pulling the front of its body out of the way of the charging tusker. Rock leaped out of its path like a bullfighter as the foot-long, razor-sharp tusks whizzed by, only inches from his stomach. The wart hog stopped on a dime and turned, preparing to charge again, but Rock wouldn’t give it a second chance. Taking quick aim he pulled the trigger of the .12-gauge death-dealer and the right side of the hog’s head disappeared in a splatter of blood and brains. It fell to the ground where it stood, strong, squat legs twitching and kicking for a few seconds.
“Saved us from certain death and bagged dinner,” Detroit said mockingly. Rock lifted the
still-warm pig creature and put it on the back of his pack ’brid. Then they headed on, even more alert to danger than they had been. After another three hours of travel, with the jungle getting denser and denser, Rock stopped as they crossed a clearing. “Let’s stay here for the night. I don’t want any of these creepers for a bedmate tonight.” And it was true. For, as the darkness descended like a blanket on the already murky jungle, the creepers, green and stringy, that were everywhere, seemed to begin moving, slowly, twining and reaching out for whatever they could grab.
Monkey creatures, lizards, large spiders—all became dinner for the carnivorous creepers which would slowly, without the animal realizing it, twine several of its long tendrils around the creature’s legs and shoulders. When it tried to move it tangled itself deeper in this vegetable killer. It took hours to die, the vines slowly strangling the prey. Then, small needlelike hooks came out and attached themselves to the animals, sucking out blood until there was no more.
The men built several fires around the perimeter of their campsite to keep the creepers and other jungle stalkers away and settled down for the night. Erickson set up a whole little kitchen and roasted the tusker on a wooden skewer. The men usually made fun of his culinary abilities, until they tasted his latest concoction.
“How do you like the sauce?” Erickson asked Rock, as the team sat around the central fire eating huge slices of hog with a thick green sauce.
“As good as me mom’s,” Detroit shot out, his fingers greasy and teeth moving fast.
“What is it?” Rockson asked.
“Creeper juice,” Erickson replied, ladling out seconds to Chen and Berger. The men all mock-gagged. But it was delicious. During the night, the creepers tried to creep into camp. They wove a path through the fires and began wrapping tendrils around Slade’s and Lang’s ankles poking out the bottom of their unzipped bags. “What the hell!” Slade screamed, bolting up suddenly at four in the morning. The two guards on duty, McCaughlin and Perkins, came rushing over, guns at the ready as the other Freefighters jumped up, reaching for their weapons. Slade jumped from his sack, and fell flat on his face as five creeper vines had him wrapped securely around both ankles. McCaughlin reached down and with a swipe of his foot-long Carter knife sliced the offending vines in half. The others had to suppress laughter at the way Slade looked going flat on his face.