Doomsday Warrior 13 - American Paradise

by Ryder Stacy

  She nodded. “That is place of your race—not mine,” she said. “You go alone. That place taboo even for me. I wait.”

  Eight

  Rockson climbed toward the rectangular blockhouse. At first it was easy, as there was a gouged path made by many booted feet. He soon came to many rows of warrior graves marked with long staffs of hardwood carved into elongated likenesses of nature gods. These noble natives had fallen fighting the well-armed KGB soldiers. Then he came upon a rusting military half-track. Rock brushed the volcanic ash off its door and found what he expected, the red skull and crossed swords emblem of Killov! The vehicle was standing half on its side, its track twisted off. He pulled the door open. There was a skeleton inside, wearing rotting military garb. The uniform was black, high collar—definitely KGB.

  Where does Killov get his volunteers, Rock wondered. Why do they follow a man such as he? Perhaps the promise of glory . . . No: power . . . that’s his recruitment bait.

  A worm inched out of a round eye socket and fell onto the boney fingers, found a bit of flesh and began to eat it.

  With disgust, Rockson slammed the door on the dead man and made the last part of the climb.

  The blockhouse was windowless, its walls pitted and eroded by over a century’s weathering. It was covered with vines. He had to grope around two sides until he found an open door.

  Killov’s men had been in there! The door had been blown off by a grenade or shell. Rock feared that they had taken what he so needed to find—a record of what the crystal weapon was and how it worked.

  He entered, found a Soviet chem-flash on the floor and tried the switch. It worked. Rock shined the beam around, over rusting file cabinets, old smashed desks, collapsed shelving and smashed, ancient, radio equipment.

  He pulled a few file drawers open—nothing but rotted fragments of paper, disintegrating at his touch. His heart sank until he spotted the video screen in the corner. At first he thought it was a TV. Then he realized it was an old-style monitor. For a computer! And computer meant disk memory. Frantically he searched for a disk.

  On a nearby desk, Rockson found a broken-open strong box marked SECRET.

  The disks were in Killov’s possession.

  He despaired, again, until he saw a rusting metal door—leading to a cellar? He broke it open and, flashlight in hand, went down several twisting steps. Rats hastened away; a snake slithered into a recess. Rock was undeterred. His boots were tough and his mutant skin more impervious to such things as rat and snake bites.

  He entered a low-ceilinged dank cellar. Gingerly, he opened the dank, crumbling file cabinets, looking for a duplicate hard copy of the missing disks.

  He found a plastic-sheathed copy of a report labelled “President’s Eye’s Only,” and snatched it up. He broke an ancient seal and saw the heading ULTRA TOP SECRET. PROJECT ZILCH. Was that the name of the installation—or the weapon?

  As he sat on a rock outside the building, reading each plastic-sealed page, Rockson felt like he was prying into a forbidden part of history. He’d often had that queasy feeling when some new and precious document relating to the final war was in his hands. More than a superb fighter for America, he had become an avid historian—especially since his trip back along an alternate time path.

  The crystal, he learned, was part of a larger plan called S.D.I.

  S.D.I. involved, it seemed from his reading, ground- and sky-based weapons for focusing the gathered energy of geothermal power and then using it on an enemy. The ZILCH crystal was such a gatherer and focuser of power. It was to beam its power to a space-deployed mirror called SATMOS-5. The space mirror hovered over the Pacific at 23,500 miles high. The weapon could zap anyplace on earth with the power of a hundred nuke bombs!

  He put down the document halfway through. Would the mirror satellite still work? Yes. There is no decay in space!

  Rockson read on.

  There were codes in the book for moving the mirror satellite into position, but that page was partly eaten away by the years. Damn! If only Killov’s stolen computer disk had such a flaw in it!

  But it didn’t. Killov wouldn’t have bothered to load the giant crystal weapon on a ship and lug it away if he didn’t have the activation codes. The crystal had to be found and destroyed, or awesome destruction would be unleashed—destruction that would make Killov the dictator of the world!

  Rockson read on with morbid fascination. The engineering and in-orbit deployment of the folded metal mirror was accomplished by secret flights of the space shuttles Discover and Reliant in the 1980s—under cover that the satellite deployed was a spy camera satellite.

  The difficult work of creating the crystal—the most powerful neuro computer diode ever brought into existence, a trillion trillion memory bits—was detailed. He learned that the crystal weapon carried, stored and amplifed energy through each of its complex molecules. This cybernetic-energy breakthrough was accomplished by a team of ten thousand U.S. scientists isolated here on Rarapani for five years, under tighter secrecy than that of the Manhattan Project.

  Rock was aware that most of the world was starving back in 1989, and yet the immense technical feat was undertaken. Imagine, he thought, if all that ingenuity had been spent on solving the world’s political, economic and social problems back then.

  A nuclear war could have been avoided.

  Mankind could have reached for the stars—instead of Star Wars.

  He quickly flipped through the rest of the 230 pages, found there was a personal letter dated July 8, 1989, marked ULTRA SECRET EYES ONLY, Senator Harkings, from Captain R.C. Tempos, Commander, Project 43.

  Rockson read:

  The ZILCH crystal is an utterly new weapons technology: the US. is way ahead of the Soviets on this one! They haven’t even, as far as we know, conceived of such a device.

  HOW IT WORKS: To put it in layman’s terms, the ZILCH builds up a charge from its geothermal power source. It holds the power in the same way electricity builds up on a ballon when rubbed. Then the immense power is concentrated and beamed up to our space-deployed SATMOS-5 Strategic Defense Mirror, then directed to whatever we wish to annihilate on the Earth.

  TESTING: The ZILCH system was tested on August 8, 1989. Results were not perfect, but it demonstrated that with modifications, the ZILCH can be fully operational and ready by November, 1990.

  The test shot was aimed at a fleet of dilapidated warships. They should have melted, but the targets were only heated to tepid temperatures. The mirror and the crystal worked perfectly, only there was a miscalculation as to the interference-constant of the Earth’s lower atmosphere. The telemetry and other data showed what the problem was—the near-ground position of the crystal dissipated some of the power. The crystal has to be raised above the present altitude. Construction has begun on a 300 meter high scaffold.

  Rockson put the folder down. He had enough. The crystal would need a tower to be fired from. That meant wherever Killov went, he would have to build one.

  Scheransky had been monitoring world news broadcasts. There weren’t any reports of destruction or any ultimatums from Killov yet. Killov was probably right now building a tower. Then the madman had to wire the thing up again. It would take months: Plus Killov needed a huge electrical power source—geothermal or possibly nuclear. Where did Killov take it? Where, within a thousand miles, could he take the crystal where he would have all that power handy? It was a jigsaw puzzle of death that Rockson would have to solve in order to let the world survive for a few more years.

  Rock shoved the red plastic-covered file in a bag he had found in the blockhouse and headed back down the slope to Leilani.

  Nine

  That night, after Murf had made some laid-back requests to Chief Umauu, the chief consented to discuss the Killalowee problem at last.

  The chief would walk with Rockson on the Chief’s Path through the jungle. “It’s a great honor,” Detroit said, “to be invited to walk with him. But be careful not to offend.”

  Rockson
saw the chief approach them from his hut. Umauu thumped him on his chest and said, “So we walk as men do on the islands, slowly, head held proudly high, looking straight ahead; not at one another.”

  They walked. Rockson observed the no-talking-unless-he-asks-a-question taboo, just as Detroit had coached him.

  “Because of your man Archer,” the chief stated loudly, “you bring much happiness to my daughter Hohannah. I am told by Murf-man that you big enemy of bad fella Killalowee—this so?”

  “Yes,” said Rockson emphatically. “I’m plenty big enemy of bad fella Killalowee!”

  “This big good,” the chief said. He pondered, hands behind his back, for a long while as they walked slowly through the lush moonlit surroundings.

  “You have more tobacco?” the chief asked. “Murf-man give me small bag, all gone. You have more?”

  “Yes, Chief, we brought you best tobacco of Eastern world—because Murf-man said you like.” Rock was getting tired of the pidgin English.

  “That good. I think you good all-around fella-men.”

  “Thank you . . .” Rock said.

  “Alright,” said the chief.

  They strolled on. The parrots were singing night songs and the jungle flowers’ fragrance drifted over the paradise path. The chief stopped in his tracks, suddenly angry. He twisted the ceremonial flywhisk in his hand like he was wringing a neck. “Me wanna mess up bad Killalowee!”

  “Good!” Rockson picked up. “Me help you. I mess up bad fella Killalowee good! But I need some things from you and your people to do that!” At last, Rock thought, I’ve made my point.

  “Hmmmmm. What you want, Chief-Fella-of-Entire-Outer-World?”

  Rock winced at his title. He wished that Murf hadn’t built him up quite so much! Still, Rock liked the monicker better than Doomsday Warrior. He had to smile, too, at the thought of how President Langford’s face would appear if he heard the elaborate expression.

  “I need much men and war canoes,” Rock stated. “Me special need big dragon boat.”

  “Okay, you have. What else?”

  Rock had the whole shopping list, and he now rattled the list off.

  The chief quickly said he would oblige. “You will go far in water to mess up bad fella?”

  “Yes.”

  “You no take big fella Archer from my Hohannah! Archer stay here!”

  “Sorry, Chief, I need Archer. He—er—big hero. He best of my men.”

  “No! Archer stay here. Hohannah need big man,” the chief fumed.

  “I need big man come with me to fight bad Killalowee.”

  The chief threw down his flyswat and stood arms crossed. “No! Archer stay!”

  Rock wondered what to do. Then he had an idea. Rockson smiled and said to the chief, “I Chief-of-Entire-Outer-World make a deal. My big man marry your big girl before leave. Deal?”

  The chief grunted and picked up his flyswat. “Deal!”

  Hohannah was “much sad” when she heard that Archer was to leave. But her father told her Archer would marry her—tomorrow. Then she was happy and jumped up and down clapping her hands, creating a minor earthquake.

  Detroit was told the news, and he went to Rockson. “You really did it now, Rock,” he complained. “I don’t think Archer will go for it, even if it is a big honor to marry the chief’s daughter.”

  Rockson smiled halfheartedly. True, the big guy didn’t like strings attached to him. He was the ultimate freebooter, not even associating with the other warriors of Century City—except on missions. Archer preferred his own wanderings, his own company. But it was the only way Rock could get what he needed!

  “I suppose I’ll have to tell him,” Rock said.

  “NNNNO!” Archer moaned. “OHH NNOOONNOONNOOO!”

  Rockson blocked the exit to the hut that the session was taking place in. “Sorry Arch,” Rockson ordered. “You have to do it. We need the dragon boat and the chief’s supplies. Saying you would marry Hohannah was the only way I could get them.”

  “NNNNOT MARRRY!”

  “But you’ll be rich, Archer,” Detroit added, as an inducement. “The dowry is pearls, heaps of gold, lots of land . . .”

  Archer chewed this over and then said, “NOOOO! I NEEED FREEE!”

  “What are we gonna do?” Detroit, who had come along with his team leader as moral support, asked, throwing up his hands. “The chief will withdraw the dragon ship and the men, without the wedding.”

  Rockson said, “Archer—it’s an order. You’ve braved wind and storm, Russian bullets, nuclear bombs. You bailed out of a Soviet jet at Mach 2; you fought a lake-monster. How about it? What’s one simple little-old marriage?”

  “NOOOO! NEVER!”

  For the wedding, Archer and Hohannah wore the customary Polynesian bride and groom outfits—masses of parrot feathers. In addition, Archer had some small orchids sewn in his beard. There were maids of honor: Leilani and two younger sisters of the chief’s daughter. Rockson and the other Freefighters added a bit of chivalry by lining up on both sides of the jungle-clearing aisle and raising crossed swords as an archway for the “happy” couple to walk through.

  Archer and his giggling, bouncing bride ran underneath the arch and stood before the chief. Umauu wrapped a rope around their joined wrists and knotted it. The knot, it was said, would not come undone until the bride’s passion was satisfied.

  Rockson saw the wild look of fear in Archer’s eyes as the big man’s wrist was entwined with the red vine rope. He sensed that Archer might try to bolt and lifted his shotpistol suggestively, pointing it at Archer’s gut. The big man caught the motion, and understood there was no backing out.

  It was a nice shotgun wedding.

  Archer glumly accepted the wrist binding and said, “Ikiwanapaki, Hohannah,” the equivalent of “I do,” and went off with his bride to the wedding hut.

  The next day the Americans began outfitting the huge dragon boat for the journey. The native ship was a replacement for the Muscle Beach which would stay at the island undergoing repairs. The Dragon was twice its size, and despite its fierce ornate bowsprit, Murf pronounced it a “marvelous vessel.”

  Rockson had to admit that Leilani had logic on her side when she insisted that she come along in the search for the crystal. As a result, Leilani was the only woman aboard.

  She would use her psychic gift, her link with the crystal she called Gnaa, to help guide the expedition to the right location.

  Rockson tried not to appear glum, but inwardly he believed the whole venture was likely to fail. Even if they found Killov, it was twenty-five lightly armed men—and one woman—versus a reported five hundred well-armed KGBers.

  The Dragon rode next to the heavily-laden Surf City in the bay. At noontide the ships put up their sails. Rockson leaned down over the side of the Dragon and shook Umauu’s hand as the chief stood at the raised bow of his canoe.

  “We go mess up Killalowee, you betcha, Chief.”

  The chief let out a war cry in response. It nearly blew out Rock’s eardrum, but he smiled a thanks.

  Hohannah had to be forcibly pried from Archer!

  The Americans, plus eighteen sturdy native men set sail. Other Islanders, banging on drums and shouting, accompanied them for miles in their outriggers before turning back.

  “How does it feel to be a married man, Archer?” Rock asked as Archer sat on deck looking dazedly at the horizon.

  All he got in response was a low growl.

  “Easy pal, easy!” Rockson tempered Archer. “It ain’t so bad. You like Hohannah anyway—right?”

  Archer nodded glumly.

  “Sorry for the forced marriage, old pal,” Rock said, messing the giant’s hair, “but you were the key to getting the Dragon, supplies and men. Your bravery made this voyage possible. If we succeed in stopping Killov, it will be you we have to thank.”

  Ten

  Rockson laid next to Leilani on deck that night, listening to the rigging creak, watching the stars. God, how he wanted to make l
ove with her—he couldn’t sleep. He tried to hold her once, but she pushed him away.

  Just before dawn, there was a persistent slapping sound near the boat, like giant oars. Yet Rockson saw nothing in the water when he got up to look over the side. He shook Leilani awake. “Do you hear that?”

  “Yes, of course—don’t worry,” she assured.

  “What is it?”

  “That’s just our friend Mirogoga—the sea turtle god. He will help us find our way.”

  “Can you—speak to him?”

  “In a way—like the Gnaa, he gives off feelings. But I don’t depend on Mirogoga alone to find way. The crystal calls, sometimes faint, sometimes strong. The course is still correct. The Gnaa tell me it stand still now, but far, far, away. I always show you way.”

  “I’ll keep us on exactly that course with the navigation devices—the sextant and charts and gyrocompass.”

  She laughed, “No silly. No outer-world ways are necessary. I know traditional ways. I navigate this way.” She touched her nose and looked at the sky. “At night I see three stars—Mira, Depa and Taani. They parade like fire-gods across the sky, always splash down in water at right hand of the moon-god. Of course, the always-stay-still star helps.”

  “The North Star, Polaris,” Rock said, “yes, it always stays still.”

  “But this is not all my people’s pointing-way,” she said proudly. “You see the waves? They are different colors whenever they change direction. The season is summer, so, a blue-green means they come from straight north. A foaming blue on the very top of wave means it is come-from-south wave. I see with the mind’s eye, not the head’s eyes!”

  “Yes,” he said, “the Glowers taught me that way.”

  “Who are they? They are wise men?”

  “It’s—a long story.”

  That first day out, the sun was hot like a fire above the blue water. The Polynesian crew members were in great spirits. “It is said that chief-son on voyage is great good luck,” one said, pounding the American mountain man on the back vociferously.