by Ryder Stacy
Rockson was very grateful that the Freefighters had managed to keep hold of three of the little submicrowave belt radios. One radio was aboard each of the ships. He had the third and used his device to call Chen aboard the Dragon. Chen was briefed about what had happened so far and what the landing team had accomplished. Rock ordered, “Get everyone except skeleton crews for the ships here at once—Leilani too. The fisherman will set you on the right path.”
Rockson gave standing orders for the crews of the two ships to sail at the first sign of the attack beginning. The ships would come around the island and evacuate the team, once they had blown the crystal from the tower. That was the objective.
Just before dawn, the Doomsday Warrior, watching from a rear slit window in Chimura’s house, saw Chen and the others coming down the pumice hill toward the compound.
The newly arriving Freefighters and their Polynesian tribesman allies were led through the house and down into the cavern where a general meeting was being held.
Rock presided, saying, “Shortly the eight-man council of this burg will meet. Chimura promises they will allow a group of their samurai called the Bushido to assist us. My plan is to spend a day here once the Bushido arrives to run through attack plans. Whatever mode of attack we devise, it has to result in using our explosives to blow the crystal to pieces. If the explosion doesn’t destroy it, the thousand-foot fall will. There’s some stored food and a lavatory in the adjoining chamber. Make yourselves at home. There’s an extra pair of torches on the wall.”
There was obviously a great lack of enthusiasm. McCaughlin went over and picked up one of the unlit torches, ignited it with a match and held it high. “Give me your tired, your poor muddled asses, yearning to breathe free.”
It broke the ice. Everybody laughed, and the palpable gloom lifted.
Detroit spoke up, “Even with forty-seven more men, we’re outnumbered nearly ten to one. The power for the crystal comes from the conduits in the lava lands. Why can’t we simply blow them up and get the hell off this island?”
“There are a hundred power pipes, Detroit. If we blow them, more can be constructed in a few days. The source of power is the island’s volcanic core. That can’t be destroyed. Besides, the crystal has been storing power; that’s how it works. No, unless the crystal is destroyed, we will fail to stop Killov.”
They all were startled when the stone door creaked open and Chimura, holding a yellowish lantern, descended to join them. “The council is in my house,” he reported. “We have all agreed. You may have the Bushido. But there is bad news. The Bushido leader Morimoto has been imprisoned. We don’t know where he is. The Soviets have several detention buildings throughout the city. The Bushido will be hard to round up without Morimoto’s help, but we of the council will try. It could take days.”
Rockson was sickened by the news. Without the Bushido’s help, there wouldn’t be a chance.
Suddenly Leilani cried out and swooned. Detroit caught her and lowered her onto a blanket thrown down on the rock floor.
They revived her with smelling salts. “What is it?” Rock asked, holding her under her head.
“Oh,” she said, “much . . . horror. I feel it—they die . . . horribly, degraded!”
“Who dies?”
“Girls—Japanese girls. Oh! Great pain and anguish! They call out to me, to anyone. They plead for help.”
“Where?”
“North . . . a big building. At least five floors—strange. Through the power of crystal . . . I see . . . many levels, each with—red roof. Stacked roofs—on one another. I sense ancient wood. Oh help. Help . . .”
Chimura said, “Many roofs? A pagoda! The red pagoda! The Russian officers use it as a place of pleasure. They take many women there, and none come out!”
Rock checked the map. Chimura, his face illuminated by the lantern so just his eyes and his white beard were seen, pointed out the pagoda. “The old red temple pagoda is not far from the center of the city.”
Leilani sat up, her eyes focused now, alert. “Oh, Rockson, these girls are being tortured! You’ve got to rescue them.”
Rockson didn’t know what to say. The lives of a few pathetic captives—was it worth jeopardizing the mission? If the Freefighters went into action on their account, it could tip their hand. As far as Rock knew, Killov didn’t even suspect they were on the island . . .
And yet—since the Soviet officers used the red pagoda—maybe they could capture a few, interrogate them, find out Killov’s weak points. They were short of information. Besides, it would be some time, if ever, before the Bushido could be gathered, and he itched for action!
He sighed. They were caught between a rock and a hard place. Chimura sensed his confusion. “Do the right thing Rockson,” he counseled.
Rockson nodded. Looked around. “Just my team will go. We will attack the red pagoda and free them.”
There were smiles on the faces of all the members of the Rock team. None of the Freefighters had been looking forward to days of inaction!
Then, Rock said, “Detroit, I’m sorry. You’ll have to stay here and run things. If anything happens to us—it won’t—but if it does, carry out the attack on Killov’s tower. Destroy the crystal.”
Detroit looked glum, but agreed.
Sixteen
At 4 A.M., under the light of a gibbous moon, the five-man attack team made its way along the reeds. The plan of attack was to follow the little stream and stay in the tall grass undetected until they were as close to the Red’s Pleasure Pagoda as they could get.
It was nearly a mile of slow sloshing through knee-high water. Finally, Rockson saw the many-roofed tower silhouetted by white steam from the volcanic fissures beyond it.
There was a red dot glowing and fading at the doorway. “That’s a guard having a smoke,” Rock surmised. “Let’s get to him while the door is still open.”
He and Scheransky walked right up the sloping lawn. Rockson ducked into some bushes and the Russian continued on, making a lot of noise—as planned. Burping and staggering, singing in Russian, Scheransky made himself obvious to the cigarette-smoking soldier. The guard dropped his butt and took his submachine gun off his shoulder. “Stoi,” he yelled.
“Hey pal—let me in,” slurred the Russian Freefighter as if he were drunk. “I, Corporal Scheransky, heard there’s some real good stuff in here.” He continued forward, and the guard muttered, “Who did you say—”
Scheransky, nearly on him, tripped slightly as if to fall down. The guard started to step forward hesitantly. And he raised his submachine gun, just in case there was any trouble. But the trouble came far too fast for him to do a damned thing about it! As the guard concentrated on “drunken” Scheransky, Rock’s arm swung up in a blur from the side. His fist slammed into the man’s jaw, knocking him cold before he could shout a warning. Archer was just behind Rock, and as the Freefighter leader acted, he tore open the door and rushed into the lit interior. The mountain man grabbed a second guard in a headlock with one arm, and he slammed hard twice with his sledgehammer fist into the fellow’s nose. Once would have been plenty—since the nose crushed on the first blow into a bloody pancake. The second punch cracked the whole top row of the Red’s teeth, so they spewed out like dice onto the hard concrete floor.
“Okay,” Rock whispered, as out of the night McCaughlin and Chen appeared. “You two—with Scheransky—will prevent any Reds from coming in and spoiling our party. Archer, you and I are about to become Soviets. Come on,” Rock said, “you know the routine.”
He dragged in the man he’d taken out and pushed him into an alcove. Archer followed suit with his own, much larger, victim. A minute later they emerged, patting down their Russian uniforms so they didn’t look twisted. Luckily the guy Archer had squashed was big—but not nearly big enough. The giant’s jacket shoulders burst out, the chest seams ripped from neck to bottom. But they weren’t entering a fashion show, they just needed enough time to make those who would stop them hesitate.
Before he could make a move toward her, a Red came walking in from another room. He saw the two Freefighter’s Soviet uniforms, but it didn’t fool him one bit. He knew the two men who should have been guarding the front of the building.
Corporal Nemovski had been on duty with them for over a month, and damned lucky to get the job—since it meant a shitload of free fun. Seeing the imposters, he dropped his horse whip. The Red’s mouth fell open, like his chin was filled with lead. Before Nemovski could utter a word, the smaller invader took one quick step forward, and his foot flew up into the air like a snake striking. The toe of the boot slammed into Nemovski’s throat, knocking him backward against the far wall some six feet away. Nemovski slid down to the floor gurgling out his death mumbles as his face turned beet red.
Rock didn’t even waste the time to see how long it would take the bastard to die, but turned back around to the girl whose eyes had opened slightly from the sound. She looked drugged, her lips hanging loosely, her eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings. Rockson had no idea how long she’d been chained up like that. Pain is a drug, too. But she was there too long.
“Come on girl,” Rock said as softly and gently as he could. The girl saw only two Russian uniforms and thought that she was in for more . . . more of what she’d gotten for the last two days. She was beyond really caring now, except that it felt good when the smaller of the two cut her wrists free, and she sank to the ground with a little moan. Rock left her and pulled off the pants and jacket of the corporal sprawled at the base of the wall.
“Here, put these on,” the Doomsday Warrior ordered firmly, trying to snap her mind out of whatever hellhole it was in. “Get ready to get out of here. We’ll be back for you.” Slowly, she moved to comply.
With that, he and Archer started up the spiral staircase that went to the second level. They could hear laughter, moans—and screams. The screams got louder as they rounded the curve of the stairway. Rock motioned to Archer to try to take out whoever they encountered fast and silent. The huge near-mute nodded, and they tiptoed up the creaking wooden stairs that groaned out harshly with every step.
They made it to the second floor door and opened it. Rock edged his head around the corner. A single guard sat about halfway down the corridor, reading. Rockson let the man catch sight of his face, half turned, so he could only see the Red officer’s cap. Rock motioned with his arm for the man to come to him and then pulled back. With a curious expression, the Russian guard rose and started forward. He was taking out his Turganev Service Revolver. He walked toward the stairwell and peered around, the pistol at hip level. Suddenly a hand snapped out and grabbed hold of his wrist, pulling him hard. As the Russian flew forward, he was met with a steely fist in the center of his face. That knocked him cold as an ice cube in deep freeze. Rock let the limp body sink to the landing. He pushed it against the wall. The Red sat there as if deep in contemplation, his head resting uncomfortably against the cream-colored wood.
“Come on man—fast,” Rock whispered to Archer. He turned right, came to the only room door on the floor and threw it open, jumping inside. The scene inside was nothing less than Rock had expected: three young women, all tied up in odd ways on a table, a chair and a bed. Naked and badly whipped. Welt marks were over their entire nude bodies, their sad brown eyes already having cried so many tears that they were dry now, unable to even shed a single drop.
The two Soviet officers who were standing over the trio, themselves naked, each armed with a long leather whip, looked up at Rock and Archer as if into the eyes of a vengeful set of gods. With expressions of infinite fury on their faces, the two Freefighters came forward fast, each heading for his man. The Reds raised their whips in a futile attempt to stop the attackers—but it was a ridiculous effort. A whip scarcely began descending when Rock’s knee went into one man’s gut. Archer’s hammerlike fist pounded down right on the other Russian’s head. His favorite punch, and quite effective. Both of them slid to the floor and didn’t move.
Rock and his bearded companion turned back toward the captives, and it was all they could do not to let the tears fall from their own eyes. As hard and tough as they were, there was something about seeing women so tortured, so racked with pain and suffering . . . They went over to them, Rock talking softly, promising them that they would be all right—that it was over. He cut them free quickly and told them to find the deadmen’s clothes or make makeshift garments from the fabrics—and then head downstairs. The women looked at them both with bizarre mixtures of thanks and terror, but they seemed to understand the English well enough. They rose to their feet, half collapsing as their first tentative steps again filled their senses with pain. They hadn’t walked for days.
Rock rushed from the room as soon as he saw they were moving, albeit slowly, and he and Archer went to the next level. If the Doomsday Warrior had thought the previous sight was terrible, behind the door of the next den of iniquity was something far more hideous. There were two Japanese women here. Both had little red bumps and craters covering their flesh—cigarette burns! The inflictor of the pain was standing right over both of them as they lay tied down spread-eagled on long pieces of plywood. He was in fact at that moment holding a lit cigarette in his hand and was about to descend to flesh with it.
“Hold it, pal,” Rock said with grim fury in his shaking voice. “I need a light.” Before the sergeant from Minsk could move or say a word, the Doomsday Warrior was upon him like a panther. The man was big and strong, a good fighter. He even managed to get in a punch that bounced off Rock’s shoulder, but then the Doomsday Warrior was behind him. He reached out and grabbed the man around the throat and then yanked back hard. He drove his knee up into the base of the spine. There was a loud cracking sound, and then Rock just let the dead thing go. It fell like a sack of sand to the Persian carpet.
So it went as the two Freefighters moved from level to filthy level in the Pleasure Pagoda. Every scene revealed was as horrible as the one before it if not more so. Everywhere, not mere rape and bondage, but torture—with knives, ropes, fire, whips . . . you name it—and the perverted KGB sickos who came there had done it. Rock and Archer took care of every one of the bastards before they could cry out to warn anyone above. They would carry out their crimes no more.
They moved up through each floor freeing the captives and sending them down to the ground level where the captive women were spirited into the reeds by the other Freefighters and given instructions to head back toward Chimura’s place. Some had even had the wisdom to organize, taking some of the weapons that they found on the dead guards. More weapons for the assault on the tower!
At last there was just a final level. Rock threw the stairwell door open. There was a girl like an angel inside, with a face so glowing and brilliant it was almost hard to look at. She was white as the moon—one of the rare albino Japanese—with purple eyes and shining black hair that hung down over her shoulders to her waist. She was untouched, and by her exquisite beauty, Rockson knew she was being saved for some special officer.
From a shadowed corner of the room, a middle-aged Soviet prison matron, huge and buxom with a thickly made-up face, spoke up.
“Get out of here, you fools. Back to your own girls! She is Major Smernsk’s pleasure tonight. He’ll use his entire army to find you if you—”
“I doubt it,” Rockson smirked, pulling the fat madam up by her grey lapels. “Anyway, I’m not the one who’s going to harm her. Now get in here,” Rock said, forcibly pulling her struggling mass to a closet at the side of the room. “If you were a man I’d kill you, bitch,” Rock snarled with disgust
. “They’ll probably do it for me when they find that your charge is missing.” He locked the closet door and threw the key away, then found a window and tore it open. Rockson leaned out, waving his submachine gun right-left, making a triple crow-caw sound.
From below, McCaughlin responded with the “all’s well”—an owl’s hoot.
“Come on, baby,” Rock said, turning to the little angel who came toward him with open arms. “We’re getting the hell out of here.” He saw Archer seem to sniff and wipe at his eyes for a second at the scene. Rock scowled at the huge bear of a man as he walked by. “Come on you crybaby, we’re not halfway home yet.” They headed back down quickly, Rock throwing his uniform jacket over the shivering girl, taking the stairs two at a time. He carried her in his arms. Archer came stomping down behind him like a bull elephant, so the stairs creaked as if they might just give way completely. The entire hundred-plus-year-old pagoda seemed to dance around a little.
The albino girl, who spoke English well enough—English always being the second language of the industrious Orientals—asked, “Who—are you?”
Rock explained breathlessly as they descended, “Americans . . . here to . . . destroy the crystal weapon.”
“I—know—about!” she said. “I—can help.”
Back on the dark lawn, Rockson—still holding the albino girl—and the Freefighters went for the reeds. “We have to cover our attack,” Rock said. “There’s some major arriving later tonight—to visit this girl. We have to make it look like something other than a commando raid happened here.”
“How the hell do we do that?” whispered Scheransky, swatting a mosquito. “The bodies—or, if we could dispose of them, their absence and the missing girls are evidence that someone attacked here.”
But Rock had the solution—a violent one. “There won’t be a pagoda!” he exclaimed. “We brought explosives. I’ll now tell you why: Chimura said that those fissures steaming behind the pagoda erupted with lava flow thirty-one years ago. Well, they will erupt again, more violently, destroying the whole area, pagoda and all, tonight.”