by Ryder Stacy
He dressed and took one look back at his wood-cut—the female form of his late wife in her early years perfectly rendered in a carving. She was surrounded in the woodcut by carefully rendered waves with foaming edges. The whole sense of the woodcut was that of “leading one into infinity—through death.” There was a poem chiseled down one edge of the work. “Life a one-day blossom.”
“Your finest work,” said Morimoto. “Worthy of Hirshige-san himself!”
Without false modesty, for the statement was obviously true, Harumotu said, “Yes it is fine—and I am glad, for we now go to battle. I will join my wife and the ancestors’ honored urns in the temple, a happy, completed artist!”
The rest of the Bushido swordsmen were then quickly rounded up.
The gathered Bushido, who had taken separate routes, all ended in the reed field near Chimura’s compound. They came together and marched forward down the gravel road along the brook’s bank. Each was dressed in his family’s traditional battle gear, each man carried a sprig of spring flower and two weapons: one, the heavy katama, a two-handed weapon, sharply pointed, with an edge as keen as that of a razor; the other weapon was the short ritual knife for in-fighting—or for hari-kari—depending on success or failure!
Rockson was glad indeed to see these forty-seven formidable fighters join his attack force!
Twenty-Two
Killov looked at the three technicians on either side of his emaciated frame at the weapon-control panel. “A few adjustments,” he muttered, turning two dials. “There—all set! Ready!”
One by one the technicians called out, “Ready!”
This was it! Killov, trembling with anticipation, touched the master ON switch lovingly, savoring the click. The crystal weapon was operational!
But . . . why did he feel that something could YET go wrong? He had drawn an impenetrable perimeter of steel around the tower; but Rockson was still at large, and that man was uncanny at penetrating defenses!
Killov pushed the thought away.
He turned the master power switch to the FULL POWER position. The pulsing hum of the crystal, absorbing ten megawatts of electricity on the tower above them, shook the room.
“Now . . .” Killov snapped to ON position the ten levers marked SAT CON. He was now linked up to the space satellite mirror. The space satellite hadn’t been activated in over one hundred years, but that was no problem; the vacuum of space preserved it all perfectly. This was the crucial moment. Would the huge, collapsed mirror begin its twenty-minute-long expansion? Would it fan out to its full width and respond to the telemetry instructions from the ground? Was the code book Killov had found on Johnston Island accurate?
Holding his breath, he punched in the code.
Bulbs lit up; circuits snapped into place. The great mirror twenty-three thousand miles above them, in the silence of space, was responding to his message! It worked!
The data pouring forth on the screens before the colonel indicated that indeed the mirror would deploy! Killov turned to the technical assistant next to him and said, “Success!”
The man smiled nervously. “C-Congratulations, Colonel.” His future was supposedly assured; he had helped Killov get ultimate power over the whole world, but the technician still feared Killov.
The colonel sat back and proudly observed the dozens of meters and screens that told the story. The crystal was nearly at full power, a day ahead of schedule. Rockson had come, but he was too late!
Never had the KGB leader felt so elated. Always before, Rockson had destroyed his carefully planned enterprise at the last moment—but not now.
Ah, the sheer exultation of finally defeating the penultimate American. Nakashima had made the event possible. He had died to save the project, died to save his master’s greatest work!
Oh, Nakashima, Killov thought. I shall build a monument to you in this capital; you shall be revered even above the forty-seven Ronin for your loyalty.
“I will now assume visual control,” Killov told the technicians.
Killov’s seat now started to rise from the floor, and simultaneously, a circular orifice began to dilate open in the ceiling. He would actually fire the crystal weapon from his personal survival sphere. After he had studied the data on the crystal, he had feared that severe injury might result from the high-pitched sound emitted by the weapon when it was used. So he had this steel-alloy ball created. He would have its added sound protection when he let the havoc loose.
The technicians?— Why, they had lived long enough to complete their work!
Killov rose like an ascending angel of death until he was encased in the black sphere. Then the floor was closed beneath his chair.
There was nothing but darkness. Slowly, the stars came out. They weren’t real stars; this sphere was a planetarium, too, as well as the weapon-control globe. The projector was designed to give Killov a perspective from space as if he were actually in high orbit, at the position of the death-ray mirror that would bounce the crystal’s beam back to earth, destroying whatever target Killov aimed it at via his chair’s targeting controls.
Killov twisted the seat slightly so he could peer down at the perfect holographic representation of planet Earth. It looked so real: blue oceans, twists of clouds, brown continents. He was almost dizzy. He steadied himself; still it was hard not to gasp for air. It was hard not to believe he was not in airless space! But breath came easily in the cool air-conditioned sanctuary.
“Now,” he said aloud, and lifted his right hand over the controls of the chair arm. He selected a point of view ten miles from the space mirror. Instantly the stars winked and changed. He beheld the dangerous-looking, serrated-edged laser-focusing mirror floating in space.
Fully extended.
Good.
Next, Killov projected a section of western Siberia before him. He expanded the view until he saw the Soviet city of Vladivostock clearly. He smiled. Soon it would be ashes—as a demonstration to Premier Vassily of Killov’s ultimate powers!
His left hand directed the power-surging crystal’s alignment. He set it at an angle on its rotary base, so that it was 45 degrees tilted to the west. A red light came on, and a control beeped. Targeting of the city in Siberia was now accomplished.
Killov began to activate his worldwide, radio-interruption signal. Everywhere there were radios or televisions, the local broadcast would turn to static. Then the populace would hear his booming voice, hear his commands alone! Killov cleared his throat and threw the switch.
“People on Earth, this is Killov!” He smiled. He liked that line. It sounded like a science-fiction movie!
“Surrender to me and my KGB forces or see the destruction of your cities! You will now witness a sample of my destructive capability!” Killov didn’t specify where he would strike because he knew it could take some practice to correctly aim the shots.
“All leaders—after my demonstration of power, you have fifteen minutes to surrender!”
Killov gave the frequency for their surrender. Then he fired the weapon.
Even in his steel-alloy survival ball, Killov’s rat-colored hair stood on its end. The ground-effect of the weapon was stronger than he’d expected.
Below the colonel, the technicians screamed and held their ears as blood burst from their eyes and trickles from their noses. Their fingers smoked, and they quivered and convulsed, sliding from their seats onto the floor. Windows burst all around the city as the red lazer beam from the crystal atop the tower shot out into the sky. It sounded like a hundred jets had broken the sound barrier simultaneously.
Because Killov had no assistance from his—now dead—technicians below, his shot missed its target. Instead of devastating Vladivostock, the lazer beam bounced off-target from the space mirror and headed for the Pacific Ocean off the Siberian coast.
Admiral Mintchov limped back and forth along the bridge deck of the Soviet aircraft carrier Vostok. Why did he feel so apprehensive? His fleet’s exercises off the Phillipines had gone off without
a hitch. Ashore, he would receive more medals, more honors. Already—at the age of twenty-eight—he was the youngest, most decorated admiral in the Soviet fleet! But that was happenstance. He happened to be in Washington, D.C., as a lieutenant, two years ago during the premier’s summit meeting there, when Killov had attacked from nowhere. Mintchov, donning frog-man gear, had helped Rahallah, the premier’s aide, rescue Vassily from the clutches of the mad colonel, assuring Mintchov’s future. He was injured in the rescue, losing an arm, a leg and one eye in the hellfire from Killov’s troops. But Mintchov was not so injured that he didn’t enjoy his ascendancy to high command. Yet today he was apprehensive.
He opened the main door and went out on the deck. There was a feeling of strange warmth in the air. He looked up at the sky, and Mintchov’s jaw dropped! The clouds were spreading out like a smoke ring from some unseen center. The air in the center of the halo of white was darkening—no, turning red. And growing brighter.
“Oh my God . . .” Mintchov muttered.
A blinding red funnel descended from the hollow spot in the sky. A searing hot wind tore across the fleet from the swirling funnel. The calm waters were now rising in a tidal wave of steaming death.
Mintchov saw a destroyer capsize, its sailors falling, white uniforms ablaze, off its red molten decks as it rolled over. Then Mintchov screamed, for his clothes and skin burst into white-hot flames. The scream was short-lived.
The close-up telescopic projection of the HIT area showed a twenty-mile-wide steam cloud over a boiling wave-tossed hell.
Killov was not satisfied. He corrected for his angle error and fired the death beam again. He again felt the power surge as his hair crinkled and stood straight up, its dead-mouse color changing to electric blue. He foamed at the mouth and laughed madly as Hangchow, China evaporated. He was insulated here in his shell, but half the city below must be screaming in agony at the ultrasonic boom of the crystal being fired above their heads! Let the bastards die—decrease the surface population.
He tried to re-adjust and hit Siberia—anywhere in Siberia. “Let’s see,” he mumbled, totally absorbed. “I was six hundred miles to the left, a two degree correction . . .”
Satisfied at the slight shift of the space mirror, Killov again tried to hit Vladivostock.
The Zero-Impulse Laser Crystal Holograph—the ZILCH—was true to its mark this time. In Vladivostock, 160,000 people were going about their chores. They of course had heard Killov’s radio broadcast, but the people of Vladivostock hadn’t really had time to think about what it meant. They had either kept doing what they were doing or stood in small clusters in the snow-piled streets, speculating about what exactly the meaning of the message was for them.
In a few seconds they all found out: The sky broiled black then red, and to a howling high-pitched whistle, it opened up.
A red lazer funnel descended and everything—houses, cars, buildings, men, women, children—burst into flames where they stood. An incinerator wind fanned the flames until all was ash.
In a few minutes the city was just smoke and howling steam—and the echos of 160,000 screams on the fetid wind.
“Well, that’s better,” Killov said, observing the red pimple as it appeared on the Siberian steppes of the projected Earth.
He switched on the radio-interrupt frequency again.
“Ten minutes to surrender, Vassily,” Killov boomed out. He clicked the radio off. That took care of Russia!
Killov immediately started to manipulate controls, re-aligning the crystal and the space mirror.
It was time to DO America!
Twenty-Three
The Freefighters, the Polynesian warriors and Morimoto’s many Bushido fighters advanced through the Tokyo streets. Bloody citizens were staggering through fields of broken glass, screaming; cars were crashing as the crystal fired again. The sky was an ominous yellow. Rock saw the second deadly lazer beam leap from atop the tower and was nearly thrown off his feet by the concussion of the shot.
Rock hoped that the beam wasn’t aimed toward the Rockies! His ears hurt, but they hadn’t burst. He could thank Chen for that! Chen had thought of the attack force’s need for earplugs.
The plan was to divide into four squads: one led by Rockson, the other squads led by Chen, Scheransky and Detroit Green.
The whole group now had reached the downtown area. At the corner of Hibiya-Dori Avenue and Soto-bori, Rock signaled with a wave of his hand for the squads to split off. He continued sprinting down Hibiya-Dori with Archer and McCaughlin and fifteen of the Bushido. Rock was amazed that the old Morimoto not only kept up but didn’t even appear winded.
The populace—those that were still standing after the concussions from the tower—cheered and waved them on, yelling “Banzai, Banzai!” The people had grown to hate Killov and the KGB. Rock appreciated the encouragement, but he hoped they’d keep the hell out of the way and leave the assault to his professionals!
Rockson put his Liberator up in the air at a downtown intersection. They were just 100 yards from the south leg of the immense tower.
“This is it,” he shouted. “Get your weapons ready.”
He checked his watch, then waited twelve seconds. “The other units should be in position,” he yelled, “so let’s GO!”
They poured around a building into the square. Instantly, artillery at the Eiffel-like tower started hurtling howitzer shells at them. Two Bushido were blasted to bits of flesh and blood as they ran.
“Behind the vehicles,” Rockson commanded. “McCaughlin, do you have those grenades?”
“I got ’em!” Before Rock could say anything, the tow-headed Freefighter was sprinting in a zig-zag, as the emplacement tracer bullets from KGB machine guns were dogging his steps, inches behind. As McCaughlin ran, he snapped out two pineapples—heavy fragmentation grenades—from his bandolier. In a double-throw that Rockson never saw him try before, he hurtled them toward the sandbag howitzer emplacement. Then, his momentum carrying him forward, McCaughlin rolled and dove toward shelter behind the burning wreck of a Mazda sedan.
Both of McCaughlin’s grenades hit dead on target. Reds flew up into the air, the bastards sailing like naughty kids on a super-trampoline of death.
But it was not over by a long shot. Though the big guns fell silent, a squad of KGB came running out of the south-tower-leg’s fortifications. They were met by withering fire from the Freefighter’s Liberators.
Rock couldn’t divert any of his men to help the other groups, for they were staring down the gun barrel of fifty KGB killers.
The KGB opened fire in return as the attackers spread out and continued to fire from cover. The Bushido were using ancient large-barrelled, single-shot pistols from the Meiji Era. Amazingly, they were taking out as many KGB as the Freefighter’s Liberator submachine guns.
As the remaining KGB broke and ran, the Bushido lept forward and caught up with them, slashing them down like wheat at harvest time in hell. The Bushido, at the same time, dodged sniper fire.
“God, we could use fifty of ’em,” McCaughlin yelled.
“Stop shouting and start shooting!” Rock spat back, slamming another full clip in his Liberator’s hot breech. With the big submachine gun on his hip, he stood up, firing a waist-high series of bursts. The explosives bullets cut the numbers of KGBers in half.
But there were Soviet troops on all sides now—coming out of holes. The Freefighters were encircled, in the open.
A steel rattrap!
Crossfire raked the area; two of the brave Bushido fell, jerking like bewitched dolls.
This isn’t working, Rockson thought, as he ejected a spent magazine and slammed another from his belt pack into place. Just in time, he opened up on two KGBers who had gotten just twenty feet away. They stumbled forward, their stomachs afire from the explosive bullets’ heat, and collapsed at his feet.
Seeing no other shelter from the rain of bullets except their bodies, he dropped behind them. The KGBers carcasses were still gurgling blood. Roc
k emptied his rifle once more, then he took up the Kalashnikov one of the dead soldiers had dropped.
The Russian weapon was the equal of the Liberator and had a bigger clip, half expended. Shots were flying everywhere. The only good thing about the cross fire, Rock thought, was that many of the Reds were being shot down by their own side.
But the Sovs had the numbers; they could afford losses. Rockson’s group was being whittled down bit by bit.
Rock was amazed to see Archer suddenly walk right out into the open. The bearded near-mute’s leather hat blew off—or was shot away—but he didn’t flinch. Was Archer mad?
“Archer,” Rock yelled, “get the hell down!”
No reply. The mountain man was headed toward the tower entrance and drawing more and more fire. Had he snapped? Rockson tried to pick off some of the shooters peppering Archer, who didn’t even wince as bullets pinged all around him.
The maze of small quartz crystals buried in Archer’s head—ever since a life-saving operation to repair a battle wound—started glowing.
Archer’s tiny head crystals suddenly took in a bright blue, waving line of electrical discharge coming from the tower.
Leilani was huddled down behind a turned-over Toyota Camry near to Rockson. He crawled over to her and put her helmet back on her head; the helmet had come off. She had that odd far-off look in her eyes. “Leilani—what’s happening to Archer—do you know?”
“Crystal . . . help . . . him . . . now,” she said softly. “Crystal . . . is . . . powering Archer. Through his head crystal. The Gnaa crystal is . . . protecting him. So we can come . . . and destroy it.”
“It wants to die?”
“It’s in pain . . . oh such pain!” A tear edged down from each of her doe-eyes. “It helps us—through Archer.”
“So that’s it,” Rock exclaimed. “Well—we can use the crystal’s help in this battle. How long will it power Archer?”