by Ryder Stacy
The audience listened with hypnotized eyes. They knew every time they came in contact with the Doomsday Warrior that he was history—a living legend whose name would go down in the school-books of the future as one of America’s greatest heroes, alongside such men as Nathan Hale, Paul Revere, and John Paul Jones. This made him almost unreal to them in a way, a man more than mortal whose eyes were fixed on the destiny of the entire planet—not just his own human concerns. To them he was like a living god in their midst, a solid but intangible presence that gave the entire city a feeling of pride and specialness.
“And as for our Moscow trip,” Rockson said, glancing over at Archer who had been pushed toward the edge of the platform and sat stubbornly on the stairs, not wanting to get dragged into all the fool talk. “I think we gave a blow to the Reds that they’ll never recover from. We—”
Rock’s words were cut off in mid-sentence by the head of security, Rath, who jumped up on the platform and grabbed the microphone that stood on its dais.
“I’m sorry, folks, to cut your fun short,” Rath said, “but Rockson and Archer here are tired and for security reasons we can’t allow any more information out about any military actions taken in Russia. You can hear the unclassified versions of the tapes we’ll make when we debrief them—in a few weeks. Now, there’s Liberators to be assembled, tunnels to build, game to be gathered. We may sometimes feel like life is getting sweet—but it’s not. Don’t any of you fool yourselves for one second that things are all OK around here these days—cause they’re not.”
The crowd slowly dispersed, depressed by Rath’s words. The man had a real knack for busting balloons and making even the sunniest of days feel like a thunderstorm was brewing. “Oh come on,” they muttered, “the guy’s gonna make me cry if I hang around here any longer.” They headed back to their work stations at the various levels of the underground world.
“You’re sure a cheery fellow,” Rockson said as Rath released the microphone and turned toward him.
“Things are bad, Rock, very bad,” he whispered, not wanting any of the spectators to hear.
“What?” Rock asked, growing alarmed by the usually confident albeit depressing Rath’s look of fear and anxiety.
“Come on, let’s get you through decontamination and then we’ll talk.” The security chief, his long back hunched over as if he were deep in thought, headed back toward his office as Shannon led Rock and Archer to the decon chamber.
They walked inside the glass booths that stood built into the solid rock walls, twenty of them, shaped somewhat like telephone booths, standing several feet apart. Rock began taking off his clothes on the wooden platform outside and glanced over at Shannon who was staring at him hard.
“I’m not into exhibitionism,” Rock said with a half smile. Shannon blushed brightly, not having been aware of looking at him like a lovestruck teenager.
“Sorry,” she said with the anger of someone caught showing more than they should. Rock undressed and stepped inside the booth, shutting the door behind. The decontamination unit worked in three stages. First, he was sprayed with hot water mixed with a special cleansing agent from nozzles above him, then rinsed free of the suds. The second stage set powerful vacuum pumps in motion on all sides of the chamber sucking off any small particles of radioactive substance that might have adhered to his skin. The third and final stage set a series of ultraviolet and infrared lamps to turn on, bathing him with a relaxing heat that also destroyed any microbes or bacteria on the surface of his body.
“Decontamination procedure over,” a soft voice said from a hidden speaker and Rock exited again, a new set of civilian clothes awaiting him outside the booth, deposited through a computerized slot next to the unit. He dressed and quickly headed over to Rath’s office to find out just what the hell had been going on while he was away.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Rath said pleasantly as the Doomsday Warrior walked into the security chief’s spartan office. “Sit down, please,” he said, motioning for Rock to deposit himself in one of the chairs in front of Rath’s small wooden desk.
“How are Kim and her father?” Rock blurted out, unable to contain his anxiety. The entire time he had been away, first in Russia and then in the wilds of North America, the question had sat like a festering wound in his brain. He leaned forward, his eyes showing his desperation.
“Fine, fine,” Rath said, waving his hands, as if that were the least of their problems. “It’s a long story—but they’re safe.”
“Well, where are they?” Rock cut him off.
“After you created the diversion, the rest of the squad was able to get away. They accompanied President Langford and his daughter to Omicron City for a conference on developing a unified military council for all the Free Cities—and also a demonstration of some new anti-aircraft missiles, small enough to be fired by a single man. Dr. Shecter has been developing them and plans to begin delivery of hundreds of them within the next several months.”
“I know nothing of these missiles,” Rock exclaimed, his eyes wide in curiosity.
“Developed while you were away. He’s been working on them for a long time and had a recent breakthrough in construction based in part on some of the technology you brought back from the Technicians.”
Rock almost sagged in relief. Kim, the woman he loved, the only woman he had ever really loved was safe . . . safe. The words echoed through his mind like a chime of hope. Rath began the arduous, detailed debriefing with Shannon standing nearby taking it all down on tape. At the end of the two-hour monologue by Rockson, Rath at last said, “Well, I think that’s enough for now. Though we may want to fill in more details later. Jesus, Rock,” he said with a thin smile, one of the few Rockson had ever seen make. “You really busted some Red ass while you were over there.”
“I saw an opportunity—and took it. Any freefighter would have done the same.”
“Would have tried, Rock, would have tried,” Rath said. “You made it happen.” He sighed, looked down at the desk as if not wanting to say what he knew he had to and then went on. “But I’m afraid it’s one step forward and two back. Your actions in Moscow have apparently infuriated Premier Vassily to have a shit-fit. The Reds are preparing a tremendous assault against us. The likes of which we’ve never seen in the hundred years of the existence of C.C.”
“But I told you I took out their ICBM and Satellite Control Center. They can’t launch any big nukes against us from there. And if Shecter’s air-defense missiles are being installed here—what can they do?”
“It’s grim, Rock,” Rath said, pulling at his hair as he was wont to do when nervous. “Vassily has assembled nearly three hundred thousand German troops. Nazi troops I should say. This Nazi army has apparently been in the works for some time, under the firm grip of the Moscow central command. They were just waiting for the right time to use them—and it’s here. They’re fanatical, well-trained and armed. Already nearly two hundred thousand of them have been airlifted to America and set up in a new fortress city the Reds have built called Dzersch, just eighty miles south of here. They’ve already sent thousands of advance commandos into the mountains, searching for Century City. And from our reports, the rest are soon to follow.”
“All this—just for us?” Rock asked incredulously.
“Just us, Rock. They’re not after any of the other free cities. They want to destroy Century City, grind it into dust—and they want you. They’ve already started northward through the Rockies, blasting everything in their path. And they outnumber our fighting forces at least fifty-to-one. Even if we mobilized every man, woman and child in the city, we haven’t got near their fire power. They’re moving in with artillery, armored assault vehicles, tanks, and a good hundred attack helicopters.”
Rock whistled. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire. It seems to be the story of my life.”
“It could be—the end,” Rath said in a cracking whisper. “We can probably assemble perhaps ten thousand trained fighters a
rmed with Liberator rifles. Plus perhaps one hundred mortars and an equal number of .55 millimeter machine guns. We’ve got plenty of grenades, small-scale stuff—and of course the four black beam pistols you brought back.”
“Four? I thought there were five,” Rock said.
“One just gave out. Shecter has no idea why—could be power loss or inadvertent misuse of the weapon. But he is concerned that the rest might not last much longer.”
“What about the second expedition led by Erickson and Lang to bring back more particle weapons?”
“Haven’t seen or heard from them for months now,” Rath said, discouraged. “They’re way overdue. I hate to say it—but I’m afraid that they may have bought it.”
That really hit Rockson. The Swede, always as fast with a joke as he was with his hands. They’d been through a lot together—a hell of a lot. And Lang, the kid who had matured so much of late and who reminded Rock more than any man he had ever met of himself.
“But enough of all this glum talk,” Rath said, flashing a phony smile. “We’ve got to do the best we can—and hope. We have no choice—whether we like it or not, they’re coming. And coming fast.”
“We’ll build a number of defensive perimeters around Century City,” Rock said, his mind instantly shifting into overdrive as he searched for some sort of strategy that could hold the Nazi killers off. He realized with a sinking feeling in his guts that as the top military officer of the city, it was going to be up to him to come up with something. Come up with a miracle was more like it. “And let’s get Shecter to move up production of those new missiles of his—and none are to be shipped out.”
“That’s positive thinking, Rock,” Rath said, glad that the Doomsday Warrior now held the responsibility for the military defense that had been resting heavily on his own shoulders while Rockson was away.
“Can you assemble all the top military staff and Dr. Shecter to meet with me at 0800? Tell them to bring every goddamned idea they’ve come up with—no matter how bizarre.”
“Sure, Rock, will do,” Rath said, his enthusiasm beginning to rise as Rock’s energy caught hold of him.
“I’ve got to get some sleep or I’ll pass out at the meeting,” Rockson said, rubbing his eyes. “Ring me up at 0700. Also you’d better put the entire city on Security Status Red. No outside excursions unless absolutely necessary. Have all internal radio and telecommunications systems shut down dead. Those Germans will have the most advanced Red technology at their disposal. Even though we’re shielded in here—at close range they just might pick up something.”
“Yes, sir,” Rath said, looking suddenly embarrassed as he realized what he had said. “I’ll get on everything right away.”
Rockson looked the intel chief square in the eye. “And don’t forget, Rath, the Third Reich was supposed to have lived a thousand years. But it died in a hell of blood and fire. Maybe we can send these neo-Nazis down into the same grave where their Führer lies. I’m sure they’d be happy to join him.”
Thirteen
It seemed like he had just closed his eyes when Rock’s newly strapped-on sub-sonic intercom watch began buzzing. It was Rona. Rona, the woman he had grown up with since coming to Century City as a teenager, who had shared his bed for years and who, like Rock, was one of the premier fighters of the city.
“Where are you?” she asked petulantly. “I’ve been waiting all perfumed and ready.” Rockson knew that she was aware of Kim and that she didn’t like it one bit—but she was a big girl now. She had told him a long time ago that she would be available to him when and if he needed her . . . always. It was a temptation the trail-weary freefighter found hard to ignore.
“Sorry, sugar,” Rock said, sitting up in his bed. “Must have passed out. I guess the air is too clean in here.”
“Well?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t let the perfume evaporate.” He clicked off. He rose and walked over to the mirror that sat on one wall of the ten-by-ten foot room. Most of the freefighters had fairly draconian living spaces. Except for families with children—where the need for extra rooms was undeniable—the city’s populace lived in simple rooms with but a bed, dresser, mirror and washbasin, and whatever decorations they deigned to put up. Space was at a premium here with much of the additional chambers that were painstakingly carved out of the sheer granite bedrock surrounding the city used for science or the military. They were at war, every minute, every day of their lives, and perhaps their plain though comfortable living quarters made it that much easier to never forget it.
Rockson splashed cool water over his face and stared at himself for the first time in ages. His violet and aquamarine eyes stared back as if looking at a stranger. His face had the look of weathered granite, tanned, with thin lines around his eyes and mouth. He could see the life he had led over the last twenty years, years of violence and struggle, of desolation and awesome beauty—could see it all in that face looking back. Every encounter with the enemy, with the wild beasts of the plains and jungles, had left its mark on him, had grooved itself into his very flesh. He was like a walking sculpture, etched in blood, chiseled with knives and bullets. Plus he hadn’t shaved for days. A thick stubbly beard had worked itself out over his lower face. He took the magnemicrorazor from his drawer and shaved the whiskers off until he looked at least vaguely presentable. Then he headed over to Level 3 and Rona’s room.
She was waiting for him, stretched out on her bed decked out with multicolored scarves and pillows so that it somehow resembled a sultan’s lovemaking chamber. Unlike many of the city’s inhabitants, Rona reveled in beautiful objects and around her room were lilies in vases, bright pictures on the walls and an immense gold-gilded mirror that she had somehow finagled from the Century City Museum.
“I know you had to fight your way through grizzlies and sabre-toothed mountain cats—and that’s why you’re late getting here. Right?” she asked sarcastically, her long red hair flowing like a curtain of flame over her shoulders and onto the pillow behind her.
“How’d you know?” Rock asked with a smile, walking over to the bed and gazing down at her beauty. She was an extraordinary woman, voluptuous, smart, and tough as nails. In the days before the war she most likely would have been a movie star or model, her loveliness was that eye-catching. She was a direct descendant of the famous Flying Wallendas trapeze act, one of the most famous acrobatic and high-wire circus teams that had ever performed. And she had been brought up in their footsteps, touring the country when just a child with her father, who had his own mini-circus. Until the Reds caught up with him and found out he had been performing intelligence services for the hidden cities. He had been taken away and she had never seen him again, somehow finding her way to Century City where she had been welcomed and stayed for the last twenty years. Here, she had studied martial arts under Chen, until she was unquestionably one of the best hand-to-hand fighters in the city. Even Rockson had been thrown a few times by her quick moves. Unlike most of the women of C.C. she had demanded to be part of the combat squads that went out and raided Red convoys, and had joined Rock many times in attacking the enemy. She was as fearless as him—and as passionate.
“Cat got your tongue?” she asked, looking up from the wide soft feather bed. She was wearing a nearly transparent negligee which accented her large perfect breasts, thin waist and soft red triangle in a most complimentary way. “Well, look at that,” Rona said with a laugh. “The poor man’s been out sleeping with the buffalo and muskrats so long he’s forgotten what a woman looks like.” She reached her arms up for him, her eyes wide with desire.
Rockson laughed out loud. He was treated with such ultra-respect by most people that it was refreshing to be with someone who didn’t give a shit about his “fame.” He could let his hair down here, say anything, do anything—and it felt wonderful. He bent down over her, gazing on her white luscious flesh, a feast of sensuality. He could feel his manhood stiffen inside his loose-fitting pants and suddenly he dropped on t
op of her, like a panther on top of its prey.
“Now that’s what I like—a man who knows what he wants,” Rona squealed, wrapping her strong arms around his muscled back. He pressed his face to hers and kissed her. Her lips opened for him and her tongue darted out, seeking entrance. Within seconds they were passionately kissing, their hands searching over each other’s flesh in wild desire. He bit softly into her neck and she opened her mouth, letting out a deep moan. Her hands searched lower and found his hardness, rubbing against it with desperate urgency.
Suddenly she sat up and pushed him down on the bed. She slowly undid his trousers as if partaking in a sacred ritual and slid them off the steel-hard legs. A shiver coursed through her spine as his stiff rod sprang into full view and in a flash she moved down to it. Her full lips engulfed the spear of flesh and she began moving up and down on it, taking it deep into her throat as little groans of pleasure came from her mouth. Rockson trembled from the incredible sensation until at last his passion became too powerful. He reached up and grabbed her, pulling her down alongside him. He flipped the negligee aside and spread her silky thighs, rubbing his hand over the wet mound of her sex. She lay back, her lips wide apart, eyes closed, making almost imperceptible catlike sounds. He could feel from her velvet wetness that she was ready for him and he slid on top of her, crushing her full breasts beneath his chest. He guided his rigid staff into the luxuriously full bush of red hair, parting the pink lips of her womanhood with his fingers. Then, poised above her, he pushed the living spear in, as the puffed lips opened wide for his entrance. She was so filled with the liquid of a woman’s desire that the rod slid all the way in a second, deep into her most hidden parts. She groaned aloud and spread her legs further to give him room.