Doomsday Warrior 05 - America’s Last Declaration

by Ryder Stacy

  Rock began pumping, slowly at first, and then as he entered into the realm of total passion where the mind disappears and the body takes over, harder and faster, until he was ramming into her like a piston. Her body quivered in uncontrollable desire as she took his every stroke. At last her back arched up high and she let out a deep guttural groan of climax, jerking around beneath him, as her body released its stored up well of sexual energy. Her hands flew to his chest and stroked them mindlessly over and over. Her groans pushed Rock over the edge and he too released his load, shooting into her like a cannon firing white-hot lava. They twisted and writhed against one another for nearly a minute until every last ounce of passion had been released. Then they tenderly held each other as Rockson drifted into a deep and peaceful sleep.

  He awoke early at 0600, still hours before the military council meeting. He felt rested for the first time in weeks, thank God, and knew he was ready to deal with the complex battle plans they would have to formulate. Rona was still sleeping, a wide smile on her creamy face. He rose and dressed silently, not wanting to disturb her, and made his way out of the room, leaving a note on the table that read, “Thanks for reminding me just how beautiful a woman can be. Those buffalo can get pretty ornery sometimes.”

  He tracked down Archer, who had become sick and tired of all the attention that was being bestowed upon him, finding him in a faraway corner of the city—in the steam-pipe conduit tunnel that led from the geothermal source of Century City’s power under Ice Mountain.

  “Had a hell of a time finding you,” Rock said. Archer was lying atop a pile of flea-bitten hornbear rugs, half asleep, a bottle of C.C. Beer next to him. His eyes were red and puffy. The near-mute snarled a half-hearted hello and turned over. His world was out there in the wilds, fighting things, surviving. Only then did he feel fully alive. Here in C.C. the formalities, the politics confused and bored him.

  “Hey, pal, no time for sleep, your public—and I—need you.”

  “Noooo, Rooockson. No speeech,” the big freefighter growled, pulling one of the torn bear rugs up over his head.

  “How about some breakfast then? My treat—in the Sky view Room. Everything you can eat: steak, eggs, anything.” Rock laughed as the pile of bear fur moved and the giant’s head came into view once more.

  “OK,” Archer mumbled and within seconds dragged himself out from under the mass of fur, adjusted his clothing, patted down his beard with his hands and said, “Anyyythiiing?”

  After the sumptuous meal at the Skyview, an ingeniously designed restaurant located at the uppermost level of Century City which used baffles and mirrors to allow light through from camouflaged gaps and fissures in the mountain peak above, Archer went off to help set up the missile defense system at the top of Carson Mountain, the wall of rock adjacent to Ice Mountain. His great strength would aid greatly in the placing of the launch tubes as they were short of heavy equipment to move the high-tech weaponry around.

  Rockson headed down to the Military Operations Room where the general staff was waiting for him around a large three-dimensional map of the Rockies for three hundred miles in every direction. They greeted him warmly—Colonel Fenton, Major Norton, and Generals Wooster and Janet Crawford, the only female general in America’s long military history. Rock had put on his full military uniform, razor-creased and bedecked with the medals that had been presented to him on numerous occasions. This was one of the few times he had worn the damned thing, usually feeling it representative of a military mentality and rigidity that he did not wish to display. Today he wore it not out of pride but as a confidence builder. He had to make the military council believe anything was possible—for the hero of the Moscow attack, who had survived all these years with nothing but his skill, strength and brains to guide him.

  The entire council stood up straight as poles as the Doomsday Warrior approached the oval operations table, their hands snapping to salutes.

  “Please, please,” Rock said with a cursory, half-hearted salute, “let’s not get into all that. As far as I know, a salute has never stopped one Russian soldier.” The group laughed and relaxed a little, sitting back down in their wooden, hard-backed chairs. “All right, let’s get right to it,” the Doomsday Warrior said, as he lowered himself into the chair at the head of the table.

  “Intelligence reports first.” He looked over at Rath who appeared somewhat uncomfortable around all these military types. He preferred to run his section his own way.

  “Reports are coming in every hour, Rock. The Nazi troops have been dropped over a wide range of territory to our south. Apparently, as far as we can tell our forward observation posts, nearly fifty thousand commandos have already begun search-and-destroy missions through the Rockies. Apparently the bulk of the force is to be landed by transport chopper at Forrester Valley, you know, that fairly flat plain, nearly twenty miles across. It’s about thirty miles south of—”

  “I know where it is,” Rockson said curtly, having spent many nights there while a teenager, watching the stars and the meteors slash across the vast open skies.

  “Anyway, it would appear, although I don’t want to say it’s a surety, that the Germans will link up their forces there, the commando units coming down out of the southernmost mountains and joining with the main army—and, Rock, these guys will be equipped with tanks, the works. I can only guess that they’ll continue from there heading north, blasting the damned range to bits until they find us.”

  “Who’s the actual man in charge of the entire operation?” Rock asked, opening the stiff collar of his uniform so he could breathe. Now he knew why he hated the thing.

  “Well, the chain of command, as far as we can make it out,” Rath said, looking down at a binder full of notes, “is Vassily at the very top—though beyond setting the whole thing in motion we believe he’s back in Moscow now, waiting. The commander of the U.S. operations is a pleasant fellow named Von Reisling—from old German stock, eye patch and all. Beyond that—we don’t know a thing.”

  “How the hell did all these goddamned Nazis spring up out of nowhere?” General Wooster asked, his jowled neck puffing up over the top of his collar like a rooster’s fleshy throat.

  “I don’t know,” Rath said, looking a little embarrassed, for he prided himself on keeping tabs on all the Red innovations throughout the world. “We’d heard rumors of a neo-Nazi resurgence in Germany over the last few years, but, Jesus Christ, I never knew they’d assembled an actual army. It must have been Vassily’s ace in the hole, kept top-secret until he needed them. But from what we can gather, these guys are tough, well-trained, not babes in the woods. And they want to prove themselves. Let’s not forget the military history of Germany or the fanatical violence with which the Nazi troops of World War II fought. Every one of these guys is a killer.”

  “What’s our exact military strength, Fenton?” Rock asked, turning to the colonel, who was in charge of battle-ready units. “And I don’t mean bullshit strength,” the Doomsday Warrior added, wanting to let them all know that this was not the time to play games.

  “I’d say ten thousand combat troops and another ten thousand we’ve been working real hard with, Rock. They haven’t been under fire, but I’d swear my life on them. We’ve been increasing all advanced training tremendously in the last six months, Rockson. And we’ve come up with what we think is a new concept in attack strategy.”

  “Shoot,” Rock said, leaning forward with interest.

  “Well, we’d been feeling for a long time that our attack strategies were outmoded. We started looking for new ideas and I went down to our Military Literature Archive and dug up some books from the 1980s. They were the training and tactical manuals for a special group called the Rapid Deployment Strike Force. Apparently the American government, after a number of terrorist attacks on Americans around the world, decided to create a highly mobile, super-efficient unit, capable of dealing out tremendous fire power and devastation. My entire staff studied them and we came to a decision to implemen
t these types of units.”

  “The book is mightier than the bullet,” General Crawford joked.

  “They’re fast, they’re deadly—and the Reds won’t be expecting anything like ’em. We’ve been fighting a guerrilla war, Rock, for a hundred years now. Hide, run, strike, hide—small units of men attacking convoys, blowing up a few tanks now and then. Times are changing. There’s a president now, a military council to oversee all freefighter actions and coordinate them for maximum effectiveness. We need to be bold, now. To attack them—make them run and hide. I believe this Rapid Deployment Strike Force is a vital step in that direction.” Fenton sat back, breathing out as if he had just delivered a long-thought-about speech.

  “Sounds great,” Rock said. His eyes narrowed. “But I gather from what you said that their entire mode of operation revolved around attack helicopters. I didn’t know we had a fleet.”

  Fenton smiled. “But we do, Rock, we do. It’s not huge but it’s deadly. Over the last few years we’ve stolen nearly twelve attack choppers from the Reds—five of them jet-powered. Every one of those things is armed to the teeth, with .55s hanging out of both doors, missile racks, napalm, phosphorus, anti-personnel bombs, even some air-to-air missiles capable of taking out a MIG. These things can do incredible damage, stun the Reds before they can stun us. We may wind up losing every goddamned one of them but the pilots and crew are trained and raring to go. Begging to go, I should say. They want to show that the freefighting forces have teeth—that can sink deep into the throat of the military giant of the red empire.”

  “Excellent,” Rock said, looking down at the three-dimensional contoured map of the Rocky Mountain range that filled the table. “What else do we have, what’s our combat fire power?”

  “We’re in the best shape we’ve ever been in right now. Two large munitions convoys were attacked within the last six months carrying heavy stuff. We’ve got brand-new still-in-the-crate mortars, .55s, recoilless rifles, nearly two dozen stream-lined field cannons, a ton of grenades and magnesium bombs. I needn’t go on—we’ve got more than enough for the number of people we’re going to be able to send out to battle.”

  “Well, we’ve got the tools,” Rock said, looking around at the assembled officers, the men and women who would have to decide on the strategy that would save or destroy Century City—and perhaps the world.

  “I’ve got a few thoughts on that,” General Crawford said, her blue eyes gleaming in her deeply wrinkled sixty-year-old face. Crawford had begun her career in the army unwittingly. At Century City University as a young woman she had majored in Russian Studies—reading and absorbing everything she could on the nation that ruled a global empire. Her expertise over the years made her the leading mind on understanding the Red mentality. Gradually her studies headed toward the military machinations of the Red army, its weaponry and strategies. Before long she had become the city’s military staffs main consultant, spending her time helping them develop counterstrategies to the Russian brand of war. Somehow over the years, she had become one of them, been given a rank and a uniform and, without anyone really noticing, worked her way up to the rank of general. Her words were highly respected by everyone on the military council, and though just a frail-looking thing, more like somebody’s grandmother than the razor-sharp analytic brain that she was, her words brought instant silence.

  “Go ahead,” Rock said, smiling. Although they had had their run-ins over the years, as Rock had had with all the top army brass, he knew she knew her stuff.

  “Well, we have to understand the military mind of the Reds in order to predict what they’re going to do. There are basically two things to take into account here. One—the Reds have operated under the same basic strategic guidelines since World War II when they fought the Nazis. That is, large, dare I say gigantic, concentrations of troops and armor sweeping forward as a single unit. They believe in the power of strength, brute strength. There’s little subtlety involved in how they operate. Secondly, they need to create an image, a dramatic demonstration not just to us but to the rest of the freefighters in America—that they can crush us as easily as an ant. Both these factors lead me to believe that Rath’s conclusions about their beginning the main thrust from Forrester Valley with virtually everything they’ve got is true.”

  “But the Nazis are running the show,” Rock protested. “This Von Reisling—surely he’ll prefer to use the German tactics developed by the Third Reich.”

  “I doubt it, Rock,” General Crawford went on. “You’ve got to remember the paranoia of the Russian command. In their own way they’re probably quite apprehensive about turning this Nazi army loose. How do they know it won’t turn again them at some point? The Russians and the Germans have fought more wars than there are teeth in a sabre-bear. They’ve got a history of confrontation and mistrust between them that goes back for centuries. I’ll stake my reputation on the fact that the tactical maneuvers have been drawn up by the Russian high command and that the Germans will have little latitude in carrying them out. They’ll be there all right, the entire goddamned army, all quarter million men will no doubt join in the Valley and then begin an advance several miles wide, sweeping north until they find us. In my opinion the time to strike would be there. We know where they’ll be, all their forces will be contained in a box in effect twenty miles long by five miles wide. Strike and strike hard,” Crawford said, slamming her thin veiny fist down on the table top. “We can’t let them begin advancing through the mountains beyond that—or it will be too late.”

  “I agree with your analysis,” Rock said. “I think we must strike—with everything we’ve got. Flank them, break up the large force into smaller units that we can more readily attack. Our strategy must be to create confusion, break down their communications, destroy their offensive advance before it even has a chance to get going.”

  The rest of the staff concurred. They spent the next few hours hammering out just how their attack and defensive maneuvers would proceed, at last reaching a general consensus.

  1) Construction and demolition crews would construct, in the old gold mine ten miles south of the valley, five fake Century Cities, complete with entrances and makeshift structures inside that created the appearance of a real city. They would be filled to the brim with high explosives. The Nazis might waste precious days, battling their way into each of these—giving the freefighters more time to deploy.

  2) Three fallback positions, each the responsibility of different units of the city’s army would be set up, in five mile intervals falling back from the Valley.

  3) The basic attack force would consist of fifteen thousand troops broken into five basic forces. A) Artillery and heavy machine-gun units that would be set up at the northern edge of the Valley on the slopes that rose above them. B) Combat units, armed with Liberators, smaller machine guns and grenades that would take up camouflaged positions on the lower portions of the slopes, holding back whatever troops actually reached the bottom of the mountains there. C) A cavalry riding hybrids that would pour into the Nazi forces from the right and left flank and if possible from their rear. They would be broken down into twenty-man units, all carrying satchel charges that they would heave into the heaviest concentrations of equipment and troops. D) The Rapid Deployment Strike Force, using the choppers, would sweep the Valley wreaking havoc. Their main target would be the tanks leading the advance. E) Guerrilla attack units under the direct command of Rockson himself would enter the field of combat dressed in the same color uniforms as the Nazis. They would try to infiltrate the ranks—and their main targets would be officers, especially Von Reisling. If they could take out enough of the field command, the battle would collapse out of sheer confusion. F) A special unit of men who had become proficient in the use of the remaining four black beam pistols would be spaced a mile apart with the artillery units. Their main target would be Red helicopters and jet fighters.

  4) If all else failed, Century City would be evacuated through tunnels that led out the back, sur
facing three miles north of the underground fortress. The city itself would be blown up with booby traps—creating a living hell for the Germans and their Red masters. It all sounded good—on paper.

  “Now what about our communications systems?” Major Norton asked. “The Nazis will be able to hear our attack commands—that is, if they don’t use jamming equipment to cut off our radio and walkie-talkie systems altogether.”

  “I think I’ve got a possible solution,” Rock said. “I know it sounds a little crazy—but when I was with the Glowers they taught me how to use certain telepathic abilities that apparently are latent in all mutants. I’ve experimented with it to some extent and have been able to make contact with other of the star-patterned mutants in the city. There are about twenty of us by now. I suggest we use our electronic communications network—in code—but if the Nazis are able to shut it down, by whatever means, that we have a fallback system of mutant telepaths interspersed among all our forces so we can remain in contact.” The officers looked a little skeptical—but there was nothing to lose at this stage of the game.

  “One final question,” Rock said, “before we get this whole ballgame going. How long do we have?”

  “I’d say up to a week, Rock,” General Crawford replied from across the table. “This is a major event for the Reds. Jesus, it’s one of the largest deployments of men in history. You’ve already humiliated Premier Vassily. He can’t take another of the same magnitude—or his very power base might crumble around him. No, I’m sure the Germans have been ordered to get everything exactly right, every man, every tank working and ready to go before they risk striking. They’ve got as much to lose as we do. A week—ten days at the most.”

  “Well, if we can’t get it together in that time—we might as well forget about it,” Rock said. “Good luck. And God help us all.”

  The meeting broke up as the military council rushed off to prepare their units for the battle strategy. Rock called all the star-patterned mutants like himself, those with the slightly luminous five-pointed star on their lower backs, together for the training session in ESP. Even he felt quite unsure of its feasibility. But anything was worth a try. He gathered them around him—Parcell, Watkins, Mooney, even Rona—in Chen’s martial arts gymnasium. With its white walls and bare furnishings it was the ideal place, without distractions, to see if the rest of the Century City mutants could do a damned thing with their abilities—or whether Rock could teach them. He explained the battle they were all about to face and just how the telepathy could be used for communications. They sat around him on soft tatami mats, listening intently.