Doomsday Warrior 07 - American Defiance

by Ryder Stacy

  The chopper flew low to the ground, heading immediately into unlit woods at the edge of the city. From the air they could see that Washington was under attack from every direction. The sky above was filled with transport planes and jet fighters, dropping a veritable army from the clouds. The entire city was lit with balls of fire—hundreds of brilliant red pops as the artillery units opened up on Red Army Command Centers. The President felt a sickness in his guts. Even though it had been taken from the Americans, he had come to like its wide avenues, its cherry blossoms, the sparkling Potomac. But he would return—of that he had no doubt. Back in Mother Russia there were a million troops—ten million, if need be—under Premier Vassily’s control who would be shipped over. The KGB madman had won the battle, but not the war.

  The chopper weaved and zagged, the pilot making sure they weren’t being lined up in some KGB fighter plane’s gunsights. But with its lights out and flying just fifty feet off the ground, the black craft was unnoticed by the armada flying above them. Within minutes, they reached the hidden landing field where Zhabnov’s Soyuz Stratocruiser waited.

  “Good, good,” he mumbled to himself, trying to calm down and keep his heart from exploding inside him in a burst of cholesterol-fattened blood. The plane was already lit up, the engines roaring. The men he had chosen to run the secret runway—with his plane the only one on the field—had been intelligent enough to prepare for takeoff, even without direct orders from him. He would take them with him. Such foresight should be rewarded.

  The chopper set down just twenty yards away from the screaming engines of the Soyuz and Zhabnov was out within seconds, his loose shirt flapping over his protruding belly.

  “Excellency,” the runway chief said, rushing over to him from a small glassed-in control shack. “The Blackshirts are—”

  “I know, idiot,” the Russian President yelled back. “What the hell do you think I’m doing here at this hour of the night—inspecting the wheels?” He ran toward the steps of the jet and the rest of the field staff came crowding in after him, begging to be taken. Once actually up the metal stairs and in the craft, Zhabnov felt himself calming down for the first time. Maybe he would make it. He glanced down at the twelve men below who looked up with pleading tear-filled eyes, knowing that if he didn’t allow them aboard every one of them was a dead man. But Zhabnov was suddenly feeling magnanimous. Every one who helped in his escape deserved to be rewarded.

  “Yes, yes, get aboard—but hurry, hurry,” he motioned, waving his hands impatiently. The door closed behind them and Zhabnov ran down the aisle of the large sleek aircraft and into the cockpit.

  “Get this fucking thing off the ground and fast,” he screamed out. “Just get it up—get it up.”

  The pilot, who had hastily checked off the fuel, oil, hydraulic pressure, and other mechanical workings of the plane, said “Just a few more seconds, sir. I’ve got to make sure—”

  “Take off now, right now—unless you’re ready to die.”

  “Yes sir, absolutely sir,” the pilot gulped. He dropped the checklist on the floor, set the flaps, and gunned the engine. The super-modern jet, equipped with the most advanced Russian computerized technology, roared down the field like a bird on fire just as a fleet of armored cars came roaring down the dirt road alongside. They opened up with everything they had—but to no avail. The jet lifted up and tore into the sky, disappearing within seconds into the dark clouds.

  “It’s our asses now,” Major Shelinsky whispered to his second-in-command as they saw the flash of jet fire vanish far above. “Killov will know we allowed the pig to escape.” He slumped down in the plastic seat of his halftrack. “We’re dead men.”

  Seventeen

  Rock and his men took control of the Silver Bullet within minutes and quickly opened up some of the supply cars, throwing whatever was inside out—and brought their hybrids and camels up a makeshift ramp and inside. Then they quickly got the train rolling again with Reston pulling the levers in the engine and Archer shoveling super-concentrated coal into the roaring boiler furnace that ran the great machine. Rock’s men put on the uniforms of Russian officers and stood guard over their prisoners. The plan was for everything to remain the same, or at least the illusion of it. The officers would continue to sit at their dining tables and in their card rooms and look—to those who saw them as they passed through the various stations—as if they were just having fun enjoying the scenic route. The one remaining communications tech would broadcast to all the stations that they were on priority orders to go all the way to Washington without making a stop. That was the plan. Whether or not it would work was a different story.

  Once the train was rolling full speed again, Rockson and his crew relaxed a little, laughing about their luxurious mode of transportation.

  “You must have train robber chromosomes in your bloody genes,” Lieutenant Boyd said, looking at Rock as they stood in the main dining car. “You pulled this thing off like a bloomin’ master.”

  “But for your boomer,” the Doomsday Warrior replied self-effacingly, “I’d be pushing daisies at this very moment.”

  “Well, I guess we did perform our heroics for the day then, didn’t we, mates?” Boyd asked the other Aussies who stood around guarding the Red officers. “Where’s the goddamned service around here?” the Australian commander asked, turning to a Russian colonel seated just behind him. As if hearing the words, a black face peered tentatively from a slightly opened door at the near end of the car.

  “I hears you, sir,” the black man said loudly across the room. “We’s the service—but we ain’t a comin’ out lessin’ you promise not to be shootin’ at us now. We jus’ de cooks, de waiters on dis here train.”

  “Well darn my socks with a bazooka shell,” McCaughlin hooted, sitting across the aisle from Rockson, his mud-covered boots up on the table. “They got themselves some old time help around here.”

  “We’re not gonna shoot anybody,” Rockson reassured him, smiling calmly. “Bring out your people—I promise you no one will get hurt.”

  The black man edged slowly forward toward them, followed by nearly two dozen others who had stuffed themselves into the kitchen unit when they heard the attack begin. The Freefighers looked at them in amazement. All were black, all wore identical white tuxedo outfits with black bow ties. It was even hard to tell them apart as their hair, their size, and their skin coloration were nearly identical. The man in the lead of the nervous group walked up to Rockson and grinned widely, his lips pulling back to reveal all his teeth in a smile of subservience.

  “We’s the porters, sir. Been workin’ dese trains for generations. We is glad to make ourselves available for your use.” He breathed deeply, smiled again in what seemed to be a constant gesture for him, and said, “So what would you fine gentlemens be wantin’? Here are some menus. May I recommend the veal Prince Orloff or the escargot de fromage?” He handed Rockson, Lieutenant Boyd, and the closest Freefighters calligraphed and gilded menus printed on linen-covered tablets.

  “Well, first thing I’d like,” Rock said, putting the menu down, “is your name.”

  “My name, sir,” the porter said, “be Rufus Jones.” He stepped aside to reveal the man directly behind him. “An’ dis here is our chef, Mr. Raymond Washington.”

  “Well, I’m pleased to meet both of you,” the Doomsday Warrior said. “I’m Ted Rockson, and just for your information, we’re from the Freefighters, where men and women of every race fight together. This is Detroit Green, my right-hand man,” Rock said as the black Freefighter put out his own hand and shook the porter’s. Detroit had a look of great distaste on his face, since the speech and mannerisms of the black train crew made him feel a little sick. But he held his tongue. He had been through too much to judge things on first impressions. Still—he would have to have a talk with these “blackies” later.

  “Well, Rufus,” Rockson went on, “my traveling companions and I have decided to take a little pleasure jaunt through this great country.
We’ve been fighting for so many years, never had a chance to take a vacation. You know how it is?”

  “Oh indeed, sir, ah knows,” Rufus said.

  “So, just think of us as a few extra tourists—taking in the sights. We’ll be dining and playing cards with our Russian friends here.” Rock smiled at a heavily bemedaled officer who returned the gesture with a thin lip twitch of his own. “So I want all of you to relax and act normal. This is just another trip—and I’m sure we’ll all become fine friends by the end of it.” The crowd of black porters squeezed in the aisle could hardly believe their ears. The things the man was saying—were strange. Still, his calm manner and slow relaxed way of talking seemed to cool them out, and their eyes lost their fear-fired panic.

  “Well now, dat soun’s jes fine, Mr. Rockson,” Rufus said, beaming. “An’ I hope we kin make your journey a pleasant one dat you will rememba wit fond memories in de future.”

  “Now, I’m sure my men are all starving. Hijacking trains really builds up an appetite. So, why don’t you serve them—and of course any of these Russian gentlemen who would like something.” The Reds, who had been disarmed by the Freefighters and were now strapped into their seats with belts, looked on with insane expressions on their sweaty faces. They had never felt so humiliated in their lives, and burned with both a hatred for Rockson and the realization that they had to act civil, even nice, for the next forty-eight hours or the man might kill them. Their faces seemed to actually jerk, the eyebrows throbbing, noses sniffing rapidly like rabbits, the lips trembling with repressed rage. Yet there was nothing—not a thing—they could do. They were to be mannequins for the rebels—things placed in the windows to make it all look real.

  Lieutenant Boyd quickly perused the menu and exclaimed, “Mates, they’ve got beer!” A cheer that shook the walls went up from the twelve Aussies in the car, the rest off guarding other parts of the train. “Course it ain’t no bloody Foster’s . . . but still, good ol’ Yank beer. Let’s give it a try.” The Aussies quickly ordered up a bottle for every one of their men, asked the porters to take the brew to the other cars—and then they scanned the menu, trying to decide just what to have.

  “Recommendations, Rock?” Boyd asked. “I can’t make kangaroos or koalas out of this blasted piece of paper here.”

  “As the man said,” Rock replied, touching the petals of the roses rising like little suns from the vase on the table, “the veal Prince Orloff is definitely the special of the day.”

  The fighters felt wonderful after the meal of some of the best food they had ever eaten—and from the fact that they had survived the assault. Things for the moment were going their way. The entire force changed into spare Russian uniforms so that they too could sit at the large picture windows and look at the world passing outside. But their guns were out, always trained on the Reds around them, though they knew that the Russians in this particular crop were too high up, too powerful, to risk their necks.

  Detroit didn’t say a word, but rose after his meal and headed back to the kitchen. He walked through the floor-to-ceiling swinging doors and into pure chaos as the black porters raced around getting their orders together, cleaning dishes, and preparing the next meal even as the last one was being consumed. He found Rufus giving directions to some of the others for taking food on to the other cars. Detroit waited a moment until the old man had finished and then spoke up.

  “You and me gotta have a little talk, pal,” the black Freefighter said. “In private.”

  “Is de service not to yo’ likin’, sir?” Rufus asked with a deeply worried look on his face.

  “De service is jus’ fine,” Detroit snapped back, mimicking the man’s speech. “It’s just you and all these other men here that’s the problem.” Rufus led Detroit through a narrow door and into the kitchen’s refrigerator, which was filled to overflowing with the best produce and meats.

  “What the hell are all of you acting like goddamned idiotic slaves for? Don’t you know that slavery died with Abraham Lincoln?”

  “Maybe there’s more to all this than meets the eye, Detroit,” Rufus said in perfect unaccented English. “Maybe there are other levels of operation going on that you know nothing about.” The Freefighter stared at the head porter with shock.

  “You—you can speak fine.”

  “He walks, he talks, he cooks, he shines Russian shoes—and he hears things. Things that he passes onto an underground network in Washington. How the hell do you think all you glory boys out in the sticks are getting the intelligence that you so readily put to use without even asking where it came from?”

  “I—I—” Now it was Detroit’s turn to get flustered. He was barely able to speak.

  “Hell, man, you think I wouldn’t love the chance to get out there and put my hands around a rifle butt and shoot some of these bastards? Do you have any idea what it takes—what we all go through to act out these ‘nigger’ roles so the Reds have no inkling what’s really going on? I go to my bed some nights, and Detroit—I got tears. Tears that won’t stop flowing because I feel so humiliated. And you know what I do so I don’t end up feeling as if I’m becoming the way these Reds see me? I read, man. Read everything I can get my hands on so that I know—if no one else does—that I am an educated, civilized man. Those pigs out there know nothing beyond stuffing their mouths and then heading into the bedrooms with the whores that are stocked for the journey. I—I have read Shakespeare, Dickens, Chekhov—all the great minds of literature. No, Detroit, it is I who am the master—the master of my own fate—while those outside will soon crumble into the dustheap of history.” He paused, wiping sweat from his lined brow. Then he looked Detroit squarely in the eyes. “There—I’ve said my piece. Any more questions about niggers?”

  “I’m sorry,” Detroit answered, his head bowing slightly, as he couldn’t meet the gaze of the suddenly powerful personality of the man. It was horrible, terrifying, the black Freefighter thought, to submerge every bit of your personality—to grovel beneath the heels of the barbarian—all the while knowing who you really are. That you are a thousand times more evolved than those you must serve.

  “There’s nothing I can say, obviously,” Detroit mumbled. “I—I salute you, sir.” He stood at attention and threw up a stiff right hand in salute to the head black man.

  “Oh, cut the crap,” Rufus said. “We’re all in this together. I’m not angry at you. If anything, I should be flattered that you care enough to get angry.”

  “Are the other porters the same—I mean, all spying, risking their lives?”

  “Every blackfaced one of them,” Rufus answered.

  “Well, now I know. I’ll tell the others so they don’t think—”

  “Don’t tell a soul,” Rufus exclaimed, pushing his old face toward Detroit’s. “If your men know and even one of them lets on—even by accident—then our whole cover is blown here. Every one of us is finished, along with the Freefighters’ most valuable source of intelligence in the entire country. We know what we’re doing. Every man here chose to be here—didn’t have to. What others think about us is of no concern. What we do here—that is what matters. No one can know—ever.”

  “I could learn a lot from a man like you,” Detroit said, sensing the depths of the head porter.

  “You already have, son, you already have.”

  They headed out together back into the kitchen, where Rufus immediately took on his role again.

  “So’s you like de cut o’ meat I showed you, sir?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “You want I serve de best to you and Mr. Rockson. Well, dat’s jus’ fine. Dat be our li’l secret.”

  “Our little secret,” Detroit mumbled, acting disdainful and walking away. But as he saw the idiot masks all the porters had had to turn their faces into, he felt as if his heart were going to burst. He bolted toward the door so he could get out of there fast.

  Rockson sat at the empty end of the dining car as the rest of his men laughed and pulled out cards at the playing tables
in the smoking room. They grabbed handfuls of medals from Russian chests to bet with, and went hard and heavy at five-card stud. Good, let them relax, Rock thought. The worst was yet to come—and they all knew it. He sat back in a plush recliner, touching a dial on the side so it slowly lowered him until he was lying almost horizontal. He turned and looked out the window at America speeding by. He was used to being down there in the bushes plodding along, but from here the view was vastly different. The countryside flew by in great patches like a jigsaw puzzle of beauty and death. Fertile fields filled for miles with rainbows of flowers, animals, birds. Then stretches of nothing, just as long. Grayness, flat broken earth that had taken direct hits, and still, a century later, was unable to bring forth life. Occasionally a towering crater rose in the distance, a monument to the madness and stupidity of those who had ruled the world a hundred years before.

  It angered Rockson whenever he thought about the old days. How could they have been so insane—all of them—the Russians and the Americans? Hadn’t they seen where it was all heading? The legacy they were going to leave for all future generations to come. And now they were all gone—every one of them who had brought on the Great War. And it was Rock and his men who would spend their lives fighting—and dying—to put the pieces back together again.

  Eighteen

  The Silver Bullet sped like an arrow through stop after stop as angry Russian officers shook their fists at the passing train. But the communications officer under the constant guns of at least two Freefighters just kept sending out the same message.

  “Priority One, the Silver Bullet has been ordered by President Zhabnov personally to head for Washington without making another stop.” With the foul-up in communications around the country because of Killov’s nationwide attacks, they got away with it. The KGB colonel was aiding Rockson’s passage—without knowing it. The porters served them meal after incredible meal so that every man in the squad put on at least ten pounds within the first thirty-six hours.