by Ryder Stacy
Well, why not?
Bracing himself, Rockson tried to judge the distance between himself and the cyborg, then hurtled downward at his foe feet first.
Chrome picked up the movement above him, but dodged too late. Rockson’s steel-heeled boots struck the cyborg at the junction of neck and spine, snapping the joints that held the armor there in place. Something happened; the metal man’s mouth opened but made no sound. He jerked, his good arm thrashed around, uncontrolled. Chrome even hit himself with it.
Rockson fell heavily to the ground, rolling as best he could with the blow to protect his shattered ribs. He looked back at the teetering giant, expecting him to turn and finish him finally. There was a whooshing sound above, a bright light—a plane!
Red sparks shot from the back of Chrome’s head, lighting the night. As the wind drove more of the flying snow into the crack, the electrical reactions grew greater until, finally, the cyborg toppled to the ground. At first he flopped wildly, but finally Chrome settled down into a frozen pose so twisted that Rockson knew the metal man had been wrong.
Chrome could feel pain. And Chrome could die.
Twenty-Four
The jet sent to rescue Killov came in like a bat out of hell, low over the ice, its landing lights flooding the makeshift airstrip. Killov waved and jumped up and down as the jet bumped down the tarmac and its tires caught, and it reversed power on its two immense ramjet engines.
“Here, I am here,” Killov screamed, rushing to the plane. Already the cockpit was opening. When he climbed atop the wing, a hand assisted Killov up into the cockpit’s second seat. Rockson ran toward the jet, limping, struggling for every breath. But Killov’s rescue jet let out a fifty-foot blue exhaust flame and took off nearly straight up.
Rockson fell to his knees, his head lowered. Defeat. After all this, defeat. The fifth missile was headed toward Century City, and Killov had escaped.
Hopeless.
But wait! Rock heard another screaming noise in the blackness above. A second jet came roaring down the runway. It was a jet similar to the one that had picked up Killov.
Inside the second jet, Lieutenant Minhoff hit the brakes. He was confused. Was it he that was supposed to land and rescue Commander Killov, or was it Dersky? He wasn’t sure, so he had made the decision to land, reasoning that if he was wrong, he could always take off again, and if his plane was supposed to pick up Killov, he’d better do it. It was the wrong decision.
Rockson didn’t know what the hell this second jet was about, but it was not the time to look a gift jet in the intake. “Here, comrade,” Rockson yelled in his best Russian, pouring on the leg motion to reach the jet. He was already on the wing as the pilot turned his flashlight on him. “Commander, I—wait, you’re not—”
“Dustevedanya,” Rockson snarled, hammering the pilot in the face, and pulling him out of his seat. He ripped the helmet and dangling oxy mask from the man’s face and threw him off the wing with a powerful heave. Rockson donned the helmet and assumed the still-warm leather seat. He manually pulled the cockpit glass closed and snapped the seals.
But now what? What the hell kind of jet was this? How the hell did it work?
He frantically looked about the Russian-labeled buttons, switches, and dials of the control panel. He felt the stick. He had studied Soviet planes; the Freefighters had most of the blueprints back in Century City, the result of a vast network of spies who had infiltrated Soviet fortresses throughout the United States.
Rock’s near-photographic memory struggled to figure out which instrumentation he was facing. In a flash he realized he was staring at the control panel of an Ilkin-33 trainer jet. Of course—that’s why it had two seats, one for the novice pilot.
Trainer jets were easier to fly, and they had computers to take over and correct deadly mistakes. Sometimes voice-activated computers. If only he could turn it on. Or even find the damned thing. There were two red switches, labeled one and two, over to the left. A precious minute had already gone by. He had to do something. Muttering “Here goes nothing,” Rockson hit the two switches.
The computer said “Activated flight sequence, automatic,” in clear Russian, spoken by a female.
Rock sighed. There was a chance—he had flown a computer-assisted jet once before. The details of the control panel, most of which had no identification on its mass of switches and meters, came to him. But his heart sank as he realized something. This was an older model Mach 3 Soviet training jet. It was a “jump-jet.” Not built for immense speed, but for short takeoffs and landings. The Doomsday Warrior found the ignition switch to the far right. He flicked it and instantly the engine whined. He trimmed the flaps, and pushing the stick forward, he began taxiing back down the runway. He hit the “biff” switch. It was the control that swung the cantilevered engine to an almost-downward position, for added boost. He felt the huge mass tremble under his seat and lock into position. He shot forward gathering speed on the short runway, hit the afterburner switch, sending a huge flame of blue out behind the jet. The jump-jet shuddered aloft.
“Instructions?” asked the computer. Rock was about to say, “Intercept jet on radar,” for the blip of Killov’s jet had appeared on the screen. But Rock saw a bigger, higher blip appear on the circular screen. The missile, heading south. The thing was an atmosphere-eating cruise missile. If it were a ballistic missile it would be too far away to chase. But it was an air-eater, just like the jet, only unmanned.
Rockson shouted out in very broken Russian, “Plot and commence intercept course on missile, radar screen Vector Eight.”
The jet rose through the overcast clouds, the acceleration pinning Rock to the seat.
“Fire all weapons when missile is in range,” Rock grunted, his face distorted, his tongue heavy, from the velocity increase.
“Confirmed,” the computer intoned.
Rockson asked the computer for time-to-intercept and estimated time of range acceptable for air-to-air destruct sequence.
“One hour four minutes,” replied the computer.
My God, Rock thought, this jet can catch the missile. But over what area of North America?
The acceleration reached maximum and the jet leveled off at eight thousand feet.
“What location will the air-to-air destruct take place?” Rock asked breathlessly.
A brief pause, then the computer spoke, “Latitude forty-five degrees twelve minutes, longitude one hundred seventy-five degrees twenty minutes west.”
“Project map of area,” Rock said. A second screen lit, and a map, named and numbered in Russian, showed a blinking red dot in south Oregon. My God, he’d intercept the missile over Dennison City, a Freefighter town of twenty thousand souls. The antimatter explosion would destroy Dennison.
“Computer,” Rock asked, “can we intercept missile fifty miles further north, over the high mountains?”
A pause. “Only by lightening our load.”
“Explain. What can be dumped?”
“Only weapons are available for dump.”
Great, Rock thought, just great! But then he had an idea. “Computer, do we have to drop all weapons to increase speed to intercept missile fifty miles north of intercept point projects?”
“Will calculate. Please wait.”
According to Scheransky, the missile warhead would make a five-mile crater, and its blast effect would be felt forty-five miles from the explosion. Rock had to destroy it far over the barren mountains north of Dennison somehow.
“Calculated,” said the computer, “all but one air-to-air missile must be dropped now to enable craft to intercept missile at new designation.”
“Drop all but one air-to-air weapon,” Rock ordered. He felt a thud. The plane seemed to gain some speed. The red dot showing intercept location started slowly crawling north on the projected map. Rock wanted to put some more space between the explosion and Dennison.
“Can we get more speed to intercept the missile?” he asked.
“Not possible at thi
s altitude.”
“Then change altitude to obtain maximum possible speed,” Rock ordered without hesitating.
The jet dove with heart-stopping suddenness. In seconds they were through the clouds and screaming straight at the ground. He fully expected to crash, yelling, “Pull up, pull up!”
The jet leveled off. Rock couldn’t believe it—they were about twenty feet off the frozen tundra moving at 2876 kilometers per hour, according to the gauge.
He tried to calm his pounding heart and gasped, “Show new intercept point.” The screen showed the red dot intercept-location point creeping north to eighty miles north of Dennison. Barren high plateaus. There was never a happier man. But Rock’s smile changed to a frown. Something unpleasant had just crossed his mind. “Computer, how close do I have to be to fire the air-to-air missile at target?”
Instantly the mechanical female voice answered, “Twenty miles.”
Twenty miles! But the blast effect was fifty miles wide! He would have to die, in order for Century City to live. Well, so be it, he thought grimly. “Continue on course,” he said. “Fire when in range.”
He let himself relax in the seat, a relaxation born of the knowledge that he was as good as dead. At least it would be just him. His mind seized on rambling regrets: Simple things, like the fact that he’d never get to give Rona and Kim their neon-rabbit fur robes. But maybe the Rock team would take them back and hand them to the women, and say Rock had bought it for them. Sort of a last gift, a last memory.
Outside the cockpit, buttes and mesa rock were going by on all sides like blades of a fan. The jet maneuvered automatically to the left or right with incredible timing to avoid them, like a steel needle through a garment of solid rock. He glanced at the clock ticking off his life-seconds. Eleven minutes to intercept.
Major Mernik was staring at the Oregon Air Defense radar screens. He had been in the subterranean Monolith war room ever since Killov—who’d been thought dead—had called on air-to-ground radio from above Canada. Mernik had been dragged out of the bathtub and given Killov’s order.
“Rockson is heading into Oregon airspace, pursuing a cruise missile. He must be stopped. Scramble all interceptors, prepare anti-air missiles. Shoot any aircraft entering your airspace down!”
But Rockson should have been here by now. Where was he? Mernik wished he knew more about this cruise missile Killov talked of. What was its target? If it was coming close enough to the base to appear on this screen, wasn’t he, Mernik, personally in danger? Yet as much as he feared the missile, he feared Killov more. He lit another cigarette and stared at the sweep hand of the radar screen. There! There was the cruise missile, moving at great speed. Heading due south. The minute Rockson appeared on the screen, the interceptors, which could go 4500 kilometers per hour—twice as fast as most jets—would be scrambled into the air. The six fighters were stocked with air-to-air missiles. They had excellent pilots. Killov’s orders would be carried out.
Another blip appeared at the edge of the screen. He waited for it to reappear—but it didn’t. What the hell . . . He called to the technician at the controls. “What happened to blip two?”
“It’s flying incredibly low, Major. Too low for the screen to pick it up sometimes. It’s on approximately the same course as that missile, eight minutes behind it.
Mernik yelled, “Call the interceptor squadron, get them airborne. Tell them to fly high, find the jet, and dive down and finish it off. How low is he flying?”
“Twelve to fourteen meters off the ground, sir. Much less in spots . . .”
“Incredible. The terrain out there is rocky, there are canyons, hills; the man is mad.”
The major rushed to the elevator, took it to the surface—a gut-wrenching twenty-second ride. He staggered out onto the desert surface. He heard the whoosh of the six interceptor jets as they roared off. Russia’s best pilots, armed for bear. Six against one. Speed twice that of the Doomsday Warrior’s jet.
Would they be enough? If Mernik failed . . . his lips went dry. He couldn’t fail—he wouldn’t fail.
He called his personal chopper pilot over from where he stood at the black-painted command chopper. “Dersh, prepare a flight plan into the east, to the nearest Zhabnov-controlled fortress.”
“But—”
“Do it. If this intercept fails, neither you nor I wish to face Killov’s wrath, is that not right?”
The man paused for a second, then snapped out, “Yessir!”
Twenty-Five
Six Soviet interceptors appeared on Rockson’s screen. They were above and behind him, and gaining fast. The classification flashed on the screen next to each blip. MIG-89, SPEED 4500 KM/HR. Damn—that was twice as fast as he was going. They would be on him in seconds. Rockson pulled the stick back and rose straight up.
Rockson had only one thing on his mind now—destroying the deadly missile. But to do so, he had to survive the dogfight that was about to commence. And to do that he needed to be above them, not below them. He pulled on the stick and the jet shot upward at a seventy-degree angle.
He felt . . . so tired, every bone in his body aching from the accelerations and the pressure changes the plane had put him through, from the tension of flying between ground obstacles, from the torturous fight with Chrome. But he had to control the pain, control it . . .
The six interceptors were now twenty-three miles away! It was beyond the time for thought, it was time for gambling!
He pointed the jet directly at the blinding white sun above. The Sun. The Lamp of God. It showed the way! He pulled the stick even further back, and as he rose sharply upward banked the jet directly at the sun. The pursuing jets, although they didn’t need visual sighting to fire their air-to-air missiles, needed a radar lock on him.
Rock would give their air-to-air missiles a choice of two heat sources now. One was the engine of his jump-jet. The other was the greatest heat, light, and radar source in the solar system—the sun.
He was twelve miles up when six yellow blips left the six blips behind him. They had all fired their missiles! Six Stingers with heat-homing devices. He’d be blown to smithereens if any one of them detonated near the aircraft.
But the burning sun misled them. The six Soviet missiles came screaming by Rockson’s jet bent on destruction. They roared up toward the stratosphere. They would expend their fuel long before they were even ten miles further. They’d never reach their hot target 92,000,000 miles away.
Rockson, smiling in relief, banked the jet into a long rolling dive perpendicular to the radar indications of the six jets, which were breaking formation. Rockson couldn’t hope to match the six interceptors in speed or firepower—or even pilot skill. But the trainer jet he was in had one small advantage—it could “biff.” Most short-takeoff-and-landing jets could do it. To “biff” meant that Rockson could slow his airspeed by putting the engine on a tilt, as he had positioned it at takeoff. As a result of the engine tilt, the forward speed was reduced to subsonic, and then could rapidly drop to zero. A pursuing jet, without the “biff” capability, would zoom past—and present its butt to Rockson’s short-range guns.
“Biff, baby, biff,” Rock yelled, hitting the takeoff-position switch on the engine. He felt the dizzying sensation of coming to a near full stop in midair. The nearest interceptor jet zipped past on his port wing. Its startled pilot, expecting this to be more of a turkey shoot than a dogfight, twisted his head around to near breaking point. His target had vectored at an impossible forty-five-degree angle and dropped behind. He began a long curve and drop to come around. Too late. The machine-gun bullets fired by Rockson’s jump-jet came right up his tailpipe, blowing the Red interceptor and its twenty-million-rubles worth of armaments and engine to hell.
Rockson tilted the engine back and sped away in an accelerating upward curve. Another Red jet got on his tail. Rockson almost sickened himself with a series of barnstorming stunts—rolls, biffs, and dives—that none of the five interceptors left could match. Soon they were
scattered among the clouds for a hundred miles. And since they had no visual sighting, and their radar at ranges greater than five miles couldn’t tell an interceptor from a jump-jet like Rockson’s, their eager pilots locked onto the closest targets, let fly air-to-air missiles at one another. Two blips fell from Rock’s screen.
Each pilot, seeing the air-to-airs approaching, bailed out, their ejection seats catapulting them into the sky right over an area Rockson remembered was the domain of the Bright-Face Sioux, a particularly warlike tribe that liked to bake any Russians they found on stakes. So much for them. Three to go!
But they were piloted by men who weren’t so foolish.
Rockson watched the three remaining interceptors on his radar, slid his jump-jet into a swift descent, and dove into a narrow canyon. Hopefully they’d have a tough time picking him up on the radar with all the metallic rocks around.
“Where the fuck is he, Deskenov?” snarled the pilot in the lead interceptor as the three MIGs swept right by the area Rockson’s jet had vanished into.
“He’s down there somewhere among all the damned rocks,” the second jet’s pilot replied. “We’ll soon get a heat trace of him.”
“Fire in bursts, at random, all along the canyon down there—he’s likely to get hit.”
“How will we know if we hit him? We can’t tell Killov we think we’ve killed the Doomsday Warrior!”
“Fool, there will be an explosion. Stones don’t explode! We will know if we hit him. Now lay down a field of fire up the canyon to the west. I’ll fly along the east arm and do the same. Volik, you follow me a minute later.”
The jets dove, roared level about seventy feet off the rolling terrain, letting loose bursts of cannon fire and an air-to-air missile from time to time. Rockson saw one coming, veered right. He winced as the missile passed him and destroyed a huge chimney of red sand to his port side. A few rounds of cannon fire whizzed past his cockpit and chipped holes into the splendor racing by. But they were shooting blind, Rockson’s jet’s exhaust heat often hidden behind towering pillars of sandstone. He zigzagged between two buttes, almost clipping one.