Doomsday Warrior 01 (15 page)

Incredible insanity—surely not bravery—thought Kuzminski as he quickly dropped back to the rear. As they retreated, sending up wall after wall of flame at the still-advancing crowd of ghastly attackers, the fourth squad met them. Six men sent into one of the deep cellars; they had been lucky to get out. One was limping, one had his hands to his eyes, moaning and blubbering until he fell. A soldier gasped, grasping at his profusely bleeding shoulder, a small dagger still protruding from it. “We went in, but the children—they—they had acid and—” He fell forward, his eyes rolling up as a second knife stuck deep in his back, thrown some forty feet from the cellar entrance.

Kuzminski called a halt to the extermination. A planned careful withdrawal. Soon it became a rout. Then it was only Kuzminski and his second-in-command, Lieutenant Lysenko. Then Lysenko was down. Kuzminski ripped his liquid fuel tank from his back and threw it down along with the flamethrower. He ran in a mad dash toward the fence that separated Little U.S.A. from the Stalinville Soviet army sector. He was at the fence, the Americans were far behind. Just a hundred yards to the gate—he would make it. He would. He began sprinting.

The ax came out of nowhere. Sally’s hands were holding the handle. The head of the commandant severed cleanly at the base of the neck and rolled backwards, toward Little U.S.A. Kuzminski got a rolling, topsy-turvy view of the sky and buildings and ground. Something had happened—blackness closing in—the head stopped rolling. It was upright, eyes opened but no longer seeing. The Americans gathered around it. A young boy, burned on the leg and arm, his bubbling flesh peeking through the disintegrating material of his clothes, picked the head up and stuck it on a wood spear. He walked over to the garbage piles and found the highest one. He put the head on top, slamming the spear deep into the moldering rot and walked down.

Other filthy American bag and garbage people gathered silently below, slipping out of the surrounding ruins. Sally, standing nearby with her still-bloody ax, did a macabre dance, holding the weapon high over her head. One by one, the Americans joined the impromptu celebration around the garbage pile as dead Red eyes stared down at them uncomprehendingly.

Later, a boy not older than five, his face a mess of scars and oozing sores, found the body of the dead Red Death Squad leader. He dipped his fingers in the still-lightly bubbling blood that rose from the neck and used it to write, “Ted Rockson was here” on the brick wall that the corpse rested against.

So ended July 4, 2089
A.D.
A good day for America, a bad day for the Red occupiers of America.

Twelve

I
n Washington, President Zhabnov lay in his recliner in the Blue Room, trying to relax. He couldn’t. The events of the past few days seemed to confirm Killov’s ravings about a real threat of overthrow actually existing in America. The rebels
were
strong. Events were showing that. The hidden city that had recently been destroyed—what did they call it? Westfort—had four thousand bodies in it when the radiation cleared enough for Red troops to go in and check things out. Killov had overridden his authority by the use of the neutron bombs, but the success of the action and valuable information that was uncovered would preclude a reprimand from either Zhabnov or Premier Vassily. Killov had lucked out this time, the president had to admit.

When the ruins had been thoroughly probed it was discovered that Westfort was filled with quite advanced weaponry and industrial machinery. It was well-equipped with both stolen and self-made tools. Most frightening of all, several areas that contained their most important undertakings and records had been destroyed with preset bombs designed to go off in case of attack. And Killov had said to Zhabnov over the phone after the attack, “I believe this Westfort is really one of the smallest of the American rebel cities.”

Smallest? With ground-to-air missiles and machinery capable of producing tractors? Zhabnov turned nervously on the blue velvet recliner. Perhaps he should speak to the premier about letting Killov have his fun with a few dozen neutron bombs. After all, it was nice here in the White House. Much nicer than it had been in Murmansk. He wouldn’t want to lose his position in the United Socialist States if he could help it. Besides, he would lose face if the rebels attacked any further. No, let this sadist Killov have his neutron bombs.

The portraits of his Russian predecessors in the presidential office stared down at him. What would
they
do? His eye caught the picture of Abraham Lincoln: stern, penetrating, watching him from across the large, carpeted room. What would he have done? Lincoln had a rebellious area to contend with. He had freed the slaves, the blacks, and sent in armies of blue-coated troops to stop the gray-uniformed slaveholders. Zhabnov let a little smile cross his thick face. There! He knew his history. He had read a book or two when he came over, feeling it only proper to know something about the history of the beaten Americans. Lincoln had burned and destroyed Atlanta and half the South, 230 years ago. He had acted forcefully. I must act! But there are no slaves to free in the rebellious areas. Could I free the slaves in
our
cities to fight the rebel cities? His eyes lit up at the thought. This Mind Breaker device—if it could be used to make the American workers completely docile, or better yet make them fighting soldiers of communism—on
our
side—perhaps we could send them out to do our fighting for us. What a clever idea, President Zhabnov thought, totally taken with his own imagination. That is why Vassily made me president. I am so clever.

He rose, walked across the Blue Room until he came face to face with the portrait of Lincoln, “Ah, Mr. Lincoln, you have given me an idea. Thank you. Like you, I will free the slaves. Free them to fight for Russia. I will call in all my scientists and this expert on the Mind Breaker and tell them to convert half a million of our work-slaves into soldiers. American against American—as in your own time Comrade Lincoln. What do you think of that?”

He stood back, looking at Lincoln’s stern face. The president didn’t seem pleased. Zhabnov turned away and headed for his office. He would have to start right away on this brilliant plan. This would be something that even Killov would have to admit was a good idea. Not that I need him for help, but he could be useful. Yes, I will invite Killov and his technical people and we will discuss implementation of Plan Lincoln.

Back in the Oval Office, Zhabnov squeezed down into the presidential chair and picked up one of the eight phones on his cluttered desk. Blue for the KGB, green for his own military hierarchy and red for the premier. But Vassily didn’t like to be bothered. He had a whole empire to rule. One just sent him boxes of charts for his staff to study. Charts and graphs showing how Zhabnov was meeting—or exceeding—goals of his five-year grain-and-corn exportation plan. That was a little difficult; the crops were subject to such sudden changes of weather here in America—that damned west wind, and the titanic twisters, as the Americans called them.

The operator’s eager voice chimed in. “Yessir, Mr. President?”

“Killov!” he said.

When Killov hung up the phone he was—he hated to admit it—impressed with Zhabnov. The fat fool had a good idea for a change and for Killov’s help he had offered a commitment to get more neutron bombs. Killov liked the idea of rapidly expanding the use of the Mind Breaker. After all, it could turn out to be the ultimate weapon that would finally give the Russians complete control. Some 120 years ago, America had had a war in Southeast Asia—the Vietnam War. The then-president of the U.S.A., Johnson, had said that in order to win that war, the United States had to win the hearts and minds of those people. They didn’t, and the United States lost a war for the first time. Now we are stuck in a war of attrition with these American rebels, Killov thought, only we
have
the means, thanks to the Mind Breaker, to rule the hearts and minds of every American. Send the useless overpopulation of shiftless slaves from the occupied areas out to fight Rockson and his bandits. Give them the will, the fanatical devotion to Mother Russia, to decimate their own countrymen.

The meeting was two days later. The customary tour of the Rose Garden led by Zhabnov, with all the scientists, technicians and military and KGB top hats, infuriated Killov as a waste of time. But once inside the White House meeting room, they quickly got down to business. Zhabnov’s top scientists showed charts in front of the long conference table, charts that detailed the ever-growing research and experimentation results of the Mind Breaker machines. Killov proudly stated that a fortress city of the Americans had been decimated by neutron bombs, when one of their Freefighters was captured—his mind had been probed and the information had been obtained instantly. That man, Preston, hadn’t survived the ordeal for more than a few hours. However, later prisoners and experimental subjects did survive attempts to make them loyal to their Russian masters. Two months ago, they had only achieved a twenty-four percent success rate, but now American slaves could be programmed with simple loving devotion to Mother Russia—or dogs, bananas, anything—with a forty-seven percent success. The programming was permanent as all memories of being an American were burned out of their cortex with the burning laser needle probes.

A woman captive was paraded before the assembled chamber. A very attractive woman of about thirty. She was told to turn slowly about. She was naked. It was unmistakable that she was one of the star-patterned American Free Women who had defied mental re-education by other means. Yet here she was, obeying every command of the scientist, Melnitsky, who had programmed her. He asked her a few questions.

“Who are you?”

“Georgina Zhukov, proud soldier of the Soviet Occupation Forces.” Her full, melon-shaped breasts, with pointed nipples, bounced slightly as she continued to turn. Her strong legs were tan and supple, meeting in a light blond bush at the top of the thighs. There were murmurs of pleasure.

“And what do you think of the American Freefighters?” She looked suddenly angry, her face reddening. “They should be strung up, butchered, fed to dogs.”

“What would you do to achieve this?”

“I would give my life for Mother Russia,” she replied, giving the clenched-fist salute of the Blackshirts. Killov now stood up and the room hushed. His cold, calculating look as he circled the naked woman brought a chill coursing up Zhabnov’s spine. The man was so thin and gaunt, his face so pale, those eyes staring unblinking. Killov’s tight black uniform with the red death’s-head gleamed in the ceiling chandelier’s many lights—a calculated controlling presence.

Killov walked directly in front of the American female and stared at her from about six inches. “Would you kill the Ultimate American? Would you kill Ted Rockson?” The woman began to respond, “Yes,” but then she blinked, seemed to jerk, swallowed hard and stared forward, saying nothing. A strange series of expressions marked her face, her lips parted and she vomited all over the charts around her. She grimaced painfully, foaming a green bile at the mouth, whispered, “Never” and collapsed like a stone onto the floor. She was dead.

Zhabnov stood up, enraged. “Killov, what was that about? Why have you disgraced these proceedings?”

“I have merely demonstrated, Mr. President, that the Mind Breaker has its limits at present. Limits that my staff of technicians—” he proffered a palm toward his side of the table—“will remedy. Your scientists are good, of course, Mr. President, but they haven’t been able to totally submerge the will of these Free Americans. This obsession they have with Ted Rockson permeates their very being. It requires a KGB approach. We have the resources and the equipment in Denver to go beyond this mere fascination with Mother Russia your scientists have so far accomplished. The test is whether or not these Americans can forget their superstitious belief in this Rockson. He is the key.”

Zhabnov looked around the table, saw general acquiescence to Killov’s words even from his own forces and decided to seem gracious in his defeat. “Ah, Killov, I see what you mean. By all means I will instruct my staff to cooperate with the KGB in this matter.” He turned to his audience, radiating benign rulership. It had done the trick, no one could say that he was not cooperative. They applauded, as a matter of fact. Killov too.

Later, Zhabnov sat at his desk almost gnawing his knuckles in anger. He would have to have the scientist that prepared that little embarrassing demonstration executed. Imagine bringing their defective work—that American girl—and then letting Killov ruin their display, making Zhabnov look stupid. It was a humiliating defeat by Killov. They would all talk.

He tapped his finger by the white phone. He really shouldn’t execute his top scientist, he really shouldn’t. He decided! Politics takes precedence over a man’s utility. Order in the ranks must be preserved. People under Zhabnov must know what failure meant, otherwise . . . He picked up the executioner’s phone and ordered the arrest of Melnitsky and his family and their immediate execution.