Doomsday Warrior 13 - American Paradise (10 page)

And for the first time in a decade, Killov reached out, not to kill, not to depress a button to send up a nuclear missile, not to squeeze a trigger,
but to touch another human.
His cold, bony hand wrapped tightly around Nakashima’s. “Friend,” Killov said softly.

“Friend,” Nakashima stated, his eyes adoring.

Killov, drinking more saki, now poured his heart out. He related how he had been a hunted fugitive, hiding for a whole year in the Moscow Library, living like a troll among the dusty stacks, doing research. “I knew that research would be the answer. Knowledge is power! And I found what I had been looking for—the secret lost KGB file on the American military base at Johnston Island in the Pacific. I found the secret files on Project ZILCH, the weapon that would be my new servant. I gathered loyal men—ambitious men—for my new KGB force, promising them the moon—anything—to join my cause.

“We journeyed to Johnston Island—now called Rarapani—and took the crystal weapon from the savages there. We came here to Bikini by a whaler. My ship’s chopper found this island with its tower and its power source. Soon I will use my weapon to bring death worldwide, to make all nations bow to death!”

“Yes, Killov-san.”

“One thing puzzles me, Nakashima . . . Why did the survivors of Japan’s destruction build this replica city of New Tokyo?”

“Loneliness, Killov-san. The volcano—it looks like Mount Fuji. They wanted to feel at home.”

“Fools! But the duplicate of Tokyo Tower has been useful . . . Well, that was a hearty meal—my best in years. Let us walk back to the car. I must see how my weapon is progressing!”

Twelve

A
s they turned a corner into wide Takanaga Street, New Tokyo Tower’s gridwork of red steel came into view. It was 333 meters high, and dwarfed the Tanaka Department Store’s twelve stories. In the center of the Eiffel-like tower was a 60 by 60 foot marble shaft with small, green glass windows—the building that held Killov’s luxury suite and his control room. Sparks flared at a dozen points at the tower’s apex, below where the amber twelve-foot-high crystal weapon caught the morning sun on its million glistening facets.

Good, Killov thought, the sparks meant the workers were welding the power cables into place.

Nakashima drove to the sand-bagged KGB checkpoint at the west leg of the tower. A pair of spit-and-polish KGBers carrying submachine guns, recognizing the car, saluted and waved him on. They knew that the ZILCH crystal was the world’s most powerful weapon and therefore that Killov was the world’s most powerful man.

High above, soaring on the winds that were rising from the east, a large peregrine falcon looked down at the two men walking toward the tower entrance. It saw their forms appear and disappear in the lattice work below. Its keen eyes sensed that they were like itself. They were not
prey.
They, too, were
hunters.

Nakashima said, “See that falcon! See how it flies to its nest in the cornice near the very top of the tower.”

“You have good eyes, Nakashima. I barely see it. My eyes cannot take such bright sky.”

“It is such a big falcon, and it nests on the tower!”

“Then I will have it
shot.
I will not have a bird interfere—” Killov shook his fist.

“No, don’t,” the chauffeur interjected, “the falcon is a good sign, a symbol of power for you, master. It won’t interfere; it is nesting below the crystal.”

Killov smiled. “Is that so . . . a good omen? Then I will let it be!”

They went past the rows of saluting KGB guards and into the marble-walled lobby of the tower. Boot heels clicking on the polished floor, they walked to a bank of elevators. The first brass elevator door was marked “staff,” the second “engineers,” and the third—the silver door—had no words. Just Killov’s death’s head insignia embossed on the shiny metal.

Killov twisted his gold key in the special elevator’s button. A red arrow lit up above the door, pointing down. The elevator was descending from the 71st floor—his suite—where it always automatically returned.

“Do you go to your control room?”

“No, Nakashima.
We
go to check the work on the roof—a surprise inspection.”

On the windy narrow roof, technicians worked feverishly to complete their master’s design. They were of two races. One race—the stolid pale Russians in black coveralls—handled the bulky electrical cables and welded the structural steel in place, altering the tower’s peak to accommodate the crystal. The other race—the Japanese—was smaller, more delicate. They were the highly skilled technicians in orange coveralls, doing the delicate systems work in many fuse- and transducer-boxes that were dotted about the red-leaded steel frame. Slowly, the Japanese grasped what the whole project meant. After the immense crystal was lifted by cables into its “saddle” ten feet over the core building, and the power-grid laid out, they could tell by the megawatts involved that
such power
could destroy a city.

Now, as the two dozen morning shift workers went about their work with welding arc and wrench, or mini-soldering gun and tweezer, the silver elevator door hissed open.

One nervous Russian welder, realizing that the opening door meant that Colonel Killov was arriving, misaligned his welding arc and shorted out a cable. Sparks flew as he dropped his torch and fell backward onto a pile of circuit breakers. In this ungainly position, bent over the pile on his back, the unfortunate Soviet gazed up at the gaunt pale face of the skull.

Killov intoned, “Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you.” The black-coveralled man twisted and scrambled to his feet and saluted. “I—I’m fine!”

“
Too bad,
clumsy fool!” Killov shouted, slapping him hard. “You destroyed some of my valuable equipment!” Killov eyed Nakashima and winked. The muscular Japanese chauffeur knew what his master meant. He stepped forward, delivering a series of arm smashes that sent the careless man reeling back until he teetered on the very edge of the unrailed roof. Then Nakashima delivered an eye jab with two of his leather-gloved left fingers and kicked the man’s feet out from under him with a swipe of his left boot. Nakashima listened to his long anguished scream with a smile. Then, when a dull thud ended the scream, Killov turned. “Any more of you wish to make mistakes?”

Everyone got
real
busy.

Killov walked around inspecting their frantic efforts, taking out a note pad and jotting down the numbers on their coveralls. His eyes narrowed if he saw anything that looked behind schedule.

Overall, he was pleased at the progress; but the wind was getting quite heavy and the fast moving dark clouds above looked sodden. Killov wouldn’t let weather slow the work!

“Nakashima, let’s go downstairs. I’m sure they’ll be assiduous now.”

Dismissing Nakashima, Killov put on his jet black kimono and slouched in his leather recliner. He stared out the floor-to-ceiling window at Mount Fuji steaming and sending down a rivulet of fiery lava in the distance.

What
awful
destructive power, he thought. If there was such a thing as reincarnation, he could only wish to come back as a volcano! But he would have volcanic power in this life, too. The geothermal-generated power that would soon be channeled into the ZILCH crystal would make him a
volcano among men!
He would rule the world from this island. His army of 500 elite soldiers could easily handle the timid people—or . . . could they?

Killov worried. Perhaps the troops were his weak link— Were his men being corrupted by this soft life? The only appeal this culture had for him was the ancient and little adhered to veneration of death. The lure of this island for the soldiers was different, namely the vice of the
Ginza’s
“floating world”: prostitutes of a hundred varieties, gambling, drugs—all hidden in the night. But vice here was all handled so cleanly and tidily! Just like the Japanese to organize and ritualize sex and perversion! Such simple pleasures for his men seemed no threat. Indeed, it kept his troops happy. But . . . when his soldiers roamed the alleys, were they being subtly imbued with philosophy? If so, they might start thinking for themselves. He didn’t want his KGB to become a bunch of damned Zen monks or pacifists! They had to be the backbone of the
vast
army that he would recruit worldwide, once he had demonstrated his power!

He smiled. Why worry? The soldiers had no capability whatsoever to grasp thoughts! The could only grasp
women
or
saki bottles.

But better to be safe . . .

He snapped his fingers and a guard goose stepped from an alcove and saluted.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Demitrov. I want you to order my KGB to have no more than two hours a day out of barracks compound when not on duty!”

“Sir!” The guard went off again.

Killov was pleased. That will keep them limited to just a quick fuck—no lingering discussions of cherry blossoms or Zen to poison the mind!

Once the guard left, the intercom that connected him to Nakashima’s room lit up. When Killov opened the channel, Nakashima’s deep voice came on. “Master, could I see you? I have been meditating upon the words of Mushima, and upon the
—ultimate.
I would like to ask you—something.”

“Very well, come here,” Killov said, flicking the button on his chair’s arm to the off position.

Shortly, Nakashima appeared.

“Well, what is it?” The deep-set eyes gazed unblinkingly at the Japanese.

“Master?” He fell at Killov’s feet. “Please grant me one request?”

“Perhaps—what is it?” Killov said cautiously.

“You who understands death, you are my teacher—will you
kill
me and cut my head off . . . when it pleases you . . .
whenever
it pleases you to do so.”

“I will,” Killov agreed. “But not for a while. I need you.”

“Thank you, master. Please dismember my body and scatter it.”

“I will do so for you my—friend.” Still, Killov was unaccustomed to speaking the word
friend.
It sounded strange on Killov’s lips, but he was deeply moved. No one had
ever
asked him for death—when they weren’t being tortured. “I will gladly do so, Nakashima, my
—friend.”

Thirteen

U
nder cover of darkness the five persons that Rockson had chosen for the recon mission paddled ashore in a canoe. The five were Detroit, Scheransky—some fluent Russian might be called for—Archer, Murf and Rock himself. Rockson was amazed by how efficiently the Polynesian war paddles cut water and propelled them forward, yet made no splashing noise. The outrigger made it through rough surf an ordinary canoe never would have survived. They pulled it ashore and hid the craft under some fallen palm fronds. They had made landfall unobserved—or at least it seemed so.

“Farther down the beach,” Rock said, “I spotted a lone house. We make for the house—try to surprise whoever’s inside.”

Murf nodded, holding his explosive trident up above the splashing surf. “I’m game.” The others, too, voiced their eagerness. They slapped the safeties off on their shotpistols, unbuttoned their knife-sheaths and smeared black masker on their cheeks. Five minutes later they were outside the darkened cabin.

Archer kicked the roughly cut door off its hinges, and the Americans rushed in with raised weapons, surprising a frail Japanese man in his bed.

To the bare-chested man, the hulking figure of Archer and his violent companions must have been a fright. He got out of bed only to frantically crawl under the straw mattress, whimpering.

Rock’s keen eyes swept the single room. Moonlight trickled through two uncurtained windows, giving light. No one else was there.

“He’s unarmed—and plenty scared!” Rockson shouted. “Put down your weapons.”

The Doomsday Warrior went over to a candle, struck a wooden match and lit it. Carefully, as the warm glow lit up the single room, the man crawled, shivering, from under the mattress. He said something like “Ei?”

“Friend,” Rock stated, holstering his shotpistol, “you needn’t fear us.”

“Engrish?” The man’s voice quavered, “You no Soviet? You speak Engrish?”

“Yes. We’re Americans.”

Rockson calmed the Japanese. Over the next twenty minutes the man—he was a fisherman named Nakai—told about how the Russian soldiers had taken over the city at the other side of the island two months ago.

“Even though there was little resistance, the Russians were brutal. Now they exploit the people there and are doing something bad to the great tower. The invaders have no use for us poor scattered fishermen on this side of New Tokyo Island. Still, it is good a dangerous area of hot lava and pits separate me from the killers!”

Rockson got the amazing story of New Tokyo. Then he asked, “Is there anyone in the city we might talk to—someone who will help us defeat the invaders?”

“The man you want to see,” said the fisherman firmly, pointing out toward a window that opened onto a slaggy wasteland, “is Chimura-san. He very old and wise, and he is a member of the city’s council. He lives at the first house on the other edge of the wasteland. He even has a secret, large cave you can use. But you must be careful crossing the wasteland, especially in the dark. There are geysers of hot steam, and lava pits there.”