Doomsday Warrior 19 - America’s Final Defense (16 page)

The shaking and thundering got louder and louder. “Hold onto your gonads, men,” Rock shouted as he fired all the booster rockets full blast. It felt like they were crushed under the weight of a hundred pack-’brids. The saucer unsteadily but rapidly shot away from the earth-orbiting French space station. Soon Rockson was pleased to see the death asteroid looming in the forward visi-screen. Five minutes passed, then ten. The saucer held up, though it shook like Jello.

“Main booster shutdown,” Rockson grunted between clenched teeth as he flicked off the five red switches. The acceleration quickly died down to Earth-normal gravity, and the roar became a low whisper. Rockson unstrapped and bolted over to the rear telescopic viewfinder. It took him only a minute to see something he’d hoped not to see.

“Shit,” Rock exclaimed, “Killov has already passed the space station, he’s spotted us, and he’s gaining on us. He’s opening his missile ports! Ready to fire!”

Cohen asked, “Does Killov know about the asteroid? Doesn’t he realize he should leave us alone, that we’re the only chance to save Earth? Why would he fire at us?”

Rockson said grimly, “Killov’s motives are never clear, but he’s comfortable with destruction. He loves destruction.”

The radar-approach indicator told the story: Killov’s ship was very fast, and soon high-frequency microwaves were washing over the saucer. “Killov’s instruments,” Rock exclaimed, “are scanning us. He’s closing to within missile range! Chen, might as well try some of that LaBarre power again, if you have it. Give us whatever juice you can! Just wait until I get seated—McCaughlin! Can you hear me up in the dome? Did you hear all this?”

The scratchy intercom responded, “Hear you clear, Rock. Don’t you worry. I’ve got the guns pointed aft, and I will fire the minute Killov’s in range.”

Chen was frantically working dials, muttering, “I don’t really know exactly what I’m doing Rock, so hold on. Something is starting to happen.”

The ship shuddered as they all strapped down tight and acceleration built up again. “The boosters are only
strapped
on, Chen,” Rock exclaimed. “Don’t go too fast.”

Chen said, “I can’t control it. I suggest we all pray.”

The acceleration went on for twenty or thirty seconds, then the LaBarre cut out.

Chen said, “That’s all we got. The rest will have to be your game, Rock. Shit— What’s that buzzer sound? What’s that mean?”

“It means,” Rock cursed, “that Killov’s ship has gotten within missile range of us, and that he’s firing those missiles right now.”

Sixteen

R
ockson started taking evasive maneuvers while above him, in the gunnery bubble, Scot McCaughlin focused in the crosshairs on Killov’s spacecraft. He got a bead just as the evil KGBer unleashed a pair of Skosk missiles from the underbelly of his batwing-shaped rocket craft.

“Will you look at that?” Scot exclaimed, quickly moving the crosshairs away from Killov’s ship to keep up with the first of the destructive missiles. “I have to get that missile,” Scot yelled, just as Rockson was yelling about the same thing—to never mind Killov, and get the missile.

Scot’s laser lock started to buzz, and the crosshairs flashed bright red, stayed on the fast-moving Soviet missile. The gun turret swiveled violently, almost unseating the bulky Freefighter, but Scot hung on by squeezing down on the twin triggers. The bucking staccato of the huge .333-caliber slugs leaving the twin barrels made his head feel like it was in a blender. No—in a vise hit with a hammer! There was no soundproofing nor shock-absorbing installed in the gunnery bubble. The man’s mighty arms absorbed the bone-jarring concussions, and Scot just kept firing. Most of his shots sailed off to the right or left of the oncoming missile, which the indicators now said would hit the saucer in ten seconds.

Scot was yelling and cursing now, his trigger fingers bleeding as pulverizing jolts and noise filled his plastisealed turret. He had to keep firing despite the pain, for everyone depended on him, Scot knew. He’d keep at it, even if he broke both arms, even if he grew deaf in the process.

There was a near-fatal flaw in the jerry-rigged ack-ack gun, the disheartened fighter discovered. There was no place for the ejected shell cartridges to collect; the steaming-hot jackets of steel just piled up at his feet. Soon the spent cartridges were interfering with the swivel-electric-mount of the gunner’s chair. Scot kicked the shells away from the chair bottom with his huge combat boots as they piled up, trying to keep the gun mount from fouling and jerking to a screeching halt.

He kept missing. The second missile, which had veered off course, seemed to have refound its bearings.

“Three seconds to impact,” Rockson yelled, but Scot knew that; he just didn’t have time to answer. The Soviet missile grew so close he could see the blinking homing radar dome on the front. It looked like an angry eye of death.

Just 100 yards from the saucer, the .335-caliber shells hit it. It blew up, and the saucer rocked violently. The gunnery bubble took a few shrapnel hits but held. McCaughlin spun the gun, looking for the second missile, and laughed. It was following some big piece of the first missile,
away
from the saucer. Luck!

“I’m mucho glad that wasn’t a nuke-tip job,” Rock said, steering the saucer back on course. “Now get Killov, will you, Scot?”

On board the pursuing batwing rocketship, Killov cursed in a fury. He had expected to shout in elation, but the enemy had destroyed his missiles. Now he’d have to fire the cannons, and the three mini-Snark heat-seeking smart bombs! All at the same time! These little babies would make a much harder target for whoever was manning the big gun on the saucer. Killov was amazed to see what kind of response the American saucer could mount against missiles. Still, he had confidence of victory. The turret-firing ack-ack gun on the saucer made him almost laugh out loud. Killov shouted to his servant, “Tekkamaki, see what they shoot back with? It is a
pop gun.
Prepare to fire all the smart bombs,
and
the cannons, in a continuous salvo. On my command!”

“But sir,” the tiny Japanese servant protested, “that will destabilize us.”

“Just do what I say, before that wily Rockson figures out some other clever damned maneuver on us.”

Killov and Tekkamaki were the only two beings aboard the quickly built rocket. It was actually six rockets, six ICBMs made into one superior spacecraft, using ancient Inca welding secrets. Killov had tracked the American saucer right up from the western United States. He was certain that Rockson was aboard, for he had intercepted some of the Doomsday Warrior’s radio communications with the space Frenchies. Killov had eavesdropped on conversations in which he’d been amazed to hear that the asteroid was going to hit the earth. Amazed, but not displeased. He had begun to formulate a new plan-one that would make him and his faithful servant Tekkamaki the last two people alive in the universe. “He who lives last wins the game.” Didn’t Nietzsche say that? Or was it Saddam? Never mind.

Tekkamaki, who was a samurai by heredity and therefore an armaments expert, hit all the switches. A thousand rounds of explosive cannonballs flung themselves out where Rockson’s saucer had been, and missed. The smart bombs were another matter, though.

Aboard the saucer, McCaughlin was doing his best, but he’d hit only one smart bomb that homed in on the saucer . . . one out of seventeen. Rockson’s quick maneuvers had saved them so far.

“I’m outta ammo,” Scot shouted, as the banging from the big ack-ack gun suddenly ceased. “Rock! If you head 0-900, you can maneuver out of the way of those things—they’re in a cluster.”

“Negative,” Rockson said. “Booster shutdown.” The Doomsday Warrior hung his head in sorrow.

“Thirteen seconds to impact, eleven, ten,” Chen cried out, reading the radar approach indicators, the computer language that spelled out death.

Scheransky turned his head. “So this is it. Let me say it was a great pleasure to serve with you, Commander, and—”

Rockson felt a slight vibration and looked over to Chen, who shouted, “I fixed the LaBarre drive! Hit the main drive thrusters. Now!”

Rockson did, and the saucer shot out of the way of the oncoming smart bombs, easy as pie.

Rockson smiled. “My lord, we have nearly full power; we can do anything. I can run rings around Killov, Maybe we should go back and sail past Killov, and unleash a few shots of our own at him.”

“With what?” McCaughlin called down. “Remember, I’m flat outta ammo.”

“Yeah, I forgot . . .
damn.
Well, we’ll just have to leave him.”

“No,” Chen smiled slyly. “You can do what you want to do. Listen, just go back and get that smart bomb group back on our tail. Keep them close, but not too close.” Chen had an evil grin on his face.

“I get it,” Rock agreed. “Hit him with his own smart bombs.” As his men shouted and yippeed, Rockson expertly maneuvered to approach Killov’s lost armaments. He got them to spot the saucer, then led the smart bombs around full circle and closed on Killov’s batwing rock craft with deadly accuracy. “Just like a game of chicken,” he snickered. “Killov’s gonna have to blink first.”

Killov did blink, leaping to hit Tekkamaki’s control thruster for him. The saucer flitted by them, mere yards away.

“Whew,” Killov said, sagging into the chair again. Then he saw the massive cloud of smart bombs appear on the combat screen. The bombs stalking the saucer had sensed the breath of Killov’s rocket engines and had diverted. They now came straight, at Killov, as he screamed in horror, and let go in his tight leather pants.

Then there was a titanic explosion and all went black.

“What an explosion,” McCaughlin gasped. “Got him good!”

“Killov
dead?”
Archer asked. “Maybe we go back and see?”

“No time,” Rock shouted. “Have to get to Karrak and deflect it. Only four hours, ten minutes ’til doomsday.”

Rockson was satisfied at what he saw in the rear scope: a blasted-open, smoking hulk of torn metal, floating dead in space behind the saucer. No one could have survived that!

Killov awoke floating, his right arm dangling broken behind his back. He couldn’t move it. There was blood floating off from a hole in his face. He tried to suck in air and found there was none. Through blurred eyes he looked around him and saw just stars. The rocket craft was still there, to his left. But to his right there were gaping holes in the control compartment. And he could see the stars. He fumbled to grab a twisted pillar of steel with his good arm, headed his body toward the smoking wreck of the console controls. Not much remained of it. Nothing to use to gain control.

“Tekkamaki! Where are you?” he yelled, as loud as he could, but there was no sound from his swollen purple lips, no air to carry sound. Except for the roaring of the boiling blood in his eardrums, and the trickle noise of blood floating out of his broken nose, all was silent.

What to do? Was this the end? Killov prayed to the Dark One to keep his trust, to let Killov-the-Destroyer live. He frantically searched for something that could help him in the half-light of smoldering plastic and metal. Then his swelling, about-to-explode eyes alighted on an intact door. There was a face in the porthole window. It was Tekkamaki, gesturing violently, egging Killov on. It was his faithful servant telling Killov silently to try to make it closer to the door.

There was
air
there . . . air, and a chance to live. Killov pressed his feet against a twisted girder and took a leap. He flew most of the way over to the door, close enough for Tekkamaki to open the door quickly. There was a rush of air, and then Killov’s sleeve was grabbed. Tekkamaki held on, fought against the wind and the debris to pull Killov in, and then reshut the door.

The pressure built up, and Killov heaved in a breath or two of ice-cold oxygen. The pounds of air pressure increased to bearable proportions. His eyes went back into his bleeding eye sockets. Tekkamaki was saying something. “Best I can do; that’s all the pressure we have. Are you—okay, Your Excellency?”

Killov managed a smile. “For now, yes,” he croaked out of bleeding lips. “What’s the situation? Any control left?”

“We can divert what power we have, sir, to control it from this emergency-capsule room. But the rocket’s main engines are blown off. We are plummeting on toward Karrak without any way to slow down. I’m afraid we’ll break up in its atmosphere in ten or twelve minutes.”

“And Rockson’s saucer? Is it—”

“It’s still intact, I’m sorry to say. It’s heading for Karrak, on a normal path. The Americans will land successfully there in a matter of minutes.”

Killov frowned.

“I’m not a quitter. Tekkamaki. Show me what you have found in this room. Show me the divert controls. We’ll survive. We will.”

Thirty-three seconds before Killov’s blasted hulk of a rocketship was to hit the atmosphere of the asteroid, Killov exclaimed gleefully, “I have partial power on the steering rockets . . . enough to fire them and slow us down a bit.”

Tekkamaki had never seen such a brilliant job of shunting, rewiring, and all-around improving than Killov had made in the past minutes. But would it be enough? The angry oblate ball of death called Karrak rushed at them more and more quickly by the second.