Doomsday Warrior 19 - America’s Final Defense (6 page)

Her squad were all men, stolid Ninja-trained warriors. They didn’t ask any irrelevant questions, just how much force to use, if necessary.

Chen’s wife—the new one, Bing-Ling, a diminutive, sultry-looking beauty, half Chen’s age—was currently Sergeant-at-Arms. Bing-Ling and her five Ninja-trained assistants were probably the most formidable guards the chamber had ever possessed. She nevertheless frowned when she saw that she was summoned down to the podium.

When she heard the chairman demand she go fetch Rockson, she was most hesitant. “To go and seize the Doomsday Warrior, to place him under what amounts to virtual house arrest, as you suggest,” she replied coolly, “is probably not a good idea.”

But when the chairman insisted, Bing-Ling did not refuse. Instead, she said she’d obey, but would have to first spend a few moments giving detailed instructions to her assistants; instruction as to “procedure and protocol” for arresting the military leader of the city.

The chairman nodded and said, “Well, then, make it quick! Then go get him. By force if necessary.”

Bing-Ling hoped that Rock would appear before they had to go get him. She hated McGrugle for his imperiousness.

Finally the delegates were settling down. And the chairman was glaring at her. She sighed and said to her men, “I guess we have to go. Let’s search the least likely places first.”

Suddenly Rock and his five men strode into the auditorium. The roar of the crowd rose again, and Willis McGrugle banged the gavel and demanded the delegates be seated and be quiet. The TV cameras scanning the vast room for the benefit of distant free cities zoomed in on Rockson. Videos of the proceedings were being sent to 120 or so settlements scattered throughout the Rocky Mountains, and even to some of the newer unfortified towns that had sprung up in the Great Plains since the final peace treaty between Moscow and America. All those towns and cities each had a vote on any matter discussed in the C.C. Chamber.

Rockson and his men took the six seats reserved for them. Rock looked around. Not many smiling faces. He sensed a long debate—democracy was a creaky machine, even if it was a good one. It had better go well this time.

“About time you got here!” McGrugle shouted. “Where’s Schecter?”

Schecter walked in just as he asked that question, found a seat, and leaned back with his big hands behind his balding head.

“Well, then, we’re
all
here.” the chairman said acidly. Now, let’s—”

“Mr. Chairman,” Rockson said, standing up. “I make a motion that debate be limited to under one hour.”

That motion caused an uproar, but Rock had the floor and the motion was put to a vote. Thanks to the votes of the far-flung delegates watching the proceedings via video, all of them weary of C.C.’s endless raucous debates, the motion was narrowly carried. The tally board lit up with 230 yes votes, 208 no votes, and a few abstentions. Rock was relieved.

Despite the dour stares when he came in, he still had a few friends among the delegates, on both sides of the aisles—doves and hawks. The doves, Rock knew, never forgave him for his secret session proposal last year suggesting America store away a few ICBMs in violation of the peace treaty, “to counter any possible threat to the RSA from renegade Soviet groups like Killov’s.”

And the hawks were angry at him too, for Rockson had been in the forefront of the group that insisted that Vassily, the moderate ruler of the Russians, could in fact be trusted. To their chagrin, Rock had pushed through many of the earlier partial nuclear disarmament treaties.

The only delegates firmly aligned with Rockson were Guzzens, Ferguson, and Tomita, the so-called owls—men wise enough to want peace, but wise enough to keep an ace in the hole, just in case of an emergency.

Like now, Rock thought grimly. Too bad the owls hadn’t prevailed.

The chair called on Schecter. He strode up to the podium, the lights were lowered, and he made his dramatic presentation.

The AV equipment projected astro-maps and computer-generated data showing that Karrak would intersect with the earth in three weeks. Schecter spent a lot of time on technical data, and even projected his extensive hand calculations onto the lowered screen. It was far too complex for all but a handful of the delegates to understand. But all in all, the presentation was convincing. The photos the venerable scientist finished up with were the best. Karrak was shown spinning like a battered baseball hurled by a devilish pitcher. More stunning high-power pics of Karrak through the Schmidt telescope showed some details of its tortured surface and strange geysers.

But people booed and even guffawed in disbelief when Schecter explained that there was no possibility of a mistake in his calculations. The evidence that Karrak would soon destroy the earth was too awesome to believe, perhaps. Maybe those present just refused to believe they could all become scattered atoms in such a brief time.

Someone rose to ask Schecter a question that must have been on everyone’s mind. “Surely,” the soft-spoken man said, “there are things yet unknown about this—object?”

“Yes,” Schecter admitted, “though we know the course of the death asteroid, there are lots of things we don’t know about Karrak. For instance, I have just determined it has an atmosphere, though theoretically it shouldn’t. I can’t explain this fact—yet. And there are dark, squarish spots on the asteroid that look artificial. And some—er—lines too regular to be fissures.”

“Get to the point, sir,” Mary Smart, one of Rock’s bitterest enemies, stood up to shout out. “What do you want, Schecter? A medal for making everyone nervous for no purpose?”

“No,” Schecter glowered back, “I want
action.
Rockson and his men are prepared to take on a space voyage. They will go to Karrak to plant a nuclear device to deflect the asteroid.”

There was pandemonium in the auditorium. When the tumult died down, Schecter continued. “Oh, I know it will be the first space voyage to another world since the Apollo missions back in the twentieth century, but by the time we’re ready to launch, Karrak will be closer than the moon. And Karrak has less gravitational pull, so it will be easier to land there.”

“Outrageous! Preposterous!” shouted some. The gavel banged again and again. Then the wily old chairman smiled disingenuously and added his own caustic remark. “Doctor Schecter, there are no spaceships available, are there? All of this is just—talk—a fiction!”

Schecter shook his head. “There is one spacecraft. We have one rocket that can reach Karrak. The old MILIS—Maximum Inertial Lift-Intensive System. It is out in a NASA storage area in the desert some miles from here. It has been maintained over the years by some Americans interested in the task of—er—preserving history. It is in excellent shape. Rath’s intelligence unit assures me of this.”

Smart again raised her hand, and as Schecter drew breath into his red face, the Chairman recognized her. “I say no to this nonsense,” Mary Smart continued, “and I think you delegates all agree. The good Lord would
never
destroy the earth! Why, this presentation just reflects the scientific community’s disbelief in God and in our Savior. To even
think
that such a thing could happen! As far as this MILIS rocket is concerned,” she smirked, “it’s a pure fabrication. An attempt, possibly, to expropriate a mass of
our
money for some hairbrained science project. Schecter simply wants our money to renew space travel!—that’s what this is about,” she said, a touch of paranoia in her voice.

Schecter responded by asking that the lights again be lowered. He quickly projected several pictures in a row. “These,” he said, “were taken by an Intel Team. It shows the spacecraft in question lying on its well-maintained launch rails in an underground hangar.” There were several oddly dressed women shown in the picture; perhaps they were, Rock thought, technicians servicing the craft. Then the scientist said, “Like it or not, Mary, it’s real. And as for God, well, He has given us the chance to save ourselves—if we’re not stupid. It is a fact that Earth will be destroyed in less than three weeks unless we act tonight to stop it. Listen to reason! It doesn’t have to be the end of the world—we have the ability to travel up into space; we have Commander Rockson to fly the spacecraft; we have—”

“Poppycock,” Mary interjected as the lights went up again. There was heavy applause at her remark.

“Do any of you have any brains you can loan Miss Clark?” Schecter fumed. That closed the bitch’s trap for a moment at least, Rock mused. She reddened quite a bit. Schecter, in conclusion, said, “I propose that we turn these proceedings over to Ted Rockson, whom you all know.”

“Very well,” said the Chairman. “Why not get this nonsense over with!”

There was scattered applause as Rock rose and strode to the podium. Schecter handed him the mike and Rockson, a man of few words, scanned the audience with his mismatched blue eyes, pushed his long hair off his forehead, and got right to the point. “I want,” he intoned grimly, “a blanket authorization to appropriate all materials I need for the space flight. I want blanket authority to use the MILIS, for it might be a violation of our arms treaty to launch a rocket without notifying the Russians. There just isn’t time to have debate with the Russians. And I want a nuclear device, a bomb. Besides my volunteer space team, I need a team of scientists and technicians to go with me to the rocket, reset the systems on it, and help launch it. Every second counts. We have to save the earth. Do the responsible thing: give me what I need, and I promise you I will not fail.”

There was a stunned silence—until Mary Smart was recognized.

“Aren’t you being just a bit overdramatic?” Miss Smart said, smiling like a cat with a bird in its paws. “Are you the savior? Have you, Rockson, become such a megalomaniac?”

“Here, here,” someone shouted, and applause erupted. Rockson rolled his eyes up as she continued. “All these theatrics aside, we do know how Mister Rockson likes to be the center of attention.” She smiled patronizingly at the Doomsday Warrior. “And,” she added, “his absurd proposal to launch a huge missile to God-knows-what purpose could mean war for the United States. Oh, I’m willing to allow that the rocket might fly. And that there might be some danger from some—space object. But I suggest we appoint a committee, a task force of experts, to study the alleged problem. They could, say, report back in a month—”

One man had been out of his seat and pacing up and down the main aisle, his hands knotted behind his back, as she spoke. It was as if he was being tortured by every word Mary Smart said. Now he burst out,
“Shut up,
you old bat!”

Rock looked over and saw that the skinny man was C.J., the Kennel’s main technician. C.J. was the expert responsible for the fine breed of horses that Century City’s warriors rode. The delegates of all the cities throughout the RSA knew of C.J.’s great work, of his great love of animals—and people. Generally he was mild mannered—but not now. “We don’t have a fucking month, you silly cunt! Now sit down and let Rockson talk!”

A set of hisses in response to C.J.’s curses came largely from the women delegates in the ultra-feminist contingent.

The gavel banged and banged. The Chairman said, “That’s enough from you, C.J. You’re out of order.”

“You’re damned right I am,” C.J. fumed. “But so’s Mary’s brain.” But C.J. took his seat, when Bing-Ling’s Ninja guards pushed him down into it.

Mary glared over at C.J. Rock smiled as C.J. stared Mary Smart down.

“Let’s hear the rest of Rockson’s nonsense,” the Chairman yawned, “so that we can all vote and get back to bed.”

Rockson ignored the biting tone and said, “In order to get my men and material quickly out to the storage hangar, I need one of the big C-98 transport jets. Of course, I need a letter of authorization from the council to use the rocket. Though I doubt the persons maintaining it will refuse to relinquish it to my use. If they do deny me use of the rocket, despite the order from the council, I reserve the right to seize the rocket.”

“Force?” Reverend Casters shouted out. “Now he wants to kill loyal Americans as well as destroy himself in some old rocket. This man is mad, I tell you!”

The auditorium was roaring with hisses and boos as Rockson vehemently said, “We must use any means necessary.” The video screens around the walls of the chamber were roaring out
support
however. The present-by-video delegates made comments like, “Give Rockson a chance!” and “Rock is a hero—don’t criticize his motives!”

Rockson realized that the far-flung cities represented on the video screens had at least as many votes as Century City’s chamber did. He decided he had a rising sympathy vote going for him out in the ’burbs. With a wily grin, Rock said, “I can see that anything I tell you here is just taken as a wildman’s joke. The hell with you who won’t see the truth. Come on. Let’s have a vote now. The rest of the country won’t stand for sniveling cowardice. God bless America. God bless men who would take action when action is necessary. I speak of the brave, loyal delegates in the other free cities . . . people who aren’t spoiled by luxury living!”

“Hold it! Hold it!” the chairman said, slamming down the gavel. “First, we have to have a motion that is recognized by the chair. By
me.
There are parliamentary procedures. You’re calling a vote out of order! A speaker can’t make a motion—only someone recognized for that purpose. And then only if the motion is seconded. Well, how would you know much about Roberts’ Rules of Order, or democratic procedure? You are a blunt-headed military type, Rockson—the exact opposite of a calm, democratic person.”

Rock looked to the video screens. The sound was turned low, but you could see all those rough and ready rural-delegates storming and fuming at the criticism of the military, which they adored. Rock
had
their outer city votes now.

“Cowards like you, McGrugle, can sit and laugh at soldiers and airmen,” Rock sneered, “but it’s a fact that you’re alive and able to speak your silly words because of us military men. The military is responsible for the very existence of Century City,” Rock snapped.