Doomsday Warrior 06 - American Rebellion (20 page)

There was a narrow walkway around the perimeter of the dome, designed and built years earlier when the heat output of the volcano was a third of its present volume. Rockson looked at the stone steps leading to it through the rising clouds and gulped. It was going to be hot out there. But he didn’t know how hot. Leading the way, the Doomsday Warrior stepped up onto the three-foot wide walk and started walking cautiously forward. It was like going into a steambath on the sun. The heat gauges on their belts doubled within seconds as the rest of the repair expedition followed behind, their faces reddening inside their masks, their breath coming in short quick bursts even with the oxygen feed. They could see down through the curtains of steam to a burning glow far below, could feel the raw power of nature course through their bones. And it made them feel like ants—mere nothings compared to the sheer screaming energy that raged beneath their feet. Out of this man had been born, and back into it he would someday go. Each prayed it wouldn’t be today.

The going was very slow as the years of rising moisture had deposited a layer of grease on the walk, making it as slippery as wet moss. And those who reached out to grab hold of the iron railing that ran alongside the stone path pulled their hands back in pain as the super-heated metal singed their thick workgloves. But after nearly an hour of slipping and sliding they made it all the way around to the other side and down onto a flat rock plateau filled with heavy machinery and cables running off in every direction. Rogers immediately rushed over to the computerized safety timer and checked it. But after twenty minutes of testing various circuitries he could find nothing wrong.

“It’s got to be the main feed,” he told Rockson. “over here.” He led them to a thickly shielded cable nearly a foot thick that ran out the back of the computer transmitter and followed it toward the volcano searching for breaks. He had gone about forty feet when he stopped in his tracks. “Rock,” he said pointing down at the ground, “it’s been severed right in half.” The cable lay there on the rocky ground, thousands of wires poking out of its dismembered body. Rogers walked to the edge of the volcano and peered down. The other end lay on an outcropping about thirty feet below, with a large boulder resting on top of it.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered as he stared down.

“Can’t we just cut off that section and reconnect the other part which looks like it comes back up about fifty feet to the right?” Rogers glanced over to the direction Rockson was pointing to see the other section of cable snaking its way back up onto the plateau.

“No can do Rock,” the head tech said grimly. “The thing just reaches itself—no slack. And the electrical supply warehouse back in C.C. is under about a million tons of rock. Won’t be dug out for weeks, maybe months. No, I’m afraid,” he said, his lips growing even drier, “that we’re going to have to go down and get that baby.” The men of the Rock Squad and the technicians all stared down into the flaming hell with a sinking sensation in their stomachs.

“First, let’s try to just pull the goddamned thing out,” Rock said, leading the men to where the cable once again rose out of the pit. “Archer, give it the old one-two.” The huge near-mute, wrapped his arms around the cable and pulled back with all his strength. Muscles the size of cantaloupes ballooned up along his massive arms as he strained with every fibre of his being. But nothing happened. The boulder on the downed cable rested as if claiming it as its prey.

“Well,” Rock said slowly, “I guess we’re going to have to go down there.” Every man volunteered at the same instant.

“Thanks guys,” the Doomsday Warrior said, “but I’m going to have to pull rank and volunteer myself—and Archer here. His bulldozer abilities may come in handy down there.”

“And me,” Rogers spoke up. “You’re going to have to handle that cable very carefully so as not to destroy the inner wiring, if it isn’t already crushed flat. You’ll need direction—ergo I’m coming along for the ride.”

Rogers went and dragged a portable collapsible magna/steel ladder from a storage shed and lowered it over the side of the dome, attaching its upper support rungs to the iron handrail that ran around the perimeter of the crater. Rockson tested the ladder, yanking it hard, and then went over the side, slowly lowering himself step by rickety step as the ladder swayed back and forth beneath his weight. If it was hot up top, once he actually entered the path of the rising steam and heat it was almost unbearable. He felt as if his body was going to explode, the blood and flesh bubbling right out of him. There was no way they could take more than a few minutes of this.

He reached the ledge, about three yards long by a yard wide upon which rested the torn cable and its guardian boulder. Archer followed next, the ladder groaning and stretching out slightly beneath his massive weight, then Rogers until all three men could barely fit on the outcrop. It was as if they were in the volcano itself, partaking of the mysteries of its primal energies. The lava far below churning like a hurricane of starfire, the heat and steam rose in such force that they could almost reach out and touch its physical presence, and the walls around them vibrated with deep shudders that shook their very bones. Rogers got down on his hands and knees and peered under the two ton boulder, to see just what the damage was. After a few seconds he rose and put his mouth against Rock’s ear, screaming over the freight train roar going past them.

“It’s better than I’d hoped. The cable was neatly severed—only about six inches of it has been destroyed. The boulder is pointed at the bottom, one edge resting right in a small hole. If we could push it straight out, I think we’ll be all right.” Archer got around toward the back of the almost egg-shaped 7-foot high boulder while Rock and Rogers went to each side.

“One, two, three,” Rock yelled out and they all heaved with every bit of their strength. The boulder seemed to budge perhaps a half an inch and then settled back. They tried again, breathing deeply and then on three, exhaling and pushing to their limit.

Rogers’ hand slipped suddenly on the outer edge and he flew forward toward the bubbling hell pit. Rockson saw the motion and in a flash let go of the immense piece of granite and swung his arm out trying to grab the falling technician. Somehow Rogers’ hand swung out as he went past and made contact with Rockson’s fingers. He hung on the very edge of the precipice, his body hanging out over the fires below held only by three fingers of the Doomsday Warrior’s outstretched right hand. But the workglove he wore was meant to be used as a heat shield and protection for the skin below—not as a supporter of 200 pounds plus of weight. Slowly, before both men’s horrified eyes, the seams in the wrist part of the glove began giving way inch by nylon-stitched inch. Then it parted—parted the division between life and death. The glove ripped free of Rogers’ hand and he fell backward into the murderous smoke and steam.

“Jesus God,” Rock muttered inside his mask as he watched the head technician disappear down into the burning depths. He couldn’t even hear the screams above the tornado-like roar. “What a fucking way to go,” he spat out in disgust. The image of Rogers splashing into the white hot lava sea below came into his head and he quickly pushed it away. There were a lot better ways a man could die.

“Arrrcheer feeeel siiick,”
the Freefigher giant groaned out to Rockson as he turned back. It was too hot, too damned hot. They’d be dead in minutes. He looked up at Archer who towered above his own 6' 3" frame and spoke with slow firm words.

“We’ve got to do this, Archer. You understand what I’m saying. You and me—right now—we’ve got to push this fucker off or it’s over. Just think of that old cow you used to carry around from meadow to meadow so it could graze, that you told me about.”

“Aarrrchheer uuunderrrsttannd, Roockson. Bouulder deead.”
The two Freefighters got around the immense rock and put their legs up against it, both of them getting from behind.

“One, two, three . . .” They both kicked out, slamming into their stone adversary with everything they had. It was like trying to push a mountain, as the thing barely seemed to move. Their muscles tightened into hard balls within their legs, their faces grew redder and redder as if about to burst. But slowly, somehow, impossibly, the boulder began to grudgingly move a fraction of an inch at a time.

“Push, push,” Rockson screamed out, knowing they had only one shot to give it their all. Archer reached down into his guts, down into his mountain-man heritage where one is on one’s own and only the toughest of the tough survived. With a howl of animal pain he summoned up everything within him and shot it out against the boulder. As if now wanting to itself fall into the pit, the huge weight came to an upright position and hovered like a perfectly balanced sculpture. Rockson gave it his shot too, his veins popping out on his thighs and calves like worms burrowing beneath the skin. But it was enough—just enough. The boulder leaned over, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed toward the steam clouds. It fell from the ledge and plummeted down end over end to join its laval relatives below.

Rock and Archer had to fall on their asses and hold on for dear life on the ledge so as not to go over themselves. Then they rose and Rock checked the cable. It didn’t appear to have been further damaged.

“Pull it up,” Rock screamed up to the men above, waving his arms in an upward motion so they’d understand. Like a snake rising into a tree, the long cable ascended the pock-marked volcanic wall.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, pal,” Rock yelled out to Archer who nodded vigorously. They made their way back up the ladder, glad to be back on solid footing. The 300 degrees on the cavern floor seemed like a fall breeze compared to being inside the thing. The four remaining technicians quickly placed the two ends of the split cable together and began rewiring.

“How’s it look?” Rock asked, leaning over.

“About an hour,” Jenkins, the assistant electrical chief said, making the thumbs up. “Century City will have power by tonight.”

Twenty

E
xplosions! All around Rockson. The walls suddenly caved in in a screaming avalanche of boulders and rocks. He dove forward with a powerful kick and hit the dirt in the large cave ahead, rolling over and over on his side. He came up in a half-crouch and looked back. The entire tunnel for a distance of about thirty feet had been sealed in by the collapse. The men—they could all be dead. He rose, and walked slowly forward, making sure that no more of the sky was about to fall down. He came up to the wedge of rocks covered with a curtain of dust that completely filled the tunnel he had just been leading his men through.

“Anyone there?” Rockson yelled at the top of his lungs. Nothing. He yelled again. “Anyone there? Archer? Jenkins?”

Suddenly, he heard a far-off muffled sound. He couldn’t tell what it was, but something. Something human. He began digging with his bare hands, ripping away at the rock wall and throwing debris to the side. It was insane, he knew. It would take days to clear this. But he had no choice. They could be dying right now. He ripped away at the fallen rocks, some of them as big as his chest. His hands quickly turned bloody, his chest scraped and raw as he pushed with every bit of strength he possessed, ready to kill himself like an old workhorse in the process of doing what he had to.

“Rockson!” Rockson’s ears perked up, as he heaved two pineapple-sized chunks of granite off to the side.

“Rockson,” again, a voice coming from behind him. But there was no one else with them, unless more C.C. techs had come. He turned and looked back into the large cavern that opened from out of the tunnel. It was dark, hard to see, lit only by an occasional flickering bulb strung up along the wall. He saw a shadowly shape jump suddenly down from an outcropping about 15 feet up on a far wall and start toward him.

“Who the hell is that?” Rock yelled out, growing apprehensive. He reached for his shotgun pistol.

“Your doom, Ted Rockson,” the voice said back with icy venom dripping like death itself from those two words. A shiver ran down Rockson’s back. This whole thing had been planned—the cave in, but by whom? KGB? Nazis?

He saw the figure emerge from out of the shadows into a streak of hot light. A man, all in black, a Ninja with a mask covering his face. Rockson knew the style instantly just from the ankle to neck costume and the short sword at the side. He had spent years studying the martial arts. Not just application but history and lineage as well. The man looked like the genuine article. He walked forward with a flowing, effortless motion, as he carefully placed each foot ahead of the next, as if stepping on rice paper.

“Look pal, do me a favor,” Rock said, lifting his shotpistol up to waist level. “You can’t even imagine what I’ve been through lately. Wars, amnesia, slavery, swamp monsters. Please. Please do me a favor. Just go home to whoever your master is, Killov or Vassily or the Führer himself. But I’m really not in the mood for fighting.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Rockson,” the voice laughed. “You know you must die—right now. And I will do it.”

“Have it your way,” the Doomsday Warrior said with a slight twitch of his lower lip, as he pulled the trigger on the shotpistol. The huge gun exploded with a dinosaur-like roar and the x-shaped teflon coated shot roared toward the ninja like an express train looking to crash into flesh. But just as suddenly, where the ninja had stood was only a puff of purple smoke and when it cleared he was gone. Rockson edged back to the sheer rock wall behind him, crouching down, his eyes scanning the large natural cavern back and forth like a hawk. His mind ran through every bit of information he could remember about ninja. How they relied on stealth, smoke, and hidden weaponry to accomplish their ends. He and Chen had worked on countering a number of ninja attack styles, but that had been play. This guy was out to kill him.

Suddenly he remembered—their main attack strategy was to come from the rear, flank their opponent and then . . . Rockson looked up—sheer granite nearly fifty feet in the air with virtually no hand or footholds. He was safe there. Where the hell was the bastard?