Doomsday Warrior 09 - America’s Zero Hour (23 page)

Rockson carefully climbed up a mound of debris hoping the cyborg’s radar didn’t scan
up.
But it was the wrong move. The cyborg’s head tilted up when Rock dislodged something. It started climbing, sure-footed, swiftly. Rock was some thirty feet above the metal man. He looked in vain for some weapon the snow-covered trash might yield up to him. The only thing he had left to throw at Chrome was his own body. Where should he aim his steel heels—where? Then he had it in a flash. Chrome had human arrogance, human cruelty—he had a human
brain.
And a brain is connected to a body by the spine—at the back of the neck!

Well,
why not?

Bracing himself, Rockson tried to judge the distance between himself and the cyborg, then hurtled downward at his foe feet first.

Chrome picked up the movement above him, but dodged too late. Rockson’s steel-heeled boots struck the cyborg at the junction of neck and spine, snapping the joints that held the armor there in place. Something happened; the metal man’s mouth opened but made no sound. He jerked, his good arm thrashed around, uncontrolled. Chrome even hit himself with it.

Rockson fell heavily to the ground, rolling as best he could with the blow to protect his shattered ribs. He looked back at the teetering giant, expecting him to turn and finish him finally. There was a
whooshing
sound above, a bright light—a plane!

Red sparks shot from the back of Chrome’s head, lighting the night. As the wind drove more of the flying snow into the crack, the electrical reactions grew greater until, finally, the cyborg toppled to the ground. At first he flopped wildly, but finally Chrome settled down into a frozen pose so twisted that Rockson knew the metal man had been wrong.

Chrome could feel pain. And Chrome
could
die.

Twenty-Four

T
he jet sent to rescue Killov came in like a bat out of hell, low over the ice, its landing lights flooding the makeshift airstrip. Killov waved and jumped up and down as the jet bumped down the tarmac and its tires caught, and it reversed power on its two immense ramjet engines.

“Here, I am
here,”
Killov screamed, rushing to the plane. Already the cockpit was opening. When he climbed atop the wing, a hand assisted Killov up into the cockpit’s second seat. Rockson ran toward the jet, limping, struggling for every breath. But Killov’s rescue jet let out a fifty-foot blue exhaust flame and took off nearly straight up.

Rockson fell to his knees, his head lowered. Defeat. After all this, defeat. The fifth missile was headed toward Century City, and Killov had escaped.

Hopeless.

But wait! Rock heard another screaming noise in the blackness above. A second jet came roaring down the runway. It was a jet similar to the one that had picked up Killov.

Inside the second jet, Lieutenant Minhoff hit the brakes. He was confused. Was it
he
that was supposed to land and rescue Commander Killov, or was it Dersky? He wasn’t sure, so he had made the decision to land, reasoning that if he was wrong, he could always take off again, and if
his
plane was supposed to pick up Killov, he’d better do it. It was the wrong decision.

Rockson didn’t know what the hell this second jet was about, but it was not the time to look a gift jet in the intake.
“Here,
comrade,” Rockson yelled in his best Russian, pouring on the leg motion to reach the jet. He was already on the wing as the pilot turned his flashlight on him. “Commander, I—wait, you’re not—”

“Dustevedanya,”
Rockson snarled, hammering the pilot in the face, and pulling him out of his seat. He ripped the helmet and dangling oxy mask from the man’s face and threw him off the wing with a powerful heave. Rockson donned the helmet and assumed the still-warm leather seat. He manually pulled the cockpit glass closed and snapped the seals.

But now what? What the hell kind of jet was this? How the hell did it work?

He frantically looked about the Russian-labeled buttons, switches, and dials of the control panel. He felt the stick. He had studied Soviet planes; the Freefighters had most of the blueprints back in Century City, the result of a vast network of spies who had infiltrated Soviet fortresses throughout the United States.

Rock’s near-photographic memory struggled to figure out which instrumentation he was facing. In a flash he realized he was staring at the control panel of an Ilkin-33 trainer jet.
Of course
—that’s why it had two seats, one for the novice pilot.

Trainer jets were easier to fly, and they had computers to take over and correct deadly mistakes. Sometimes voice-activated computers. If only he could turn it on. Or even find the damned thing. There were two red switches, labeled one and two, over to the left. A precious minute had already gone by. He had to do something. Muttering “Here goes nothing,” Rockson hit the two switches.

The computer said “Activated flight sequence, automatic,” in clear Russian, spoken by a female.

Rock sighed. There was a chance—he had flown a computer-assisted jet once before. The details of the control panel, most of which had no identification on its mass of switches and meters, came to him. But his heart sank as he realized something. This was an older model Mach 3 Soviet training jet. It was a “jump-jet.” Not built for immense speed, but for short takeoffs and landings. The Doomsday Warrior found the ignition switch to the far right. He flicked it and instantly the engine whined. He trimmed the flaps, and pushing the stick forward, he began taxiing back down the runway. He hit the “biff” switch. It was the control that swung the cantilevered engine to an almost-downward position, for added boost. He felt the huge mass tremble under his seat and lock into position. He shot forward gathering speed on the short runway, hit the afterburner switch, sending a huge flame of blue out behind the jet. The jump-jet shuddered aloft.

“Instructions?” asked the computer. Rock was about to say, “Intercept jet on radar,” for the blip of Killov’s jet had appeared on the screen. But Rock saw a bigger, higher blip appear on the circular screen.
The missile,
heading south. The thing was an atmosphere-eating cruise missile. If it were a ballistic missile it would be too far away to chase. But it was an air-eater, just like the jet, only unmanned.

Rockson shouted out in very broken Russian, “Plot and commence intercept course on missile, radar screen Vector Eight.”

The jet rose through the overcast clouds, the acceleration pinning Rock to the seat.

“Fire all weapons when missile is in range,” Rock grunted, his face distorted, his tongue heavy, from the velocity increase.

“Confirmed,” the computer intoned.

Rockson asked the computer for time-to-intercept and estimated time of range acceptable for air-to-air destruct sequence.

“One hour four minutes,” replied the computer.

My God, Rock thought, this jet
can
catch the missile. But over what area of North America?

The acceleration reached maximum and the jet leveled off at eight thousand feet.

“What location will the air-to-air destruct take place?” Rock asked breathlessly.

A brief pause, then the computer spoke, “Latitude forty-five degrees twelve minutes, longitude one hundred seventy-five degrees twenty minutes west.”

“Project map of area,” Rock said. A second screen lit, and a map, named and numbered in Russian, showed a blinking red dot in south Oregon. My God, he’d intercept the missile over Dennison City, a Freefighter town of twenty thousand souls. The antimatter explosion would destroy Dennison.

“Computer,” Rock asked, “can we intercept missile fifty miles further north, over the high mountains?”

A pause. “Only by lightening our load.”

“Explain. What can be dumped?”

“Only weapons are available for dump.”

Great, Rock thought, just great! But then he had an idea. “Computer, do we have to drop
all
weapons to increase speed to intercept missile fifty miles north of intercept point projects?”

“Will calculate. Please wait.”

According to Scheransky, the missile warhead would make a five-mile crater, and its blast effect would be felt forty-five miles from the explosion. Rock had to destroy it far over the barren mountains north of Dennison somehow.

“Calculated,” said the computer, “all but one air-to-air missile must be dropped now to enable craft to intercept missile at new designation.”

“Drop all but one air-to-air weapon,” Rock ordered. He felt a thud. The plane seemed to gain some speed. The red dot showing intercept location started slowly crawling north on the projected map. Rock wanted to put some more space between the explosion and Dennison.

“Can we get more speed to intercept the missile?” he asked.

“Not possible at this altitude.”

“Then change altitude to obtain maximum possible speed,” Rock ordered without hesitating.

The jet dove with heart-stopping suddenness. In seconds they were through the clouds and screaming straight at the ground. He fully expected to crash, yelling, “Pull up, pull up!”

The jet leveled off. Rock couldn’t believe it—they were about twenty feet off the frozen tundra moving at 2876 kilometers per hour, according to the gauge.

He tried to calm his pounding heart and gasped, “Show new intercept point.” The screen showed the red dot intercept-location point creeping north to eighty miles north of Dennison. Barren high plateaus. There was never a happier man. But Rock’s smile changed to a frown. Something unpleasant had just crossed his mind. “Computer, how close do I have to be to fire the air-to-air missile at target?”

Instantly the mechanical female voice answered, “Twenty miles.”

Twenty miles! But the blast effect was fifty miles wide! He would have to die, in order for Century City to live. Well, so be it, he thought grimly. “Continue on course,” he said. “Fire when in range.”

He let himself relax in the seat, a relaxation born of the knowledge that he was as good as dead. At least it would be just him. His mind seized on rambling regrets: Simple things, like the fact that he’d never get to give Rona and Kim their neon-rabbit fur robes. But maybe the Rock team would take them back and hand them to the women, and say Rock had bought it for them. Sort of a last gift, a last memory.

Outside the cockpit, buttes and mesa rock were going by on all sides like blades of a fan. The jet maneuvered automatically to the left or right with incredible timing to avoid them, like a steel needle through a garment of solid rock. He glanced at the clock ticking off his life-seconds. Eleven minutes to intercept.

Major Mernik was staring at the Oregon Air Defense radar screens. He had been in the subterranean Monolith war room ever since Killov—who’d been thought dead—had called on air-to-ground radio from above Canada. Mernik had been dragged out of the bathtub and given Killov’s order.

“Rockson is heading into Oregon airspace, pursuing a cruise missile. He must be stopped. Scramble all interceptors, prepare anti-air missiles. Shoot any aircraft entering your airspace down!”

But Rockson should have been here by now. Where was he? Mernik wished he knew more about this cruise missile Killov talked of. What was its target? If it was coming close enough to the base to appear on this screen, wasn’t
he,
Mernik, personally in danger? Yet as much as he feared the missile, he feared Killov more. He lit another cigarette and stared at the sweep hand of the radar screen.
There!
There was the cruise missile, moving at great speed. Heading due south. The minute Rockson appeared on the screen, the interceptors, which could go 4500 kilometers per hour—twice as fast as most jets—would be scrambled into the air. The six fighters were stocked with air-to-air missiles. They had excellent pilots. Killov’s orders would be carried out.

Another blip appeared at the edge of the screen. He waited for it to reappear—but it didn’t. What the
hell
. . . He called to the technician at the controls. “What happened to blip two?”

“It’s flying incredibly low, Major. Too low for the screen to pick it up sometimes. It’s on approximately the same course as that missile, eight minutes behind it.

Mernik yelled, “Call the interceptor squadron, get them airborne. Tell them to fly high, find the jet, and dive down and finish it off. How low
is
he flying?”

“Twelve to fourteen meters off the ground, sir. Much less in spots . . .”

“Incredible. The terrain out there is rocky, there are canyons, hills; the man is mad.”

The major rushed to the elevator, took it to the surface—a gut-wrenching twenty-second ride. He staggered out onto the desert surface. He heard the whoosh of the six interceptor jets as they roared off. Russia’s best pilots, armed for bear. Six against one. Speed twice that of the Doomsday Warrior’s jet.

Would they be
enough?
If Mernik failed . . . his lips went dry. He couldn’t fail—he wouldn’t fail.

He called his personal chopper pilot over from where he stood at the black-painted command chopper. “Dersh, prepare a flight plan into the east, to the nearest Zhabnov-controlled fortress.”

“But—”

“Do
it. If this intercept fails, neither you nor I wish to face Killov’s wrath, is that not right?”

The man paused for a second, then snapped out, “Yessir!”

Twenty-Five

S
ix Soviet interceptors appeared on Rockson’s screen. They were above and behind him, and gaining fast. The classification flashed on the screen next to each blip.
MIG
-89,
SPEED
4500
KM/HR
. Damn—that was twice as fast as he was going. They would be on him in seconds. Rockson pulled the stick back and rose straight up.

Rockson had only one thing on his mind now—destroying the deadly missile. But to do so, he had to survive the dogfight that was about to commence. And to do that he needed to be above them, not below them. He pulled on the stick and the jet shot upward at a seventy-degree angle.

He felt . . . so tired, every bone in his body aching from the accelerations and the pressure changes the plane had put him through, from the tension of flying between ground obstacles, from the torturous fight with Chrome. But he had to control the pain, control it . . .