Doomsday Warrior 05 - America’s Last Declaration (19 page)

She was waiting for him, stretched out on her bed decked out with multicolored scarves and pillows so that it somehow resembled a sultan’s lovemaking chamber. Unlike many of the city’s inhabitants, Rona reveled in beautiful objects and around her room were lilies in vases, bright pictures on the walls and an immense gold-gilded mirror that she had somehow finagled from the Century City Museum.

“I know you had to fight your way through grizzlies and sabre-toothed mountain cats—and that’s why you’re late getting here. Right?” she asked sarcastically, her long red hair flowing like a curtain of flame over her shoulders and onto the pillow behind her.

“How’d you know?” Rock asked with a smile, walking over to the bed and gazing down at her beauty. She was an extraordinary woman, voluptuous, smart, and tough as nails. In the days before the war she most likely would have been a movie star or model, her loveliness was that eye-catching. She was a direct descendant of the famous Flying Wallendas trapeze act, one of the most famous acrobatic and high-wire circus teams that had ever performed. And she had been brought up in their footsteps, touring the country when just a child with her father, who had his own mini-circus. Until the Reds caught up with him and found out he had been performing intelligence services for the hidden cities. He had been taken away and she had never seen him again, somehow finding her way to Century City where she had been welcomed and stayed for the last twenty years. Here, she had studied martial arts under Chen, until she was unquestionably one of the best hand-to-hand fighters in the city. Even Rockson had been thrown a few times by her quick moves. Unlike most of the women of C.C. she had demanded to be part of the combat squads that went out and raided Red convoys, and had joined Rock many times in attacking the enemy. She was as fearless as him—and as passionate.

“Cat got your tongue?” she asked, looking up from the wide soft feather bed. She was wearing a nearly transparent negligee which accented her large perfect breasts, thin waist and soft red triangle in a most complimentary way. “Well, look at that,” Rona said with a laugh. “The poor man’s been out sleeping with the buffalo and muskrats so long he’s forgotten what a woman looks like.” She reached her arms up for him, her eyes wide with desire.

Rockson laughed out loud. He was treated with such ultra-respect by most people that it was refreshing to be with someone who didn’t give a shit about his “fame.” He could let his hair down here, say anything, do anything—and it felt wonderful. He bent down over her, gazing on her white luscious flesh, a feast of sensuality. He could feel his manhood stiffen inside his loose-fitting pants and suddenly he dropped on top of her, like a panther on top of its prey.

“Now that’s what I like—a man who knows what he wants,” Rona squealed, wrapping her strong arms around his muscled back. He pressed his face to hers and kissed her. Her lips opened for him and her tongue darted out, seeking entrance. Within seconds they were passionately kissing, their hands searching over each other’s flesh in wild desire. He bit softly into her neck and she opened her mouth, letting out a deep moan. Her hands searched lower and found his hardness, rubbing against it with desperate urgency.

Suddenly she sat up and pushed him down on the bed. She slowly undid his trousers as if partaking in a sacred ritual and slid them off the steel-hard legs. A shiver coursed through her spine as his stiff rod sprang into full view and in a flash she moved down to it. Her full lips engulfed the spear of flesh and she began moving up and down on it, taking it deep into her throat as little groans of pleasure came from her mouth. Rockson trembled from the incredible sensation until at last his passion became too powerful. He reached up and grabbed her, pulling her down alongside him. He flipped the negligee aside and spread her silky thighs, rubbing his hand over the wet mound of her sex. She lay back, her lips wide apart, eyes closed, making almost imperceptible catlike sounds. He could feel from her velvet wetness that she was ready for him and he slid on top of her, crushing her full breasts beneath his chest. He guided his rigid staff into the luxuriously full bush of red hair, parting the pink lips of her womanhood with his fingers. Then, poised above her, he pushed the living spear in, as the puffed lips opened wide for his entrance. She was so filled with the liquid of a woman’s desire that the rod slid all the way in a second, deep into her most hidden parts. She groaned aloud and spread her legs further to give him room.

Rock began pumping, slowly at first, and then as he entered into the realm of total passion where the mind disappears and the body takes over, harder and faster, until he was ramming into her like a piston. Her body quivered in uncontrollable desire as she took his every stroke. At last her back arched up high and she let out a deep guttural groan of climax, jerking around beneath him, as her body released its stored up well of sexual energy. Her hands flew to his chest and stroked them mindlessly over and over. Her groans pushed Rock over the edge and he too released his load, shooting into her like a cannon firing white-hot lava. They twisted and writhed against one another for nearly a minute until every last ounce of passion had been released. Then they tenderly held each other as Rockson drifted into a deep and peaceful sleep.

He awoke early at 0600, still hours before the military council meeting. He felt rested for the first time in weeks, thank God, and knew he was ready to deal with the complex battle plans they would have to formulate. Rona was still sleeping, a wide smile on her creamy face. He rose and dressed silently, not wanting to disturb her, and made his way out of the room, leaving a note on the table that read, “Thanks for reminding me just how beautiful a woman can be. Those buffalo can get pretty ornery sometimes.”

He tracked down Archer, who had become sick and tired of all the attention that was being bestowed upon him, finding him in a faraway corner of the city—in the steam-pipe conduit tunnel that led from the geothermal source of Century City’s power under Ice Mountain.

“Had a hell of a time finding you,” Rock said. Archer was lying atop a pile of flea-bitten hornbear rugs, half asleep, a bottle of C.C. Beer next to him. His eyes were red and puffy. The near-mute snarled a half-hearted hello and turned over. His world was out there in the wilds, fighting things, surviving. Only then did he feel fully alive. Here in C.C. the formalities, the politics confused and bored him.

“Hey, pal, no time for sleep, your public—and I—need you.”

“Noooo, Rooockson. No speeech,” the big freefighter growled, pulling one of the torn bear rugs up over his head.

“How about some breakfast then? My treat—in the Sky view Room. Everything you can eat: steak, eggs, anything.” Rock laughed as the pile of bear fur moved and the giant’s head came into view once more.

“OK,” Archer mumbled and within seconds dragged himself out from under the mass of fur, adjusted his clothing, patted down his beard with his hands and said, “Anyyythiiing?”

After the sumptuous meal at the Skyview, an ingeniously designed restaurant located at the uppermost level of Century City which used baffles and mirrors to allow light through from camouflaged gaps and fissures in the mountain peak above, Archer went off to help set up the missile defense system at the top of Carson Mountain, the wall of rock adjacent to Ice Mountain. His great strength would aid greatly in the placing of the launch tubes as they were short of heavy equipment to move the high-tech weaponry around.

Rockson headed down to the Military Operations Room where the general staff was waiting for him around a large three-dimensional map of the Rockies for three hundred miles in every direction. They greeted him warmly—Colonel Fenton, Major Norton, and Generals Wooster and Janet Crawford, the only female general in America’s long military history. Rock had put on his full military uniform, razor-creased and bedecked with the medals that had been presented to him on numerous occasions. This was one of the few times he had worn the damned thing, usually feeling it representative of a military mentality and rigidity that he did not wish to display. Today he wore it not out of pride but as a confidence builder. He had to make the military council believe anything was possible—for the hero of the Moscow attack, who had survived all these years with nothing but his skill, strength and brains to guide him.

The entire council stood up straight as poles as the Doomsday Warrior approached the oval operations table, their hands snapping to salutes.

“Please, please,” Rock said with a cursory, half-hearted salute, “let’s not get into all that. As far as I know, a salute has never stopped one Russian soldier.” The group laughed and relaxed a little, sitting back down in their wooden, hard-backed chairs. “All right, let’s get right to it,” the Doomsday Warrior said, as he lowered himself into the chair at the head of the table.

“Intelligence reports first.” He looked over at Rath who appeared somewhat uncomfortable around all these military types. He preferred to run his section his own way.

“Reports are coming in every hour, Rock. The Nazi troops have been dropped over a wide range of territory to our south. Apparently, as far as we can tell our forward observation posts, nearly fifty thousand commandos have already begun search-and-destroy missions through the Rockies. Apparently the bulk of the force is to be landed by transport chopper at Forrester Valley, you know, that fairly flat plain, nearly twenty miles across. It’s about thirty miles south of—”

“I know where it is,” Rockson said curtly, having spent many nights there while a teenager, watching the stars and the meteors slash across the vast open skies.

“Anyway, it would appear, although I don’t want to say it’s a surety, that the Germans will link up their forces there, the commando units coming down out of the southernmost mountains and joining with the main army—and, Rock, these guys will be equipped with tanks, the works. I can only guess that they’ll continue from there heading north, blasting the damned range to bits until they find us.”

“Who’s the actual man in charge of the entire operation?” Rock asked, opening the stiff collar of his uniform so he could breathe. Now he knew why he hated the thing.

“Well, the chain of command, as far as we can make it out,” Rath said, looking down at a binder full of notes, “is Vassily at the very top—though beyond setting the whole thing in motion we believe he’s back in Moscow now, waiting. The commander of the U.S. operations is a pleasant fellow named Von Reisling—from old German stock, eye patch and all. Beyond that—we don’t know a thing.”

“How the hell did all these goddamned Nazis spring up out of nowhere?” General Wooster asked, his jowled neck puffing up over the top of his collar like a rooster’s fleshy throat.

“I don’t know,” Rath said, looking a little embarrassed, for he prided himself on keeping tabs on all the Red innovations throughout the world. “We’d heard rumors of a neo-Nazi resurgence in Germany over the last few years, but, Jesus Christ, I never knew they’d assembled an actual army. It must have been Vassily’s ace in the hole, kept top-secret until he needed them. But from what we can gather, these guys are tough, well-trained, not babes in the woods. And they want to prove themselves. Let’s not forget the military history of Germany or the fanatical violence with which the Nazi troops of World War II fought. Every one of these guys is a killer.”

“What’s our exact military strength, Fenton?” Rock asked, turning to the colonel, who was in charge of battle-ready units. “And I don’t mean bullshit strength,” the Doomsday Warrior added, wanting to let them all know that this was not the time to play games.

“I’d say ten thousand combat troops and another ten thousand we’ve been working real hard with, Rock. They haven’t been under fire, but I’d swear my life on them. We’ve been increasing all advanced training tremendously in the last six months, Rockson. And we’ve come up with what we think is a new concept in attack strategy.”

“Shoot,” Rock said, leaning forward with interest.

“Well, we’d been feeling for a long time that our attack strategies were outmoded. We started looking for new ideas and I went down to our Military Literature Archive and dug up some books from the 1980s. They were the training and tactical manuals for a special group called the Rapid Deployment Strike Force. Apparently the American government, after a number of terrorist attacks on Americans around the world, decided to create a highly mobile, super-efficient unit, capable of dealing out tremendous fire power and devastation. My entire staff studied them and we came to a decision to implement these types of units.”

“The book is mightier than the bullet,” General Crawford joked.

“They’re fast, they’re deadly—and the Reds won’t be expecting anything like ’em. We’ve been fighting a guerrilla war, Rock, for a hundred years now. Hide, run, strike, hide—small units of men attacking convoys, blowing up a few tanks now and then. Times are changing. There’s a president now, a military council to oversee all freefighter actions and coordinate them for maximum effectiveness. We need to be bold, now. To attack
them—make
them run and hide. I believe this Rapid Deployment Strike Force is a vital step in that direction.” Fenton sat back, breathing out as if he had just delivered a long-thought-about speech.

“Sounds great,” Rock said. His eyes narrowed. “But I gather from what you said that their entire mode of operation revolved around attack helicopters. I didn’t know we had a fleet.”

Fenton smiled. “But we do, Rock, we do. It’s not huge but it’s deadly. Over the last few years we’ve stolen nearly twelve attack choppers from the Reds—five of them jet-powered. Every one of those things is armed to the teeth, with .55s hanging out of both doors, missile racks, napalm, phosphorus, anti-personnel bombs, even some air-to-air missiles capable of taking out a MIG. These things can do incredible damage, stun the Reds before they can stun us. We may wind up losing every goddamned one of them but the pilots and crew are trained and raring to go. Begging to go, I should say. They want to show that the freefighting forces have teeth—that can sink deep into the throat of the military giant of the red empire.”