Doomsday Warrior 18 - American Dream Machine (2 page)

As for the other members of Rockson’s team: McCaughlin, the Scots-background-Freefighter, was still very much the clown, and still the best trail cook Rock had ever known. McCaughlin was in charge of expeditionary forces now that Rockson was away. The man was bigger than the side of a barn, and as gentle as a breeze. Rock missed McCaughlin’s wry comments and “creeper-vine puddings.” Boy could he go for a joke right now—and something to eat other than his ham sandwich.

The only Russian on the old “Rock Team,” Scheransky, was over in the Soviet Union helping Detroit. Scheransky had been invaluable over the years. The blond defector from the “Evil Empire” had been a nervous and chubby technician when he served the Sovs, but had become an ardent and courageous Freefighter. Freedom does a man good!

Chen, the Chinese American who had trained Rockson in the martial arts, was still teaching his deadly methods back in the Century City gym. The guy never seemed to age. The man with the pencil-thin mustache was on his fifth wife—Chen was not much for stable marriages. But he never missed a day of giving instructions to his classes.

Sometimes Rona would also be a part of the “Rock Team.” The only female member of the team had been Rockson’s lover since his teenage years. Now that the fighting was over, Rona Wallender was keeping herself busy. She was at this moment away on a relief mission to Argonville, which was recovering slowly following the crushing of a right-wing takeover there. Rockson had missed Rona these past months, but the gorgeous red-headed Amazon would be back—and all the more desirable for her long absence!

Then there was Kim . . . He’d probably never see his other girlfriend, Kim, again. The petite Kim was President Langford’s blonde and blue-eyed daughter. Being Rockson’s “other” girlfriend, she was often at odds with Rona. Rock tried to keep the girls apart, but fate usually defied his wishes. Until lately. Peace had changed even the girlfriend situation.

Kim was with her father in the restored White House. Washington was humming with diplomatic activity and endless festivities. Rock had heard that Kim was now the darling of the embassy set, and there were stories about all the glittering parties she ran in Washington. His few letters to Kim had gone unanswered. She was probably having too much fun to remember him. “What a beauty Kim was,” Rockson thought with a sigh. He envisioned her petite yet full-breasted body, her alabaster skin, her bright blue eyes . . . and the childlike, tender love she made with him.

Rockson pulled his thoughts away from the winsome vision and looked out over the changing terrain. There was water below now—a twisting river, and a high waterfall coming off a butte. The brilliantly sunlit desert made him gasp in appreciation of its beauty. Until he saw the festering old mile-wide nuke bomb crater to the north. Its fetid mists were probably hiding all sorts of evil rad-growths. He’d been down in those hellholes more than once. Never again!

Another glance at the clock: twenty minutes until he reached his destination. And then what? The terrain was mighty rugged below. Rock sure hoped there would be a good landing spot when he got there. These old Russian jobbies took a mighty
long
time to slow down, once they landed!

Assuming he’d make a safe landing, he had no idea what kind of trouble he’d find. But Rockson figured he’d be up to most challenges, even though he was alone. After all, he had his shotpistol, capable of firing a dozen rounds of explosive shotgun pellets. He had a fully auto-fire Liberator submachine gun, and various grenades. That equipment, plus his keen fighting abilities, should do the trick against any of the usual bugaboos, such as mutant animals, tribes of crazies or cannibals, or Red renegades.

There were no more regular Sov forces in America, no more fortress city-prisons bristling with artillery, no more neo-Nazi armies under Colonel Killov. Killov was dead—drowned in a billion gallons of water from a burst dam. Or was Killov dead? The KGB leader had a habit of rising from the dead . . . It was as if Killov had a pact with the Dark One himself. Rock didn’t trust the man not to rise up again. But aside from that gruesome possibility, what the hell
was
the threat out there? What was Archer fighting against? If only Rock had been TOLD what to expect. Should he have brought along the heavy, tripod-mounted .73mm Narga-beast gun?

The old Sov plane’s left engine coughed. Rockson reached to the control panel and enriched the fuel mixture a bit. He frowned. Both engines were running hot. This bag of bolts should make it, but if it didn’t, there was always the parachute. Rockson had trekked great distances before.

The left engine coughed again, and Rock’s brow furrowed a bit. He fiddled with the fuel mixture. Both needles denoting engine temperature were up into the red. One hundred thirty miles to go. God, what more could he do to keep it aloft? Maybe he should fly lower, get into thicker air? That
might
help the engines. But then, if the plane went down, there wouldn’t be time enough to chute to safety.

Rockson thought for a minisecond and decided to chance it. He didn’t relish walking a hundred miles, and besides, Archer was in danger. Maybe seconds would matter. So Rock lowered the Sov craft until it was skimming over the rolling hills littered with boulders. He even went between two towering buttes. Altitude 200 feet! Engines getting cooler.

Sharp left! Avoid the damned pillar of stone dead ahead! Rockson deftly maneuvered the craft past the danger. Flying at this altitude keeps you on your toes! No auto-guidance on this baby, you have to fly by the seat of your pants! There was a certain thrill to all of this, and Rockson felt it now. Ah, this was the way it used to be, just man and machine, working together,
without
the damned computers!

The left engine blew up. And at the same time as the pieces flew in all directions in a fiery shower, the right engine just quit of its own accord. The awesome silence—except for the wind rushing by and the flutter of a long trail of black smoke in the rear—made Rock’s hair stand on end.

He was hitting the restart button but nothing was happening. He coasted her up to 400 feet. Now there were just seconds to act. Should he try to glide her in? Or should he hit the chute? No, he’d worked too long and hard to restore this baby, to make this Sov junker fly. He wouldn’t let her crash! He’d try for a landing!

Luckily, there appeared to be plenty of flat land between the buttes ahead. He hit the button to dump the remaining fuel and get a few more seconds maneuvering time from lightening it up a bit. “Okay,” Rockson mumbled, “let’s take her in. Here goes nothing.”

But as he dove, the gentle, flat land ahead became a nightmare maze of canyons and huge boulders.
Oh shit,
now what?

His mutant instincts came into play. His sixth sense
had to
be at work now, for there was no way of guessing which canyon to roar down into. Rockson’s hand caressed the heavy control stick. He was sensing, feeling where to direct her.

He felt his hand jiggle the stick a bit to the left. He knew that if he took the left fork in the canyon ahead, there would be a chance! Just a small chance.

Two

H
is air speed was 500 knots—470—420. There was nothing in the books about how to fly a jet like this as a goddamned glider! But there
was
something in his
gut
that told him what to do.

Flying by the seat of his pants, Rockson
felt
the maneuvers he should take. He veered suddenly to the left, down a narrow canyon, sensing a way to open ground. He rocked the jet around a cylindrical stone outcropping, then tore between two huge boulders. The wingtips just missed being hit.

Suddenly he was not sure where to go. He had to decide—cliff coming up, dead ahead. He guessed left, and that soon proved wrong. The wings were too wide to make it between the narrow canyon walls.
Unless—

Rockson turned the craft sharply sideways and fit through with wings up and down, and made it out into a wider canyon. Good, but he’d lost some more altitude in that maneuver. The area ahead was littered with boulders. Where the hell is a flat area?

Now tight left,
his sixth sense told him. His plane swooped low over some rolling sand dunes. His altitude was 300, 250—air speed now 270, 230—he knew she’d drop like a rock at 160 knots. He’d have to bring it in before then—but where?

Altitude 170. The canyon was wide here, but filled with jagged boulders. And now something new appeared—a raging river right in the middle of the scattered boulders. A torrential rapids that would shame the Colorado River’s meek white foams! Come on, flat ground, come on . . .

Altitude 100 feet, speed 165.

This was it. Stubby pine trees flashed below his wings now. It had been all desolation before, and now, all of a sudden, these pine trees. The damned trees were worse than the big rocks. He was going to hit them.

Wait. Over there. Some reddish flatlands ahead, the pines fading out. Rockson’s craft just cleared the last pine trees, skimming off the topmost branches. There was a small clearing ahead, alongside the raging river. The river, Rockson saw, emerged from a waterfall in a mist-shrouded cliff
dead ahead.
The smooth cliff rose thousands of feet high. No way over THAT baby! Speed 160—GOTTA TAKE HER IN!

Another huge boulder right ahead, with a scruffy pine on it!

Can’t clear it! Rockson jerked in his seat as the belly of his craft scraped the obstacle. Pieces of rock and pine needles and sticky pine cones were jammed onto the wing tips. Altitude 70, 60, 30. Clear sand ahead. For a second he clutched the lever for the landing gear, then desisted. A belly landing was better on soft sand. Otherwise, the wheels would jam, and the plane would tumble over the minute he hit.

Rockson lifted the plane’s nose at the last second, then shielded his face with his arms.

He hit the ground hard, but the plane didn’t break up, at least not right away. He was skidding on the metal belly. Sparks and then flames erupted all around him as he jerked violently against the restrainer straps. He watched wide-eyed as the wings were shorn off by jutting rocks. That slowed his mangled cockpit compartment some more, but still the plane—what was left of it—slid forward toward the high wall of rock at the end of the canyon. Rockson was barreling toward a looming wall of pink granite death. He expected to be smashed like a bug in a second.

The sickening screech of metal and the flames were everywhere around him now; his chances of dying from being smashed were pitted against being burned alive. He bet he would hit the wall first.

The wall of the canyon was coming up fast, maybe 150 miles per hour. He’d win the bet.

What the hell? He saw, strung across the canyon before him, a series of clothesline-thick white ropes. The torn-up plane hit them hard, tore through the first two or three ropes. But the ropes slowed its fatal hurtle toward oblivion. The next two or three lateral ropes grabbed at the plane’s bent nose and didn’t let go. Ten feet from the vertical wall of rock, and his certain death, the plane stopped with a gutwrenching jerk.

The control panel burst into flames and now the billowing, black, plastic-fed smoke threatened to choke the pilot. Rock tore at his restraining straps. They wouldn’t come loose!

“Have to cut them off!” he shouted to no one in particular. Good idea but hell, no knife! Rockson steeled his muscles and jerked himself upward two or three times, his body driven by a bolt of adrenaline that could have revived a thousand heart patients. He tore the straps apart and leaped from the seat, trailing the remnants of the nylon safety straps. “Have to get out. Now!” he screamed at himself.

So Rockson rushed through the cramped and crumpled cabin and spun the door’s circular lock: no go. It was bent in, the frame wouldn’t let go! Thick, plastic-fueled smoke now curled about his body. The door simply had to give.

Rockson stepped back and, holding onto the twisted girders on both sides of him, delivered the most powerful double drop-kick of his entire career.

The bent door flew out and away. Fire and smoke and white hot sparks poured onto him. Rock jumped out through the billowing wall of fire before him. He hit the gravel and rolled through sharp, hot metal debris, wincing in pain as the debris cut through his fire-resistant flight suit and into his skin. Once he hit the ground he kept rolling over and over until his body was out onto cool brown sand. Then he beat out the flames that had begun to consume his sleeves and the sock-tops sticking out of his combat boots.

After that was taken care of, Rockson crawled like a motherfucker away from the heat. No time to even stand up, he had to get away from the jet as fast as he could. There were explosive things in that plane: the heavy caliber ammo left in the nose cannon might go off any second—and the grenades.

KABOOM!
The force of the explosion threw him twenty feet.

After the orange ball of flame rose overhead, Rockson dug his face out of the sand and sat up. He watched the mushroom-shaped cloud rising in the canyon. So much for the Soviet plane—and all those hours of work patching it. Obviously he had missed fixing something! Rockson wondered what it was. He grimaced as he stood and surveyed the wreckage of his sky-machine. Not much left. He nonchalantly picked a piece of sharp metal out of his forearm, tossed it away, and started walking away from all the damage, his mind not dwelling on his luck but on all that fucking work repairing the old jet down the drain! Only after a while did he mutter, “Hell, who cares, I’m alive!”

When he took his first step, his ankles hurt. Sprained ankle? Better not be. As he pranced around on them, they hurt less and less. Thank heaven for that!

Next business: Where was he? The map! Was the fucking map in the plane?

He fumbled around in his flight suit, and felt a slight rectangular bulge. “Ah, there it is, right in my pocket.” Rockson pulled out the map, opened it, and in the fading light studied it carefully. After a while he decided that he was in a place the map called Spider Canyon, about thirty-seven miles short of his intended destination. A long walk, but nowhere near impossible. Spider Canyon was a long, many-branched canyon located in a plateau that was a mile high. At this height, in this part of America, the night would be hell-cold. Arctic cold. And he had no parka.
That
had burned up in the jet.