shoulders, pulled in his stomach, and pretended to stare Killov down. Around him, the American presidents of past days fixed their oil eyes on him with cold accusation.
Outside, the sound of heavy machinery building the defensive fortifications came blasting through the windows, disturbing Zhabnov and his narcissistic reveries. He rushed over and pulled the thick purple floor-to-ceiling drapes closed. He was besieged! On all sides. He had ordered his generals and security staff to ignore the growing menace of Rockson and the freefighters and instead to concentrate on Killov as their most probable attacker. In the East here, in New Lenin, he would be safe—unless someone undertook a suicide mission: a truck full of high explosives driven by some drug-maddened minion of the Blackshirt commander, or a plane. The president began growing nervous as he thought of all the possible ways they would try to get him. The air cover around the White House—planes, Laser cannon, rapier missiles—were enough to ward off that menace. But . . . a human bomb, a Brutus among his cabinet . . . He had to get Killov before the madman got him, it was simple. Kill the head of the hydra and you kill all its appendages as well.
From outside he heard what sounded like singing. The American slave laborers were singing some sort of song. Singing was forbidden. Why were his guards allowing it? The words cut through the thick drapery like rapier blades.
The sun sets on the Red Empire
Like it is setting now
Arise ye prisoners of starvation
What was a king is now a clown
The mighty of the earth now tremble
Neath the rifles of Ted Rockson’s men
The Doomsday Warrior will triumph
The Red rule of death is at an end.
Zhabnov slammed his thick fist down on the intercom button.
“Grudonov, get those workers outside to stop singing. Have the guards shoot a few of them. I must concentrate!” Shortly, there were a few bursts of gunfire and the singing ceased.
He took out a folder marked TOP SECRET from his desk and looked through it for the twentieth time that day. Plan Jefferson. Colonel Killov thought he had the monopoly on terror and murder, but Zhabnov was about to join that club, too. Plan Jefferson—an elite deadly hit squad whose sole purpose was to assassinate the Blackshirt commander. Zhabnov had read once how super commandos in WW II had gone after the Reichsfuehrer of Czechoslovakia and had succeeded in killing him. British commandos. It had worked then, and it would work now in the Post WW III world. He liked history—if one knew where to look, it was full of instruction.
For three months seventeen specially selected men from Red Army Elite forces had been training in Langley Virginia, at the old CIA headquarters, now a Soviet Army espionage and counterinsurgency commando school. They had been narrowed down to the best, the toughest, of the lot—four men, deadly efficient men of high intelligence, with a deep hatred for the KGB stemming from events in their own pasts—early KGB purges that had claimed family members or loved ones. They were more than ready and willing to give their lives to take out the ruthless Blackshirt commander.
The door knocker rapped twice and the immense oak door swung open. His male secretary, Gudonov, said, in his strangely high-pitched voice, “They’re here, Mr. President,” Zhabnov brushed his graying hair back, adjusted his medals, and announced in his most presidential timbre, “Send them in!”
Four large men walked into the Executive Office, led by General Zhilinsky, head of Espionage, a short, totally bald man in an impeccable gray uniform, carrying a leather attache case. The four men walked up in front of the long desk and stood at attention. Zhabnov looked them over appraisingly. They were big—so big that they looked almost American—with blond, rugged features. They remained absolutely silent, staring straight ahead.
“Dragnov, Stepsky, Kironin, and Andreyov, Mr. President,” General
Outside, the sound of heavy machinery building the defensive fortifications came blasting through the windows, disturbing Zhabnov and his narcissistic reveries. He rushed over and pulled the thick purple floor-to-ceiling drapes closed. He was besieged! On all sides. He had ordered his generals and security staff to ignore the growing menace of Rockson and the freefighters and instead to concentrate on Killov as their most probable attacker. In the East here, in New Lenin, he would be safe—unless someone undertook a suicide mission: a truck full of high explosives driven by some drug-maddened minion of the Blackshirt commander, or a plane. The president began growing nervous as he thought of all the possible ways they would try to get him. The air cover around the White House—planes, Laser cannon, rapier missiles—were enough to ward off that menace. But . . . a human bomb, a Brutus among his cabinet . . . He had to get Killov before the madman got him, it was simple. Kill the head of the hydra and you kill all its appendages as well.
From outside he heard what sounded like singing. The American slave laborers were singing some sort of song. Singing was forbidden. Why were his guards allowing it? The words cut through the thick drapery like rapier blades.
The sun sets on the Red Empire
Like it is setting now
Arise ye prisoners of starvation
What was a king is now a clown
The mighty of the earth now tremble
Neath the rifles of Ted Rockson’s men
The Doomsday Warrior will triumph
The Red rule of death is at an end.
Zhabnov slammed his thick fist down on the intercom button.
“Grudonov, get those workers outside to stop singing. Have the guards shoot a few of them. I must concentrate!” Shortly, there were a few bursts of gunfire and the singing ceased.
He took out a folder marked TOP SECRET from his desk and looked through it for the twentieth time that day. Plan Jefferson. Colonel Killov thought he had the monopoly on terror and murder, but Zhabnov was about to join that club, too. Plan Jefferson—an elite deadly hit squad whose sole purpose was to assassinate the Blackshirt commander. Zhabnov had read once how super commandos in WW II had gone after the Reichsfuehrer of Czechoslovakia and had succeeded in killing him. British commandos. It had worked then, and it would work now in the Post WW III world. He liked history—if one knew where to look, it was full of instruction.
For three months seventeen specially selected men from Red Army Elite forces had been training in Langley Virginia, at the old CIA headquarters, now a Soviet Army espionage and counterinsurgency commando school. They had been narrowed down to the best, the toughest, of the lot—four men, deadly efficient men of high intelligence, with a deep hatred for the KGB stemming from events in their own pasts—early KGB purges that had claimed family members or loved ones. They were more than ready and willing to give their lives to take out the ruthless Blackshirt commander.
The door knocker rapped twice and the immense oak door swung open. His male secretary, Gudonov, said, in his strangely high-pitched voice, “They’re here, Mr. President,” Zhabnov brushed his graying hair back, adjusted his medals, and announced in his most presidential timbre, “Send them in!”
Four large men walked into the Executive Office, led by General Zhilinsky, head of Espionage, a short, totally bald man in an impeccable gray uniform, carrying a leather attache case. The four men walked up in front of the long desk and stood at attention. Zhabnov looked them over appraisingly. They were big—so big that they looked almost American—with blond, rugged features. They remained absolutely silent, staring straight ahead.
“Dragnov, Stepsky, Kironin, and Andreyov, Mr. President,” General
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