captured. The agreement is that the missiles will be returned to their owner—the Soviet Empire.”
“We don’t need or want your fucking missiles. We’re winning without nuclear weapons, or antimatter weapons. Because we have freedom on our side. Vassily knows that we’ll never use weapons of mass destruction. History has taught us that’s a short-cut to hell. We want this planet to survive. My side will go through with the agreement.”
Scheransky eyed this strange bronze-skinned mutant American. He stared into the mismatched violet-aqua eyes. He had been told Rockson was exceptional—and he was.
“I will tell you what you need to know to help disarm the missiles, Rockson, just in case something happens to me. We must make haste. If we lose Killov, we might not be able to pick up his trail. We must never be more than ten days behind him. Nine to be safe.”
“Doesn’t this meson radiation the missiles give out hurt people?” Rock asked. “That might be good to know.”
“No. It passes right through the body. And it’s likely to imbed itself into the ground or ice below the trucks as they pass. The A-M meter works. I’ve tried it in Siberia, when we lost one of the missiles being transported by air. Led us right to the crash spot.” He bit his lips.
“So,” said Rockson, “you have more of these babies. Vassily said there were only these five.”
“No. There was one other, also being transported to Idaho—the Premier was afraid they would explode by themselves, which is theoretically conceivable, though unlikely. He didn’t want them on Soviet soil if . . .” Scheransky trailed off and looked at the floor. “Anyway,” he mumbled, “the sixth missile was damaged beyond repair and deactivated by one of those red boxes over there on the floor.” He looked up again. “I am telling the truth.”
Now it was the Doomsday Warrior’s turn to assess the man before him. He decided to trust Scheransky—for now. He had a hunch this wasn’t the worst Red he’d ever run into. He was a scientist; his eyes bespoke real intelligence and thought. He lacked the hard eyes Rock had seen so often in Russian officers. But he’d keep an eye on him anyway. Rockson knew that Vassily was likely to double-cross them, if he could.
Six
I t had been a routine flight from Moscow for the returning Russian President of the United States. With the traces of his last meal having just been cleared away, Zhabnov absentmindedly took a sip of bourbon. The three ice cubes tinkled reassuringly in his glass. His escape flight to Moscow a month earlier hadn’t been so pleasant. He’d warned Vassily repeatedly that Killov was getting too powerful, but Vassily had been preoccupied with his damned books. When the inevitable happened, and Killov’s KGB Blackshirts stormed Washington, Zhabnov had the cunning and foresight to have a chopper pilot on twenty-four-hour alert on the back lawn of the White House ready to carry him to a Mach 5 jet waiting on a hidden runway.
Even then, he’d barely escaped the jaws of Killov, the Skull.
A single tear came into each eye as he thought of his loyal palace guards who’d bravely fought the KGB Commandos. He really must raise a monument to them. They’d laid their lives on the line and had been sacrificed so that he might be saved. Oh, how he had wanted to stay in Washington and fight, but it was of paramount importance that he, the logical successor to the pinnacle of Red Power, survive. The twelve men of his field staff that he’d magnanimously allowed aboard his escape jet understood his importance. The long flight back to Moscow had been filled with toasts of his heroism and brilliance in preparing the daring escape.
But he had been amazed, when he arrived in Moscow, that he didn’t get a hero’s welcome—a red carpet, an award ceremony. No. He’d been met with jeers, been called a yellow coward by Vassily himself. His reward had been pushing papers in the Kremlin under the
“We don’t need or want your fucking missiles. We’re winning without nuclear weapons, or antimatter weapons. Because we have freedom on our side. Vassily knows that we’ll never use weapons of mass destruction. History has taught us that’s a short-cut to hell. We want this planet to survive. My side will go through with the agreement.”
Scheransky eyed this strange bronze-skinned mutant American. He stared into the mismatched violet-aqua eyes. He had been told Rockson was exceptional—and he was.
“I will tell you what you need to know to help disarm the missiles, Rockson, just in case something happens to me. We must make haste. If we lose Killov, we might not be able to pick up his trail. We must never be more than ten days behind him. Nine to be safe.”
“Doesn’t this meson radiation the missiles give out hurt people?” Rock asked. “That might be good to know.”
“No. It passes right through the body. And it’s likely to imbed itself into the ground or ice below the trucks as they pass. The A-M meter works. I’ve tried it in Siberia, when we lost one of the missiles being transported by air. Led us right to the crash spot.” He bit his lips.
“So,” said Rockson, “you have more of these babies. Vassily said there were only these five.”
“No. There was one other, also being transported to Idaho—the Premier was afraid they would explode by themselves, which is theoretically conceivable, though unlikely. He didn’t want them on Soviet soil if . . .” Scheransky trailed off and looked at the floor. “Anyway,” he mumbled, “the sixth missile was damaged beyond repair and deactivated by one of those red boxes over there on the floor.” He looked up again. “I am telling the truth.”
Now it was the Doomsday Warrior’s turn to assess the man before him. He decided to trust Scheransky—for now. He had a hunch this wasn’t the worst Red he’d ever run into. He was a scientist; his eyes bespoke real intelligence and thought. He lacked the hard eyes Rock had seen so often in Russian officers. But he’d keep an eye on him anyway. Rockson knew that Vassily was likely to double-cross them, if he could.
Six
I t had been a routine flight from Moscow for the returning Russian President of the United States. With the traces of his last meal having just been cleared away, Zhabnov absentmindedly took a sip of bourbon. The three ice cubes tinkled reassuringly in his glass. His escape flight to Moscow a month earlier hadn’t been so pleasant. He’d warned Vassily repeatedly that Killov was getting too powerful, but Vassily had been preoccupied with his damned books. When the inevitable happened, and Killov’s KGB Blackshirts stormed Washington, Zhabnov had the cunning and foresight to have a chopper pilot on twenty-four-hour alert on the back lawn of the White House ready to carry him to a Mach 5 jet waiting on a hidden runway.
Even then, he’d barely escaped the jaws of Killov, the Skull.
A single tear came into each eye as he thought of his loyal palace guards who’d bravely fought the KGB Commandos. He really must raise a monument to them. They’d laid their lives on the line and had been sacrificed so that he might be saved. Oh, how he had wanted to stay in Washington and fight, but it was of paramount importance that he, the logical successor to the pinnacle of Red Power, survive. The twelve men of his field staff that he’d magnanimously allowed aboard his escape jet understood his importance. The long flight back to Moscow had been filled with toasts of his heroism and brilliance in preparing the daring escape.
But he had been amazed, when he arrived in Moscow, that he didn’t get a hero’s welcome—a red carpet, an award ceremony. No. He’d been met with jeers, been called a yellow coward by Vassily himself. His reward had been pushing papers in the Kremlin under the
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