Doomsday Warrior 04 - Bloody America by Ryder Stacy Read Free Book Online Page B

Vassily for control of the world. No longer content to play his role behind the scenes, the KGB commander was directly challenging the Red Army. It was too much—too much. Somehow he had to make a move. If only he could make peace with some of the rebel rulers in each country—buy them off. Or even—he hated the word—make some sort of concessions. If he could get the legendary Ted Rockson to join forces with his and Zhabnov’s regular army in the U.S.S.A. they could defeat the mad KGB colonel once and for all.
    The headache slammed into his skull like howitzer shells. Suddenly a soft cultured voice spoke up just behind him.
    “Sir, I have your brandy and some of the pain killers that seemed to help last week.” It was Ruwanda Rahallah, Vassily’s black African servant whom he had taken to trusting and confiding in more and more these days. Vassily was surrounded on every side by spies and assassins. There were so few men he could trust. But he knew the tall, black ebony African was one of them. Vassily let his grim face relax and he smiled.
    “Ah, thank you my friend. You are always here when I need you.” Rahallah, once an African prince of the Masai Tribe of East Africa, snatched by Reds when just a child to become a slave back in Russia—now the aide and confidante to the most powerful man in the world, handed the premier two opium pills and then his glass of afternoon brandy. Vassily swallowed the tablets down instantly with a slug of the rich golden brandy. Within seconds he felt the headache diminishing. Rahallah stood still, resplendent in his stiffly creased white tuxedo and white gloves, attentive, awaiting his master’s any request. His strong sculpted face with high cheekbones reflected the setting sun’s greenish rays as they pierced the twisting storm clouds overhead. He looked almost frightening, like some war mask from times long ago. Vassily shuddered slightly, whether from the cool evening air or the vision of Rahallah’s primitive past—he couldn’t tell.
    “What do you think about?” Vassily asked the African. “Beneath that calm exterior, what goes on in that black mind of yours? I know you’re a smart man, probably more intelligent than my entire staff. What? What, tell me!” The premier was agitated. Tonight everything seemed threatening, ominous.
    “I think only of how I can serve you, sir,” Rahallah said with a stony face. “I’ve been with you for many years. And I’ve come to know you for what you are—a good man—trapped by the exigencies of history. You’ve done well. As well as you can with what you have.”
    “But don’t you ever grow afraid? Angry? Vengeful? After all, your people are still subjects. Work hard—die young. Don’t you—” For the first time ever, Vassily suddenly had the terrifying image of Rahallah’s strong black hand coming in to kill him in the middle of the night—a knife, a razor.
    “Sir, you have promised me that someday my people will be free. My tribe. We have been enslaved by one race or another for centuries. We have learned to be patient, to move with the changing seasons, ride the ever-shifting winds of time. I have been given the opportunity by the gods to come and work for you. Influence you. I speak to you of peace—always. When you ask me for aid in your musings, I whisper peace. In your sleep I whisper peace. Peace for the world—for all mankind—so that we may return to the paradise that this green planet once was. That is my anger, my vengeance—to influence you, sir, to create peace.”
    Vassily looked very thoughtful for several moments, then glanced up sharply. “Peace—if only it were so easy. I know I’ve promised you freedom for your tribe. I wish things were calmer. I’ve been waiting until the empire was firmly in control before I give more power to my subjects. In the midst of revolts is not the time to give in. It is a bad sign. They would be emboldened. I’m sorry, Rahallah—it is not yet