Doomsday Warrior 09 - America’s Zero Hour by Ryder Stacy Read Free Book Online Page A

for the sleep he skipped by the huge portions of food he consumed.
    They broke camp after McCaughlin had whipped up some moose-à-la moss rations for all of them, with hot coffee. The ’brids, being a much more sturdy species than humans, needed neither rest, nor water, nor warmth. They had been content to chew leaves.
    As the first gray light of dawn crept over the frost-covered rolling terrain, Rock saw a high sharp object silhouetted against the sky directly in front of them, about a mile ahead. Rock raised his electron binoculars for a look-see.
    “That’s the radio antenna,” he said. “You men wait here. McCaughlin and I will go ahead on foot to see what’s up.”
    Rock and the big Scotsman walked down the slope of the long hill and, crawling the last hundred yards, stuck their heads over the ridge. They saw the station below, the doors wide open to the morning air, and two lazy men having a siesta, their rifles over their laps as they slept in the warmth emanating from the doorway.
    “Tsk, tsk,” spat McCaughlin. “So they don’t expect visitors. Well, what do you think? Do we slip down right now and take them ourselves, or go back and mount a full-scale attack?”
    “Well,” Rock said, “we might as well take advantage of the situation. I’d hate to turn down the open-door invitation.”
    They scurried in a crouch down the slope, and before the guards knew what was up, had them around the necks with knives to their throats. “No noise, pals. Let’s go in,” said McCaughlin. The frightened Reds savvied the English well enough, and the four of them stepped into the building.
    In the large brightly lit room sat six or seven technicians in soiled white smocks. They were unarmed, though rifles were stowed carelessly in a corner.
    “Surpriski,” McCaughlin said in a loud voice. He and Rockson shoved their hostages face forward onto the floor where they lay motionless, fearful of a fatal bullet in the spine. But none came.
    The technicians turned in shock from their tasks monitoring meters and radio equipment around the room. Startled, the men ripped their earphones off and jumped to their feet. Rock swept his Liberator rifle around the room. “Freeze!”
    They must have understood, for they did just that. The only breach in the silence came when one dropped his clipboard. He was a tall, lanky young fellow, who evidently knew English.
    “Don’t shoot. We are unarmed,” he pleaded. “We are not soldiers—we are to be evacuated. This place to be shipped out—”
    “We just want to use the radio,” Rock said softly. “No one will be harmed.”
    After some coaxing the head tech got the Premier’s frequency and handed Rock the mike and headset.
    “Rockson calling the Kremlin. Returning Premier Vassily’s radio transmission.”
    The radio crackled out a response, after Rockson repeated the message six times.
    “This is the Premier’s servant Rahallah,” a mellow voice stated.
    “Yes, I remember you,” Rock said.
    “The Premier is napping. I presume you are responding to the message broad-beamed to you in Colorado?”
    “Correct, Rahallah. I’ve got to speak to him,” Rock said tersely.
    “It will take me a few minutes to wake him and get him to the phone,” Rahallah said. “Can you wait?”
    Rockson smiled to himself. They were doubtless trying to drag this out so that they could zero in on the location of Century City.
    “Save your delaying tactics, Rahallah. I’m at a Red Army radio far away from my home base. Let’s be brief. The United States government is pleased that Vassily is going through with his removal of all missiles though we have yet to independently confirm the evacuation is taking place. Assuming that it is true, we would like further assistance in tracking Killov and his missiles—using satellite readings or anything else you have to help us.”
    Vassily’s dry, age-cracked voice suddenly came on the line. “Rockson, do you know what time it is in Moscow? Two A.M.