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

But I will speak to you—Rahallah, stay on the extension. We can’t give you satellite data on the Killov missiles. You want to know why?” The Premier of all the Soviets laughed bitterly. “Because you destroyed most of our satellites when you blew up the central dome here in Moscow. And even if my jets could locate Killov’s white-painted missiles in the snow, Killov would launch them the second he knew he was spotted. But I can send you a technician—a Major Scheransky—with a tracking device that can follow Killov’s trail on the ground. If you will send a force strong enough to overcome Killov and his estimated one hundred fifty troops, yet sufficiently small to take him by surprise . . .”
    Rockson thought for a moment then said, “Have your man para-drop to your radio base—K-23—tomorrow at noon local time. With the missile tracker. But no tricks.”
    “Somehow, I get the feeling that you don’t trust me.”
    Rockson laughed out loud. “As much as you trust me, Vassily. Once this Killov thing is cleared up, you and I are enemies again. Over and out.” He put the mike down. The wide-eyed technicians standing with their hands up along the wall looked awed that Rockson could speak that way to their holy-of-holies.
    “He’s just a man,” said Rock, sensing their mesmerization. “And so am I. And so are you. Put your hands down. Do any of you bastards play poker? After you all submit to a search, you might want to play a few hundred games with us while we wait together for this Scheransky.” The Reds managed to relax a bit. Perhaps they would live, after all.
    McCaughlin found that they were eager to learn—and lose at poker. At the end of the first few hours they’d all had ten cups of powerful tea each from a samovar. When they began putting a little vodka in it, the game was forgotten. In Russian and English the conversation began to roam all over the place. It got interesting.
    “Freedom, bah,” commented one cynical vodka guzzler, the oldest of the techs. “The government— any government—is only good for taking your money and sending you or your son to war and for blowing up everybody. The revolutions all start out with good intentions, and then power corrupts. I say, back to nature—Chekhov’s ideal of real communal living.”
    The young one said, “No. In modern times, centralized government is necessary. A dictatorship of the workers—that is what Lenin wanted.”
    “And,” said Rock, “is that what you have?”
    “Well, it isn’t finalized yet. There are problems.”
    “You have no checks and balances, kid. The U.S. government always had the Supreme Court, the executive branch, and the legislature—and free press to expose and oppose the power-grabbers. Kept it all aboveboard, whether some politicians wanted it that way or not. All people born equal, but after that . . . they get according to the exertion and ingenuity they put out. From each according to his ability, to each according to his efforts.”
    “In Communist theory,” one of the techs said, “it is: To each according to his needs.”
    “Sounds like a system for slackers,” Rock replied. “Anyway, Communism doesn’t even do that. It’s all a farce. They use slogans: the workers ruling, freedom of the masses, and all that, and then they do just the opposite.”
    “True Communism will come—someday,” the technician answered. “My government promises me that when the wars are over, socialist man will rise—once and for all.”
    “Someday, someday,” said Rock. “In the meantime everyone is a slave.”
    Rock had set up the aircraft-detector grid that Schecter’s people had supplied. It could even differentiate types of aircraft. It was 11:57 A.M. the next morning when the buzzer went off. One plane. Rockson heaved a sigh of relief and went outside where the rest of the team watched the sky. There—a small Ilyushin N-3A twin-jet—streaking like a knife through the orange clouds and descending slowly