Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style by Ryder Stacy Read Free Book Online

drift back to the perfect rose he had cultivated. He was an artist. An artist of the greatest skill and power. The world didn’t know it. But he did. And it was that which enabled him to withstand the ennui of life in America. “Roses and virgins, virgins and roses,” the President of the U.S.S.A. hummed to himself beneath his breath, hardly aware of the words he was subconsciously muttering like some kind of paeon from his infantile libido.
    “Breasts and roses, thighs and roses.” And in his mind, as he mumbled the words and headed for his bedroom to see what little squirming prize awaited him there, Zhabnov knew suddenly why he loved the flowers so. Because they were so pure and clean. Virgins, ready to be plucked, deflowered.

Five
    I n Yalta, U.S.S.R., the Premier of all the Russias was being wheeled down a long dock covered with red carpet—from his sleek black limousine to the immense ship that awaited him. The fanfare was loud, crowds lining both sides of the area kept back by chain-link fences. Signs hung from wires were strung up everywhere. PEACE IN OUR TIME. THE PAX SOVIET. THE PEACE THAT WILL RULE THE WORLD. Vassily had been telling them all on television and radio for weeks. He would stop all the fighting. The Russian Army would not of course withdraw from its territories. But some autonomy could be granted to the occupied countries. It could all be negotiated. Reasonable men could work out such things. You give a little, I give a little. Or such were the ideas. Such the phrases uttered, the banners drawn, over the Black Sea’s dockside.
    “Tired, Excellency?” a deep voice asked, looking down with concern at the frail and aged Premier. Vassily’s face was so covered with liver spots that he looked like he had the measles; foam flecked each side of his mouth. Yet the voice that answered back was somehow firm and clear.
    “Yes, fine Rahallah,” Vassily replied, looking up for a second and away from the crowds that cheered him. For the Grandfather was genuinely beloved by many. A benign man, he had limited torture, had allowed a live-and-let-live attitude to prevail—at least a lot more than some of his predecessors had. Thus, some of the cheers were even real. But many eyes recoiled at the Premier’s servant—a black. Tall and broad shouldered with the look of a prince about him, which, in fact, he was—descended from African royalty of the Masai. He wore a white tuxedo with black bow tie and spotlessly buffed black shoes. They had heard of the “blackie.” The rumors were rife that a Rasputin-like man had heavily influenced the Premier—and was nearly in control of the Kremlin. They didn’t like at all his princely, almost arrogant air, not even deigning to look at one of them, but just pushing the Grandfather in his wheelchair straight ahead, moving like a leopard down the long red carpet that led right to the water’s edge.
    And there, looming over them, stood the largest fighting ship on the planet earth. The Dreadnaught, battleship/aircraft carrier/missile launcher—the largest military craft that had ever been built. It had been fitted out originally in the days that first followed World War III, when the Russian navies had sailed the world, owned it. But now it had been refitted, modernized; only its 2,567-foot length of three-inch thick armored steel remained from the original—the rest was now filled with electronics, computers, communications centers, and an array of nuclear and nonnuclear weapons systems. All this in addition to a 50-plane megaforce that could take off its long deck and bomb within a range of 1,000 miles.
    The Dreadnaught was a floating armada all by itself—a death ship. Even Premier Vassily felt the sheer power of the gleaming steel ship. It was Death—death incarnate. The man who controlled such a ship could wipe out a country, let alone another fleet. Vassily— his was the hand that could do it. He felt the sheer power of being supremely potent rush through