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

his veins like a drug, and a small smile escaped from his usually tight and hidden lips. The feel of the pure power was better even than the morphine that Rahallah occasionally injected in him when the pains of his failing body racked him too hard even to sleep. But not today. Today the drug was the knowledge of his vulnerability, his mortality.
    Rahallah slowed down the Grandfather’s wheelchair as they came to the ramp, also red-carpeted, which ran up on a slow angle to the mountainous ship. Elite Guards lined the sides of the ten-foot-wide ramp, every hand snapping to attention as the Premier’s wheelchair hit the bottom of the incline. The chair was heavy, even on wheels, loaded down as it was it with sensors and protective devices, should any assassin try to eliminate the Premier—and many had tried. But for Rahallah, the black manservant whose powerful physique lay hidden beneath the loose white tuxedo he wore, the task was not worthy of breaking a sweat. He slowly and evenly pushed the Premier up the two-hundred-foot walkway, and then onto the deck of the Dreadnought itself.
    The ship was a monster of steel and cable. Radar domes turned like vultures’ beaked heads everywhere around the bridge. The perimeters of the immense flat deck were crammed with anti-aircraft guns. Vassily could barely focus on the far side. Cannons and missile silos, explosive cannisters for subs, rows of attack choppers for quick strike-and-take-out missions, with their crews standing at attention, waiting for the Premier, the Grandfather.
    Over two thousand men lined the decks and doorways of the great ship, waiting for a look at the Premier. All were proud to be going on this historic mission. The Peace Mission, as it was called in the Soviet papers and television. The mission that would ensure Premier Vassily’s place in history as the greatest of all Russian leaders. The Premier who had ended the insurrections.
    Rahallah wheeled the Grandfather past the waiting rows of admirals and sub-admirals, of captains and war heroes and every damned body who was anybody connected with the operation of the ship. They wanted their momentary glory, to bask in the eye of the Supreme Ruler and perhaps even be noticed. Promotions had been promised for every man on the ship—if all went well over there, in America.
    The Premier’s personal Palace Guard followed closely around and behind him. They were everywhere, a dozen of them within fifteen feet. But disguised as non-coms—unfitting for the Grandfather to be guarded so closely on his own ship, even if there was the possibility of assassination. And there was always that. The Elite Corps looked nervous, as they always did when the Grandfather was out and around. Here, he was more vulnerable than ever. And would be for the next two, even three weeks, as the Dreadnought cruised the bounding main across the Atlantic to the United Soviet States. It was Vassily’s great sacrifice, that he would personally come all the way over. A concession he felt showed all concerned that he meant business. Show Ted Rockson.
    If there was a vehicle to travel on— this was it. For not only was the super-modern battle craft equipped with enough weapons to fight World War Four by itself, it had been likewise equipped with every possible convenience and luxury below. After all, those who manned such a ship should be treated as what they were—the upper echelons of Soviet society. There were three immense restaurants, each serving a different type of cuisine, from the three main racial mixes of Russia’s vast territories. There were movie houses, dental clinics, swimming pools.
    Vassily remembered that he had okayed the project years earlier. And now, as he was rolled down from its open, windy deck into the calm, temperature-controlled air of the main passenger entry hall, he was glad that he had.
    “This ship is a witness to Russian engineering superiority,” Vassily said, half turning his head to Rahallah, who