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

looked somewhat less than enthusiastic. Though he loved and cared for the Grandfather as if he were his own father—Vassily having saved Rahallah as a child and treated him almost as an equal ever since—he didn’t care for all his ideas. Although it was a master/slave relationship, still Rahallah had had a tremendous influence on the Premier—perhaps even softening him somewhat over the years. After all, Vassily had relaxed his grip on many things, even Rahallah’s own tribal lands of Tanzania and Kenya. And someday, someday, the Premier had promised him, they would even be freed. Rahallah was free to leave, but stayed on, caring for, influencing Vassily. He read poetry to the leader of all the world, or heard his worries of leading, of fighting the endless wars that blazed like sparks ceaselessly throughout the world. And Rahallah had been a good influence. He knew it, and that was why he stayed. He hoped that this Peace Conference-to-be would be the good result of all his work with the Premier.
    But as for the death vessel beneath his feet . . . that was another matter. Rahallah could feel no love for the great weapon of Russian origin. All it would do was kill. Kill better than anything. Kill in the blink of an eye. He knew all too well the immense power that was hidden behind every tube, every wall. It made him vow to influence the Premier that much more, to never fire the weapons within. To seek lasting peace.
    “Beautiful, just beautiful,” Vassily said, addressing the commander of the Dreadnaught who walked alongside him, his rows of medals gleaming from fluorescent lights behind frosted plexiglass in the ceiling above them. “I must say I’ve very impressed by the work your men have done getting the ship into this kind of state. It’s good to see that our money is well spent—expenditures that I have to fight for every year, tooth and nail.” Premier Vassily grinned through half-rotted teeth at the admiral, who smiled back so wide his upper lip nearly slammed into his nose. “Yes, it’s going for something worthwhile. And I’m sure the rebels will be quite impressed when they see the likes of this floating down their damned Potomac.” Vassily began coughing and couldn’t stop for nearly twenty seconds, as Rahallah stopped the wheelchair on a dime and gave the Premier some sparkling mineral water with a dash of vodka.
    At last, color, a slight dash of it anyway, returned to Vassily’s face. And he motioned that he was all right, and for Rahallah to push on.
    “This way, Excellency,” the bemedaled admiral said softly, pointing with his arm for Rahallah to push to the left and through a wide set of oak doors where a huge band was waiting to welcome them. But as the Premier saw the three-hundred musicians all looking anxiously, waiting to begin the musical proceedings, he held up his arms stiffly and waved them around in the air.
    “No! No music!” he yelled, though only a feeble noise came out. But Rahallah relayed the message to the admiral, who was looking nervously at the scene.
    “He says ‘No music’,” the black servant spat haughtily. “His ears are sensitive. He listens only to classical music at home—very low, the quiet composers,” Rahallah said quickly. “Not this loud and rambunctious martial music.” The admiral’s smile zapped off his face as if it had fallen into his underwear. He had so wanted everything to go smoothly, and already . . .
    “No music,” he yelled out, cupping his hands, and the conductor’s face fell as well, as flat as a cake without yeast. The band of nearly three hundred let their various trombones, clarinets, tubas and what-all fall to their sides or dangle around their necks as they looked at one another in confusion.
    “Perhaps some food,” Admiral Chesovsky said. “We have an entire banquet room waiting for you. It’s right this—”
    “No; to my suite please,” Vassily said impatiently, snapping his fingers. The admiral was not used to