Doomsday Warrior 17 - America’s Sword by Ryder Stacy Read Free Book Online

dropping down and mingling with the unusual aurora borealis. He had seen it many times at night, but rarely in the day. Its irridescent colors looked ominous against the bright daytime sky.
    Rock could see that the men were beginning to grow restive. He could hardly blame them what with the frightening light show above. Still, they made good time once they reached the sparse, rolling foothills. The first-day anxiety of the mission had filled the whole team with adrenaline and fueled them along past their fear. As the sun dropped out of the sky, Rockson saw a rise, about thirty feet higher than the surrounding bush-dotted terrain. It looked easily defensible and was wide enough, about a hundred feet across, to bivouac the whole crew.
    “Hold up, Freefighters,” the Doomsday Warrior said, raising his arm and rising up in the saddle as he turned to face them. It took a good twenty or thirty seconds to get the whole unit stopped.
    “We’re going to camp out for the night,” Rockson addressed them. “Up on that hill. I know the first day was hard, especially on the butt.” The men laughed, happy to feel their mouths move in something other than a downward direction. “So dismount and lead your ’brids up the side of this rise,” Rock said, pointing toward the flat-topped hill. “Don’t need any more injuries—at least on the first day,” he added sardonically. He knew he could have ridden Snorter up, but there was no sense in showing anyone else up. He jumped down from the saddle, and taking the reins of the big mount, led him slowly up the medium-steep slope. The steed made it easily without slipping. Though many of the recruits seemed to have a little trouble with theirs, as the animals stumbled and made quite a storm of dust and sound.
    But soon they were all up top, and they tethered the hybrids on a long nylon line set up between two pine trees at either side of the hilltop. They took down feedbags filled with the super energy concoction of Shecter’s tech-boys. The ’brids slurped the stuff up, not realizing that that was all they’d eat—it was not just an appetizer. But though the bags would leave the animals a little miffed at not having more, the vitamin and energy infused oat-like material would give them plenty of strength for days. Before they started really losing any weight.
    The men set up their sleeping bags—aluminized outers to protect not just from cold, but also rays. And even with the confusion of the large team, everything was actually more or less together within about fifteen minutes. The men sat around shooting the bull while they rested up their pained thighs and shoulders and butts. Riding for many hours, especially over rough terrain, did wonders for the entire musculature, making a man feel like he had just been thrown into a blender, set on high and left there for a month or two. But they’d toughen up.
    They had been in camp about half an hour when Archer came striding up the hill, back from a little hunting in the thicker brush about a quarter-mile off. His huge crossbow that looked like it could take out the side of a tank was over his shoulder and over the other shoulder of the black-bearded mountain man was a small unicorn-like deer creature. It wasn’t huge, maybe fifty pounds, but the men let out a cheer as he walked along the plateau. Archer raised the thing up, the huge arrow hole visible in its chest where he had made a perfect strike, and he got a big smile on his face.
    “FOOOOODDD,” he said, holding it by its single horn like a trophy. Then he got a funny look on his face as he suddenly realized he was supposed to share it with all of them. He walked over to McCaughlin, a/k/a “Cookie,” who had set up a small cooking area. Archer dropped it at the man’s feet with a look of great pride.
    “All right, my good man,” the Scotsman said, beaming. “I was going to make some protein soup from dry mix, for the crew—but now I think you’ve made their day. Mine