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Authors: Ryder Stacy
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had dared to challenge the power of the man who saw himself as the most powerful and ruthless man in the world. And like Captain Ahab, he could think of only one thing—revenge. He looked even thinner and tenser than usual, his ramrod-straight body nothing now but bone and gristle, his black eyes wide and cold as the vacuum of space. He had been taking more and more of the pills lately, ever since his run-in with Ted Rockson several months earlier. His body trembled with an almost invisible shaking as he stared out the dark windows at the Rocky Mountains off in the distance, their black peaks silhouetted against the purple sky, writhing with pink and orange waves of atmospheric electricity.
Killov slammed his fist down on the black-marbled plastisynth table that curved around in a semicircle facing the ten foot high polarized picture windows, his gaunt face skull-like in the growing dawn.
“No one must know. No one must ever speak of what happened that night out on the Utah Plains,” Colonel Killov, the supreme commander of all KGB forces in America muttered half madly to himself, not even realizing he was speaking. “No one must ever know of this defeat of mine out in the desert by a band of brigands.” His mind couldn’t stop returning to the scene of the battle. It had to be Ted Rockson and his men who had attacked Killov’s squadron of attack helicopters, destroying all the gunships save his alone. He remembered the carnage and the black beams that the small band of freefighters had shot up at the choppers just when it seemed their fate was inevitably sealed by death. Killov had had many nightmares about those few moments.
“If I hadn’t had that last second urge, that slightest caution to hang back as the fleet of black death’s-head helicopters went in for the kill, I’d—” The rest of the thought remained in his mind, unspoken. He would be dead. Burned into a pile of smoldering, glowing metal like the others. The freefighters had come up with a fantastic new weapon, the likes of which Killov had never seen. How could they have made it? Their hidden cities couldn’t be that advanced—could they? Capable of producing technologically advanced weaponry far ahead of the Russians? It didn’t seem possible. And yet he had seen the evidence for himself. Had barely escaped with his life. Vassily and Zhabnov, the fools, believed that the freefighters were just ragtag groups of unshaven mountain men, but Killov knew. Perhaps he was the only one who truly understood that, for the first time in a century, the Red rule was threatened here in America.
It was growing lighter outside, the blood-red rays of the morning sun biting their way through the black purple skies of night. Surrounding his black steel and glass skyscraper were the towering snow-covered Rocky Mountains—and somewhere in those vast peaks of ice and pines lay Ted Rockson’s hidden city. Killov glared out at the mountains angrily as if it were their fault that Rockson managed to escape capture by his elite KGB Death Squads again and again. As the red waves of morning light washed down over the blue slopes like blood dripping from the guts of some immense corpse, Killov popped several more pills. He had been taking so many of the things lately that he had to keep counterbalancing the effects of first one then the other; taking ups for hours and then feeling as if his head might explode through the ceiling, taking tranquilizers to force his enraged body to relax slightly. He had bottles of the drugs on a shelf behind his desk—pink ones, yellow ones, ovals, and squares. He could hardly remember what did what anymore and it hardly mattered anyway. Nothing could take his rage, his hate away from him, and that was what really powered Colonel Killov; the hatred for Ted Rockson—the only man who had ever outfoxed, outmaneuvered and out-willpowered him. Killov was not used to such games. Men had died instantly for much less. Red soldiers through the
Killov slammed his fist down on the black-marbled plastisynth table that curved around in a semicircle facing the ten foot high polarized picture windows, his gaunt face skull-like in the growing dawn.
“No one must know. No one must ever speak of what happened that night out on the Utah Plains,” Colonel Killov, the supreme commander of all KGB forces in America muttered half madly to himself, not even realizing he was speaking. “No one must ever know of this defeat of mine out in the desert by a band of brigands.” His mind couldn’t stop returning to the scene of the battle. It had to be Ted Rockson and his men who had attacked Killov’s squadron of attack helicopters, destroying all the gunships save his alone. He remembered the carnage and the black beams that the small band of freefighters had shot up at the choppers just when it seemed their fate was inevitably sealed by death. Killov had had many nightmares about those few moments.
“If I hadn’t had that last second urge, that slightest caution to hang back as the fleet of black death’s-head helicopters went in for the kill, I’d—” The rest of the thought remained in his mind, unspoken. He would be dead. Burned into a pile of smoldering, glowing metal like the others. The freefighters had come up with a fantastic new weapon, the likes of which Killov had never seen. How could they have made it? Their hidden cities couldn’t be that advanced—could they? Capable of producing technologically advanced weaponry far ahead of the Russians? It didn’t seem possible. And yet he had seen the evidence for himself. Had barely escaped with his life. Vassily and Zhabnov, the fools, believed that the freefighters were just ragtag groups of unshaven mountain men, but Killov knew. Perhaps he was the only one who truly understood that, for the first time in a century, the Red rule was threatened here in America.
It was growing lighter outside, the blood-red rays of the morning sun biting their way through the black purple skies of night. Surrounding his black steel and glass skyscraper were the towering snow-covered Rocky Mountains—and somewhere in those vast peaks of ice and pines lay Ted Rockson’s hidden city. Killov glared out at the mountains angrily as if it were their fault that Rockson managed to escape capture by his elite KGB Death Squads again and again. As the red waves of morning light washed down over the blue slopes like blood dripping from the guts of some immense corpse, Killov popped several more pills. He had been taking so many of the things lately that he had to keep counterbalancing the effects of first one then the other; taking ups for hours and then feeling as if his head might explode through the ceiling, taking tranquilizers to force his enraged body to relax slightly. He had bottles of the drugs on a shelf behind his desk—pink ones, yellow ones, ovals, and squares. He could hardly remember what did what anymore and it hardly mattered anyway. Nothing could take his rage, his hate away from him, and that was what really powered Colonel Killov; the hatred for Ted Rockson—the only man who had ever outfoxed, outmaneuvered and out-willpowered him. Killov was not used to such games. Men had died instantly for much less. Red soldiers through the
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