Red Holocaust

Chapter Nineteen

Without the usual computer-guidance system, J.B. had been forced to fire the missile on manual sighting. Fortunately the range was less than half a mile, so accuracy wasn't too much of a problem. And the target was some thousand feet long by two hundred feet high.

The explosion came nearly dead center between the middle towers, roughly a third of the way down from the top of the dam.

To J.B. Dix, standing only a little below the level of the reservoir, the effect was spectacular.

To Ryan Cawdor, halfway down the valley, it was stunningly powerful.

To Uchitel and the rest of the Narodniki, at the bottom of the valley, the sight of the explosion was totally, lethally paralyzing.

A mighty column of foaming water ripped through the hole. Immediately great cracks appeared in the main structure of the dam as the pressure began to tell. Within ten seconds a huge hole appeared, destroying the top walkway of the concrete structure. Hundreds of thousands of gallons of frothing, surging water roared into the valley, washing away everything before it.

For a few heartbeats, Ryan thought they'd miscalculated. The reservoir emptied faster than they'd figured it would, and the flood swept by only forty feet below where they hid. The noise was deafening, like the roaring of a thousand enraged animals. At his side, Krysty held her hands over her ears.

The guerrillas' camp vanished.

All but half a dozen of the Narodniki were buried under the avalanche of water, mangled and pulped by the stones that the dam burst carried with it. The corpses bobbed and danced across the plain, slowing as the water began to spread out.

The dead were borne along for a couple of miles until the water became more shallow, and the carcasses snagged on rocky outcrops. The river turned sluggish and gray at its edges, finally solidifying into ice, so the corpses rested, hands and heads sticking out from the hardening slush.

Pechal went farthest of all. Sorrow, the torturer, was on his back, legs broken, hip smashed, but miraculously still living. Only his face and one hand protruded from the ice, which set around him like stone, crushing his chest, slowing his breathing. To the last, his eyes remained open and staring. Uchitel survived.

Bedraggled and freezing, the leader of the killers clung to a rock as the water tore at his legs. He'd climbed away from the tumbling wall of bubbling death, as had three other survivors: Bizabraznia, weeping, naked below the waist from the plucking river; Zmeya, who had climbed highest of them all, wriggling to safety like a skinned eel; and Krisa, the Rat, his red eyes wide in shock.

All the rest were gone — all the animals, provisions, guns and ammunition, swept away to destruction. Uchitel looked around, seeing that the river was already dropping fast to its original level. But the land beneath it was scoured clean.

"Damnation take you! Faster, you fumbling dolts! We must get there before they can escape us."

The blowing of the dam had taken Zimyanin by surprise. Until he'd seen the silver missile sprout its fiery tail, he hadn't known then any weapon that could wreak such devastation still existed. As the smoke and spray cleared, Zimyanin made out several of his prey still alive and clinging to the sides of the valley. But he'd also seen movement on the far side, where he believed there might be more of the poverty-stricken American peasants who inhabited the region. It would be as well if he got to his countrymen first.

But so early in the morning, the cavalry were slow and clumsy in saddling and mounting. He heard moans about the cold and about the lack of food, not even a hot drink for breakfast.

But at last they were picking their way along the ridge of the valley, heading toward the final scene of the drama.

"Ol’ J.B. got the ace on the line," whooped Ryan Cawdor, staring unbelievingly at the chaos below him. The main torrent had abated, and the morning was so bitingly cold that the rocks on both sides of the valley were slick with ice.

"Let's go," said Finnegan, hefting his gray Heckler & Koch submachine gun.

"Watch 'em. They've probably got guns left," warned Ryan.

"Not that fat sow," grinned Henn, pointing at the huge Bizabraznia. "Unless she's got a hider pistol tucked in her snatch."

"Got room for a mortar up there," cackled Finn. Descending with the utmost caution between the tumbled, wet stones, Ryan led them to the river. Each of them was carrying a blaster, ready for action: Hennings and Finnegan with their HK-54As, Krysty with the silvered H&K P-7A 13 pistol, Ryan with his caseless G-12, all covering the helpless Russians.

With the water now returned to its original level, Uchitel and the three other survivors climbed warily down and were now facing Ryan across fifteen paces of fast-flowing river. Slowly, Uchitel raised his hands above his head in the universal gesture of surrender.

Krisa and Zmeya followed. Finally, scowling, Bizabraznia lifted her hands.

"Watch 'em," said Ryan, crossing the jumble of stones and large boulders with care. If he slipped on the ice, the water would carry him to his death.

Once he was over, he beckoned for the others to follow. He kept his eye — and the muzzle of his blaster — pointed at the captive Russians.

"What're we goin' to do with the fuckers?" asked Finnegan.

"Ice 'em," replied Ryan. "Mebbe try an' talk to 'em first. You got that book?" he asked Uchitel and mimed reading and flicking pages.

Krysty watched a trickle of water flowing over the lip of the ruined dam. "I can see J.B., Lori and Doc near the ghost town," she said.

"They're wavin'," added Hennings.

Ryan was still watching Uchitel, his good eye locked on the Russian's amber gaze. "The book, you bastard," he repeated.

"I can hear..." began Krysty.

"What?"

"Horses. Earth Mother. I can hear so many horses, comin' this way! I couldn't hear before with the noise of the river."

"J.B. is pointin' over that way," said Hennings, gesturing to the west, where Krysty was also pointing.

Uchitel's face was impassive. He had delivered enough death in his time to know that Ryan Cawdor's face showed only the promise of killing. Moving carefully, the Russian reached inside his coat and produced the damp copy of the phrase book, throwing it down in the mud at Ryan's feet.

As he stooped to pick it up, Ryan heard what the girl had detected: hooves pounding on rock, coming toward them. He glanced toward the ghost town, but J.B., Doc and Lori had disappeared.

"Let's kill the sons of bitches and get us the fuck out of here," said Hennings, backing toward the river.

"No," said Ryan. "Look at this bastard's face. Whoever's comin' aren't friends of his. Must be Americans. We'll wait and..."

The words died in his throat as he watched the ridge a quarter mile to the west.

While they'd been in the redoubt, he'd seen a couple of old vids called westerns, involving savages that attacked villes and burned them down until sec men called cavalrycame to the rescue. Impressively, savages always seemed to appear in single file on the crest of a mile. "Well, I'll be..." whispered Finn.

Bizabraznia fell to her pale knees and buried her face in her hands. The other Russians looked scared.

"There's nearly a hundred," said Hennings with almost religious awe.

A hundred men, well mounted, all wearing a uniform, were approaching. Even at that distance, Ryan knew that these couldn't be friends or Americans. There wasn't a baron in Deathlands with the power to put a regular small army into the field like this.

The rising sun glanced off badges on some of their gray caps. Most had rifles slung across their backs.

"Any move and we're cold meat," said Ryan. "If it comes to it, take as many as you can. Play it soft."

They watched as the riders descended from the ridge, then cantered over the flat trail, reining in a wide semicircle at a signal from the man who seemed to be their leader. He was a pockmarked fellow with a bald head and a drooping moustache. He heeled his horse forward. Stopping a few paces from Ryan, he scrutinized them all, paying particular attention to their blasters.

Uchitel studied the officer, then barked a question at him in Russian. Zimyanin ignored him.

Ryan tried to flick through the phrase book while still keeping his gun ready. The bald man reached into his coat, pulling out a small red notebook, with some writing on the cover in a peculiar, angular script that Ryan couldn't read.

"I am Major Gregori Zimyanin, and I bring greetings from the party."

The accent was heavy, but Ryan found it easier to understand than Uchitel's garbled words. He bowed slightly to the Russian.

"I take prisoner this mans," he said, waving with the book at Uchitel and the other three.

"Let him," hissed Finnegan.

"No," said Ryan. "They're my prisoners."

Zimyanin glanced through his book as if he wasn't sure he believed what he said. "Nyet. Itake. He Russian. I take."

"No," repeated Ryan, conscious of the others spreading out behind him supportively.

The officer pored over his book, lips moving as he rehearsed what he wanted to say. "You are four. We are many. We kill."

"We kill many of you," answered Ryan, trying to show a confidence he didn't truly feel.

"He Russian," the major said, pointing at Uchitel again.

Ryan made his move. Taking care not to spark off a firefight, he stepped in and moved Uchitel and the woman to one side with the barrel of the Heckler & Koch. Then he pushed the other two prisoners toward the man on horseback.

"I'm a great believer in compromise," he said, knowing that the soldier would not understand; knowing as well that the gesture was obvious.

Zimyanin hesitated. He could see that these Americans were not helpless peasants. They could only be some sort of unofficial militia, roaming the land to repel invaders. There weren't many of them, but their guns looked more lethal than anything he'd ever seen before. And they'd blown that huge dam.

Ryan faced him, raising his eye questioningly. "Yes, my friend?"

"Da."

The smooth, gray rifle slipped inside the long coat. Ryan drew the SIG-Sauer P-226 9 mm pistol, relishing the familiar weight in his hand. Standing three paces from Uchitel and the blubbery bulk of the woman, he fired three spaced shots.

The first two entered the woman's chest between her sagging breasts. The impact sent Bizabraznia staggering backward, and Ryan put the third bullet carefully into the middle of her face.

The entrance hole of the final shot was lost in the pasty expanse of her round face with its layers of jowls. It hit the center of the upper lip and exited near the top of her head, removing a chunk of skull as large as a grown man's fist.

Instantly there was some talk among the watching horsemen, but Ryan couldn't tell whether it was from approval or anger. He stepped toward Uchitel, who faced him impassively.

"Nyet," Zimyanin called then rattled off a string of commands in Russian. He pointed toward Zmeya and Krisa, who fell to their knees and began to babble their pleas for mercy.

The Americans watched as six soldiers swung down from their horses. One man took Zmeya's left hand in both ofhis while a second cavalryman took the other hand. They tugged as hard as they could to get the kneeling guerrilla to rise. While they pulled him, a third soldier took a short length of waxed rawhide from his belt and looped it around Zmeya's neck.

The other trio of cavalrymen treated Krisa to the same, then looked toward the commanding officer for a signal. Zimyanin favored Ryan with a thin smile, then nodded to the troops.

The nooses of thin cord tightened, vanishing into the necks of both condemned men. Zmeya tried to cry out, but the sound was strangled, caught in his throat. The soldiers holding the prisoners struggled to retain a footing on the slippery pebbles. Krisa died first, his red eyes protruding so far from their sockets that it seemed they would burst. Blood came from his mouth and nose, then from the corners of his eyes. His body went suddenly slack.

Zmeya, the Snake, fought harder, and his passing took longer. Blood was jetting from a severed artery under his ear before he finally became limp, slumping in the arms of the two men gripping his wrists.

At a gesture from Zimyanin, the corpses were dragged by the ankles to the river. One of the soldiers drew a steel knife from his belt and sliced the ears off both bodies and tucked the ears into a pocket.

Then each carcass was heaved into the river. Rolling and turning in the swift current, they were carried away across the plain, toward where the rest of Uchitel’s band had found their last resting place.

"My turn, Major," said Ryan, ready to execute Uchitel. But the chief of the butchers was not quite done yet.

With a curse he pushed Ryan into Hennings and Finnegan, then produced a battered 9 mm Makarov PM pistol from inside his coat and levelled it at Zimyanin. Time held still, like a bubble of air in a frozen lake. The officer's face whitened, his hands rising in a futile gesture of protection.

The crack of the handgun was almost swallowed by the rushing noise of the river.

Uchitel's almond-shaped golden eyes opened wide in disbelief, and he looked over his shoulder at the flame-haired Krysty Wroth and at the small gleaming H & K pistol smoking in her right hand. Blood appeared on his chest as he dropped his own gun in the dirt, sank to his knees, then toppled, his silver headband with its great ruby clinking against the stones.

"Earth Mother forgive me," whispered the girl.

"She will, lover. She will," said Ryan.

The Americans did nothing to stop the soldiers from mutilating the corpses of the woman and Uchitel, though Hennings pushed them aside to retrieve the fallen piece of jewelry.

"Take it, girl," urged the tall black, handing the ruby to Krysty. "Better you than them. You fuckin' earned it."

The two corpses bobbed downriver, ending the short and bloody history of the Narodniki.

Zimyanin had been diligently studying his phrase book again. Ryan had thumbed through the brown paperback that had belonged to Uchitel. The Russian spoke first.

"I thank you for your assistance. Now we take all your country for party."

"What? No fuckin' way, friend." Ryan's gesture and tone needed no translation.

The officer indicated his overwhelmingly superior forces with a wave of his hand. "Your country is not strong. We take. You not veto us."

It was the moment that Ryan Cawdor had suspected was coming from the time the Russians first appeared over the ridge. They must have ridden across many miles of Alaska and seen no opposition. Now only three men and a girl seemed to stand between them and all of America.

"Let 'em go. We can make the redoubt and get the fuck out of here."

Finn's argument was unanswerable. To fight here was to die. If they stood aside, it was better than fifty-fifty that the Russians wouldn't provoke a firefight, and the gateway would carry them far from here. This bitter northern land with its freezing residue of the nuclear winter wasn't their concern. There surely wasn't any profit in trying to defend it.

Ryan hesitated only a moment.

"No," he said.

"Nyet?" asked Zimyanin in disbelief.

"No. This is our land. You get back to Russia and your party. Go."

"You fight?"

"Damned right we do." He drew the G-12 again, emphasizing his point.

The Russian thumbed through his book frantically. Eventually he seemed to find what he wanted. "You will die all. Why?"

"Friend of mine back in Deathlands once took off all his gear and jumped in a tar pit. I got him out, cleaned him down and asked him the same question — asked him why. He said it seemed a fuckin' good idea at the time."

Zimyanin looked at Ryan, finding him utterly beyond comprehension. Behind Ryan, Henn and Finnegan laughed at his story.

"Ready," said Ryan. "Here it comes."

There was a sudden burst of automatic-weapons fire, faint and distant, high up the valley, toward the ghost town. Everyone looked around, seeing three figures grouped around something: a pointed object about as tall as a man.

"It's the fuckin' dummy missile," gasped Hennings.

"Shut up," snarled Ryan.

Zimyanin took his precious Zeiss binoculars from their leather case and raised them to his eyes, adjusting the focus. He held them there for a long time, finally lowering them.

Silently, ignoring the whispers from his troops, he swung off his horse and stood holding the reins. The book open in his gloved right hand, the Russian beckoned to Ryan, then gestured at the missile.

But he couldn't find what he wanted to ask. Shaking his head, clicking his fingers in irritation, finally sighing, he pointed again toward J.B. and the rocket.

"Boom?" he asked, hesitantly.

"Yeah, Boom! Fuckin' great boom! Boooooom!"

"Da," agreed the Russian, searching assiduously again for the phrase he wanted. Eventually he found it.

"To your good health, American, and to your land."

He offered a hand, and Ryan reached out and took it, shaking it firmly. He looked into the eyes of the Russian.

"And to your good health, brother, and to your country and party."

Zimyanin clicked his heels and bowed slightly. Remounting he called out an order to his patrol, then led them slowly across the valley toward the west.

Toward the icebound Bering Strait.

Toward Russia.

About a half-mile away he stood in the stirrups, and raised a clenched fist to the watching Americans. Ryan waved in acknowledgement.

Finally the last of the cavalry unit vanished over the ridge and the day was quiet again.

"That was close, lover," said Krysty, finally bolstering her pistol.

"Yeah," agreed Ryan. "It was close."