Free Doomsday Warrior 08 - American Glory by Ryder Stacy Page B

hollered across the floor, spinning lariats around one another, showing their expertise in the American sport of lassoing. The Kansas City Brigade wore suits and narrow leather ties—useful for garroting—and looked like businessmen of the last century, ready for a board meeting. Only their Uzis betrayed the fact that they were fighters, not 20th-century account executives. There were men in full U.S. Marine regalia, in Navy gear, in moth-eaten olive-drab Army uniforms. An all-Black unit from the outskirts of the ancient city of Detroit was dressed in black jumpsuits and bristled with knives, pistols, and submachine guns that were slung around their necks. They looked as tough as nails, but mingled with the other U.S. fighters smiling, their hands extended in friendship.
    The various groups of disparately attired Freedomfighters didn’t quite know what to make of one another. But they knew that they had all been out there—fighting, bleeding, seeing their pals die, and waiting for their own incoming hell. And that made them brothers, instantly and forever. Brothers of blood and shrapnel. They showed their weapons to one another, marveling at some feature or other of a pistol or a rifle or a hidden spring blade. War stories were the main order of the day. How many this one had killed. How many Russians, tanks, convoys, and fortresses had been attacked. All the statistics that would fascinate a fighting man and bore everyone else to death. By the time the meeting was called to order, they were laughing and shadow-sparring with one another like boyhood buddies. This might be the only time they would meet. And most would die—of that they were all sure. So their exchanges of friendship and joking had special meaning for every one of them. A memory to clutch hold of when they were lying somewhere in a ditch with their guts smoking out of a hole in their stomachs.
    “May I introduce the President of the Re-United States,” council president Randolph said loudly, cutting through the chatter like a sword. All mouths closed and eyes turned toward the haggard-looking man who walked slowly to a hastily erected stage in the center of the wide Lincoln square. Seats had been brought from every part of the city and arranged in long curving lines around the central platform. They had expected several hundred—but nearly a thousand men had shown up, in some cases the entire top echelon of some of the Hidden Cities—all wanting to make the historic trip. Now they filled the entire square, stretching off for twenty rows. And the citizens of Century City, fascinated by the proceedings as well, stood far back against the concrete walls or sat atop the one-and two-story factories that surrounded the central thoroughfare. They broke into wild applause that once again brought a smile to President Langford’s face. Rockson could see that the love and respect of his people really did seem to put some electricity back into the man’s face. Kim sat up on the dais behind her father, so Rock at least didn’t have to worry about being caught between two beautiful women attempting to throw haymakers at one another. Rona sat by his side, her arms through his, with a snide smile on her perfect face. She kept glancing up at the president’s daughter, making sure she could clearly see who was with the man they both desired. For possession in love is nine-tenths of the law.
    President Langford gave a rousing speech about heroism in the face of impossible odds and how proud he was of each and every one of them. The words were poetic and stirring, but the voice cracked from time to time. Yet it hardly mattered to those who listened. For he was their president—a living symbol that all was possible, that freedom was not just another pipe dream. So they gazed up at the old man as if he was the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen. All their days of fighting, of suffering, suddenly seemed worth every second of pain.
    When Langford was finished, he