Free Doomsday Warrior 19 - America’s Final Defense by Ryder Stacy Page A

switch off to the other ’brids, if you want, on even ground, but the other ’brids shouldn’t have to pull such a load up a hill. And give Bruiser and Sweetheart here a break every sixty miles.”
    “Here’s the map, plus some helpful hints.” Schecter handed a packet to Rockson, who glanced anxiously at his watch.
    “Okay! Now we got ’brids, a nuke, and a map. Time to go. Hope the day doesn’t look bad. By the way, Schecty-baby, what’s to stop the C.C. Rangers from coming after us?”
    “Oh, first they have to figure out you’re really gone, in all this confusion,” Schecter smiled. “That might not be so easy.”
    “Right now,” C.J. smirked, “they think you’re holed up with your men in the mineshafts under the city. I have a dozen of my stablemen dressed like you nuke commandos down there. They’re dug in deep, and will confuse the rangers for a long, long while.”
    “Will the rangers actually shoot at them?” Rock asked. “I don’t want anyone to die.”
    C.J. shook his head. “The substitutes should be okay. The C.C. force will be satisfied to hole them up so they can’t leave the city. So you can’t leave.”
    “Right,” Rock agreed. “Good plan. Meanwhile, we’ll be far from here. I’ve got to hand it to you and Schecter.”
    Rockson went over to pat his horse’s snout and fed her a cookie. He almost got bit in the process. He hadn’t been paying enough attention to the mare as of late, probably—she didn’t like to be cooped up, and she showed her displeasure.
    The loudspeakers suddenly erupted in a sound that echoed down the hallways: “This is Chairman McGrugle. Martial law is now in effect in Century City for the duration of the emergency. The following personnel are being sought for questioning.” The chairman mentioned several names, including C.J.’s.
    Rock guessed some of those sought were the nuke technicians with Schecter, for they blushed and smiled as the chairman spoke. One said “Present” when a particular name was read off. At the end of the “wanted” list was Schecter. Curiously missing were Rock and his men, because they were “trapped.” The ruse was working.
    Schecter handed Rockson another sealed plastic folder. “This is from Rath . . . the details of the situation at the rocket hangar, I’m told. It’s a bit tricky. Seems like a cult of some sort controls the hangar. Study the report when you’re well away from here. I think you have the combat experience and the weaponry to solve the problem easily enough once you get there.”
    “Sure, I’ll read it later,” Rock agreed, stuffing the folder with the other in his belt pack. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay, Doc?”
    Schecter smiled. “I have an escape plan, so don’t worry. First, I have a few more things to do, like sabotage the helicopters and the two planes. So you just get there, and leave the rest to me. Be expeditious and careful when you approach the rocket site. And don’t damage it in a firefight.”
    Rockson’s eyes tightened into slits. “This is the second or third time you mentioned the possibility of a confrontation at the rocket site. Who exactly runs the place?”
    Schecter shrugged, and said, “No time to explain. You’ll handle it. All the dope is in the folders.” Schecter quickly turned to the horse trainer. “C.J., get those bridles on that big ’brid adjusted for Archer! And get the nuke chariot hitched to the two big bruisers. Rock, you and your men roll open the damned blast doors. There’s no power-assist.”
    When Schecter wanted to change the subject, he gave orders.
    Rock had to admit the door was hard to open, but they managed. They eased the chariot out of the doorway into a clear, cold morning. Then he and his men mounted up and rode aside one another down the steep slope. The two biggest ’brids held the chariot back well. Schecter was right—the chariot was the ideal vehicle for carrying the nuke, and C.J.’s super-pack ’brids could