Doomsday Warrior 02 - Red America Read Online Free PDF

military supplies were destroyed. To the Red troops it was as if the hand of God had come down to deliver punishment to the Russian occupiers of the once free America. Their eyes grew wide in horror as the black beams made their way towards them. Most of them, even the bravest of the Red troops, screamed in mortal terror in the few seconds before they were evaporated into madly spinning atoms of imploding energy. The line of trucks turned into a row of bonfires, bonfires of flesh and rubber, burning with a flame so hot that it fed on the metal rubble of the trucks. The supplies inside erupted in secondary explosions as bullets, tank .50mm cannon shells, grenades, and other Red ammunition joined in the conflagration.
    The last of the big diesels went up with a roar as both Rock and Detroit sighted it. With the energy of both of the particle beams hitting it at once, not an atom remained untouched. The shower of glowing particles that had been the truck floated like little seeds of shrapnel back down to the blood-splattered muddy ground.
    The two freefighters stopped firing the weapons and, seeing they had ceased, McCaughlin as well stopped sending down mortars. The freefighters looked slowly along the valley road at a scene of total destruction. A trail of melted, twisted, smoking wreckage fused into the very mud itself; into impossible shapes and configurations that death takes on when it dances among the armies of man. Nothing was left. Just piles of bubbling metal and glowing rubble lighting the smoke above the road as if lighting the way for the souls of the dead to leave this valley of death.
    At the far end of the roadway, just beyond the last of the destroyed trucks, two armored vehicles that had been taking up the rear tore off. Detroit raised his particle beam rifle but Rock yelled over to him, “No! Let them go! Let them tell the others what happened here. I want the whole damn Russian army to understand that the ballgame has changed. We’ll strike at their morale just as we’ve struck at their supply route.” The roadway looked like the bowels of hell itself, smoking metal and human corpses, piles of grotesquely melted Russian bodies, their flesh running into one another, bones sticking from out of red mud.
    The freefighters looked at what they had done and at each other. They felt no guilt, no shame. Nor happiness. They had accomplished what they set out to do. Had done it beyond their wildest dreams. Now at last they had the weapon they needed. A weapon as powerful and awesome as the atomic bomb itself, the twentieth century’s gift of extinction. But now the twenty-first century as well had its weapon of super-death.
    Rockson felt the moment. Let it sink into him. The death, the power of the weapon. It was an historic moment. There was no turning back for man now. Yet another weapon of incalculable destructive power had been unleashed upon the world. Deep in his rock-hard gut Rockson prayed that someday there would be no more new ways to kill men and that the old way would be buried beneath ashes as final as those of the convoy below. But it was necessary for the liberation of America. The Reds would be hopping mad now. Killov in his Denver monolith, ruling the KGB Death Squads across America, Zhabnov in his ridiculous guise as “president” of the United States, in his luxurious quarters in the White House in Washington, even Premier Vassily back in the Kremlin. Yeah, they’d be mad as hell. And scared to death, too.

Three
    T he White House was festooned with large red silk flags. Across the front gate of the Capitol swung a banner with four profile pictures in gold of Lenin, Drabkin, (who had conquered the world through nuclear war a century before), Premier Vassily and President Zhabnov. It waved lightly in the cool November breeze as if welcoming the visiting dignitaries from the global Soviets who walked below. The speeches had already begun though delegates were still arriving at Chekov Airport in