Doomsday Warrior 09 - America’s Zero Hour Read Online Free PDF Page B

would have been great, they had worked together before. The problem was, he had accumulated too much radiation exposure in the last mission. The man was a fighter, the best. But the invisible enemy that stalked the land—the radioactive particles of sand, the deadly pockets of radioactive gases that periodically were released from the upper atmosphere—they had made the man a near invalid, his immune system in shatters, always coughing, gums bleeding. Someone should have put his file in the Inactive Section. Rockson did it himself, feeling like a heel, but knowing the man would be dead within weeks if he took any more outside exposure. His fighting days were over.
    Rockson called the entire team together in the conference room on C level and explained the mission. He told them that they were all volunteers. They could decline. None did so.
    “Chen, I assign you and McCaughlin—you both seem to have a handle on the supply aspect of our plan—to quartermaster for us,” Rockson said. “I want a detailed list of what we need sent to the quartermaster’s office on D-3 level, and a duplicate for me.”
    “I had to open my big mouth,” said big McCaughlin. “I hate lists and paperwork.”
    “The job’s not complete until the paperwork is done,” laughed Detroit, his smile beaming. He was glad to be going out again.
    “And you, Detroit, I want you to make sure we have all the medical supplies we need. Work it out with Doc Elston—I hear you’re quite friendly with her since she reattached your right arm in microsurgery a few months back.”
    Detroit’s smile vanished. “And, pray tell, what might you be doing while we all work?”
    Rock said, “There’s plenty for me to do to get ready. I don’t like the idea of using the ’brids as transportation. I want to check down in Veterinary Section, see if any back-bred dogs can be brought along. They’re intelligent animals; I’d like to have some dog sleds made up if there are any suitable dogs down there. Some of Dr. Schecter’s boys might be able to modify some carts, weld on skids. It’s winter out there . . .”
    Detroit said, “Rock I don’t know how to tell you this—but the dogs are all dead. That section of the city collapsed, killing them all, when Century City was bombed.”
    “Shit,” Rock uttered, “I had high hopes for the breeding program. Then it has to be horses. We can’t take half-track vehicles, we’d run out of fuel—but, the ’brids can eat the winter vegetation as long as there is any—even evergreen boughs, if they’re mashed up right. I’ve got to get maps microstated for the mission. As I told you, I don’t know where we’ll wind up, so we’re taking along maps for every piece of land north of here.”
    Rockson assigned tasks to all the men—getting the ’brids, the weaponry from the arsenal, and so on. He went down to the map room. He was appalled that many areas of Canada had no current maps. He was given maps that hadn’t been updated in a hundred years.
    Rockson allowed some time for the men to say good-bye to their loved ones. Then they met for final check-out at the clothing supply room. “Men, each of you take your size parkas. Sorry, only one color—white. For camouflage. The jackets are reversible, though. If we want to keep track of each other, we wear the red side out. Make sure you have everything. Once we get going, there’s no stopping for winter long johns.” That brought a laugh.
    They loaded up the six pack-’brids with all the equipment of every variety that Century City had gathered in a hundred years: sweaters, insulated down parkas, Arctic boots, snow-blindness goggles—even a few harpoons for ice fishing. They staggered away under the overstuffed packs on their backs and in their arms, out to the waiting hybrids at the wide exit ramp.
    It was five-thirty A.M. They hadn’t slept that night, and yet each man was eager and alert. Rock had each man double-check his weapons. Each had a Liberator