Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style Read Online Free PDF Page B

radio transmissions on every frequency. The Russians have gone crazy. They’re broadcasting across the band, using tremendous kilowatts of power to get their message out loud and clear. They’re asking for a conference, Rock. Now—fast. I don’t know what their game is—some damned new trick, most likely. It’s a joke to even consider it, of course. But the Council is meeting about it now.”
    “They are? Then—we’ll talk. Not now. I’ll call you. Too tired.” He started off with Rona glued to his side.
    “Damn it, man,” Rath shouted after him. “You always want things your way. Even if the world is about to explode—Ted Rockson can’t be disturbed.”
    Rockson spoke over his shoulder, not breaking stride.
    “Damned right, man. And I’m putting those very words up on my door. ‘Do not disturb!’ And anyone who touches that doorknob before I do—I’m not responsible for that man’s fingers.”

Four
    I n the restored White House, in Washington, D.C., thousands of miles away, a red, flabby face was staring at itself in a gilded hand mirror. And it was furious. The jowls under the pale blue, watery eyes shook in rage. “No, damn it!” President Zhabnov screamed out shrilly, “I said two-thirds of an inch. To trim these hairs two-thirds of an inch. Not butcher them. You’ve taken at least a full inch off—I can see that.” President Zhabnov, nearly bald, had cultivated these frail little hairs. They weren’t much to begin with. And now, now this fool barber had cut at least ten of the wispy hairs that he had combed with thick grease straight across his head sideways—the man had ruined him. And just when the Peace Conference was about to begin. Vassily himself was coming over from Moscow. And Zhabnov would look the fool.
    “You imbecile,” he screamed, striking the barber on the cheek so that the man flew backward more from the sheer shock of the attack than the actual force of the blow. For Zhabnov was really nothing more than jello beneath his blubbery thick arms. Muscles that hadn’t had to lift more than a piece of fruit, hands that hadn’t done more than guide a pen or squeeze a young virgin. “Get him out of my sight,” Zhabnov bellowed and Presidential Guards who accompanied him everywhere immediately grabbed the trembling Afghani barber and carried him bodily from the room. Zhabnov really didn’t want to have the foul-breathed Asian killed. The man had given him good cuts before . . . Hmm . . . Perhaps it wasn’t that bad, after all. There, if looked at in a slightly different angle of light—it wasn’t too bad. He frowned. Perhaps he wasn’t handsome, but he had plenty of character. That was for sure. Yes, in fact, the President of the United Soviet States of America grunted with satisfaction as he looked closer into the center of the antique mirror supposedly used by Martha Washington herself—just one of many items that Zhabnov had had dug up from storage vaults deep below the White House.
    “Yes, actually I think he did a fair job after all. What do you think, Gudinov?” Zhabnov asked, turning toward his male secretary who was constantly at his side—or within a few feet. The damned fellow was the only one Zhabnov had ever had who actually seemed able to make things happen, get him places on time—work out the snags of a great man’s life. It was so hard to find good help these days.
    “Excellency, it looks—suited to your face,” the secretary replied diplomatically. He knew that honesty was not what the President really wanted. For, in truth, the man was a hideous red ball of blubber, with hardly a single feature distinguishable in his bowling ball of a face. His life of ultra-hedonism—of the best of foods and the softest of virgins—had taken its toll. Not that the man cared. Zhabnov wasn’t about to enter any beauty contests. Just power struggles. And next to Premier Vassily himself, Zhabnov was the second-most powerful man in the world.
    “Yes—suited to