Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style by Ryder Stacy Page B

their smirks bounced off his broad back as they saw him struggle with his load. The man looked as if he were about to open a traveling culinary school.
    Next on the line of the strike team was Detroit Green. The black cannonball of a hellfighter had been with Rockson from the beginning. Named after his hometown, the black powerhouse had made his way to Century City, where he and Rockson, another orphan, had grown up fast friends—had traveled the mountains together, spying on the Reds and their convoys . . . until things changed and Rockson grew into a leader of men. But there was no resentment between them. Detroit knew what he could do—as did all the other men of the squad. Go with Rockson into hell itself if he asked them—if that’s what it called for to set America free!
    Though not tall, Detroit’s shoulders were like a defensive lineman’s—and the oversized sweatshirt he wore bulged as if it would split from the muscles beneath. Across his chest were bandoliers of grenades—the weapon with which he was extremely adept. Coming from a long line of baseball players, pitchers in particular, Detroit had always played the game well, whether knocking down cans from an alley wall in the slums of New Detroit—before the Reds took out 90 percent of the city—to pitching in the Century City softball games—and winning most—to throwing grenades at convoys and even choppers. Detroit was a starter all the way. His fighting abilities—plus his mechanical aptitude, which somehow enabled him to repair anything that chugged, turned, wheezed or sputtered—made the son of a bitch a one-man army of can-do.
    Near the wall, trying to figure out just how to strap up the damned hybrid properly, was the newest member of the Rock team—Scheransky, a Russian defector. Some of the men had been apprehensive—to say the least—about Scheranksy’s addition. But Rock had trusted the man—and his ability to speak Russian, plus his technical knowledge about a number of Russian weapons and communications systems, made him an extremely important asset to the team. That was enough for the rest of them. The Russian had already proven himself in combat. The crucial forge. For there’s something about sharing the experience of bullets coming at you that tends to make men fast friends.
    Scheranksy had been fat, pale, when he defected. But already his liaison with Century City, with Rockson, had toughened him up. He looked trimmer, leaner . . . dare any of them think it, meaner. For it had been the joke of the outfit that the man was the least fighting oriented fellow they had ever seen. It wasn’t really in the man to fight. And yet he had learned. For he was one hell of a motivated man. A man who had tasted slavery, and now had the flavor of freedom on his lips.
    Rock reached Snorter, his personal ’brid, who had been with him for several years now. A somewhat amazing fact, considering that his previous three mounts had been shot out from under him in the space of two years. He patted the tall, sturdy hybrid on its nose and slipped it a small lump of sugar, a vice that he found made the animal eternally indebted to him. The ’brid was already loaded up. One of the other men had stacked the standard equipment and supplies each of them took on all missions—plus five boxes of his .12 gauge shotgun-pistol ammo, and some sturdy walkie-talkies.
    He fingered the pistol at his side. Somehow in his gut he wondered if that was going to be enough. There was death in the air. He could feel it, sense it. His mutant sense told him something was looming ahead of them all. Some monstrous presence in the ether. A dark crushing sensation in his chest that Rock hadn’t felt since—since— No, it was impossible. The man was dead. Killov was dead, he knew it. Crashed in Siberia. Rockson had detailed confirmation. Many had seen the MIG fall from the sky. Explode into pieces. There had been no chance of survival this time. The KGB colonel’s nine