Doomsday Warrior 01 Read Free Page A

burning Russian troops some eight hundred feet below.
    The explosion literally ripped away the whole central support system for the bridge and as the Freefighters poured down a hail of lead rain, the bridge slowly, as if in a dream, crumbled in pieces and headed for the water below. All the tanks and troops on the North Colorado River Bridge tumbled end over end, a bloody haze of shrapnel and flesh, into the rushing whitecap of the river. Within seconds, every Russian who had been crossing the structure was dead, sucked down into the dark waters, as if the Colorado River were helping its citizens to fight back against the invaders. Pieces of flesh, legs pouring out blood, helmets, leather cushions to pad hard metal tank seats, all bobbed and twisted, a grisly dance of death in the cold, brown water.
    “Perfect!” Berger yelled out in glee, looking over at Rockson who had slid between two elephant-sized rock formations and was firing down at the frantic Red troops trying to regroup on the opposite bank. The remaining tanks pulled alongside each other in a small clearing just before the bridge and began opening up with their 50mms though they didn’t have the range yet. The American Freefighters could only stay a few more minutes, inflict what damage they could and leave. They fired down, lining up the scampering Russian troops on the far bank, through crosshair sights on the Liberators and squeezed off three-round bursts at heads and chests that ballooned into red sprays of flesh.
    The mortarmen, Hoffman and Jones, began their work, aiming dead center at the line of remaining Russian tanks. The first shell whistled through the air and fell about thirty feet to the left of the end tank. The second shot made contact, blowing the turret right off the K-55. Only two Reds emerged, their clothes on fire. They leaped to the parched ground, screaming, and ran madly in circles, blazing torches of sizzling flesh.
    But the Russian tanks were closing in. Their sightmen were finding the Freefighters’ position. A .150mm shell landed just below the ridge on which the Americans were dug in, sending out a cloud of pulverized rock dust. Then another, even closer. The Americans returned the message with their own greetings of red-hot slugs. The two machine gunmen, Pincer and Croy, opened up with their .50mms, spraying the opposite bank with a continuous curtain of fire. The Red soldiers dove off in all directions as the burning slugs bit into the clearing like teeth searching for human flesh to bite. Rock swung his Liberator around madly, working the selector by feel into auto-mode, holding the trigger. Red shells began falling every few seconds—closer, closer—ripping boulders apart as if they were made of sand. Rockson was in charge. It was his decision when to fight and when to leave. They had already decimated the Russian column, destroyed a good sixty percent of its force, and sent nine tanks to the bottom of the Colorado where fish were now doubtless peering through the machine-gun slits at the charred corpses within. Rock hated to leave a battle, but he was the commander of these men and he was more cautious when it came to other men’s lives than he was with his own. He slammed another clip into the Liberator.
    He whistled twice, a shrill, piercing sound that snapped the men’s heads around. “Freefighters, we’re moving out!” he yelled above the battle din. “We’ve done our work, boys.” The attack force ripped off a few goodbye rounds and jumped back from their ambush sites, behind the shield of boulders, that continued to send up waves of dust and smoke as the Russian shells tore in closer. The guerrillas formed a semicircle around Rockson, loading their guns on their shoulders, folding up the machine guns and quickly loading their supplies into thick canvas packs.
    Rock stood up to his full six foot, three inches of chiseled muscle and looked around at the assembled men. The streak of chalk white that ran down the