Doomsday Warrior 07 - American Defiance by Ryder Stacy Page A

Australians cheered. Rockson had made friends for life.
    When the Freefighters had each had their own can and everyone was looking markedly relaxed, Boyd looked up at Rock and asked, “So what is the situation, mate? You all off to be doing a bit of Red bashing, hey?”
    “Something like that,” Rockson said, crushing the can with his palm against the ’brid’s saddle and putting it in his saddlebag as a souvenir. He rarely collected things on his journeys, unless they were of particular scientific interest—but this—this would have to go in the Century City Museum.
    “Well, how’s about we join up with you? All my men are killers trained to the highest degree. We may look like a bunch of lollywoggers to you mates—but we ain’t no dills, we’re ’ockers ready to knock some bloody squatter poofs right the hell to the outback.”
    “I can’t do it—I’m sorry,” Rockson said, looking squarely into the eyes of the Aussie commander. “I’m not insulting you, and believe me, I’m sure I speak for every man here when I say we’re all deeply moved by your volunteering to come over here. But we’re on the highest priority mission and haven’t got time to waste with teaching newcomers the tricks of the trade. Besides, we’re moving fast. I don’t know how well your camels would do where we’re going.”
    “Well, not meaning to insult your mules over there—but I would rather imagine our ‘bitebacks’ could give your stubby creatures a run for their money.” Boyd looked quite satisfied with that statement, and stood a few feet from Rock, resting his arm against one of the still-whining camels.
    Rockson searched his mind for excuses that would sound reasonable. “We’re probably going to take on a whole goddamned Red Fortress—you chaps are just carrying .45’s.”
    “Not armed, are we?” Lieutenant Boyd said indignantly, his tanned ruddy face deepening to a flush. The Aussie reached over with his right hand and unzipped the carrying bag on his chest. He extracted a V-shaped object made of metal and held it up. “It was these blokes here what kicked the Russkie arse right outta Down Under.”
    “What the hell is that?” Detroit asked, pointing at what looked like nothing more than a piece of bent metal.”
    “This ’ere’s a Boomer—boomerang to you American mates.”
    “Yeah, I’ve read about them,” Chen piped up. “Works like the star-knives—spinning their way around. Used to use ’em for hunting, if I’m not mistaken.”
    “Can do a lot of things, I’ll be telling you,” the Aussie commander grinned as he manipulated a small switch on the thing’s smooth shining side. The front edge lit up with a dull whooooosh, and what looked like a tiny plastic window appeared along the front of the V, glowing a luminous blue.
    “Lasers,” Rock whispered as he watched in amazement.
    “Yes, lasers, chum,” Boyd said, fitting his hand around one end. “It’s an old hunting tool. The boongs—Aborigines to you—invented ’em thousands of years ago. We just added a little technology—and we ’ad ourself a bloody knocker the poofs couldn’t match.” He hefted it in one hand, slapping it into the palm of the other. “It’s small, light, deadly. Here—want a demo?”
    “Sure,” Rock said, “but at night?”
    “The bloody ripper is filled to overflow with superchips. It can see at night, can . . . ah, but a picture is worth a thousand tongues of lingo, ain’t it now, Mr. Freefighter?” Lieutenant Boyd pulled his hand holding the boomerang back like a baseball pitcher, and then with a low whistle the Boomer was flying through the air, spinning like a helicopter rotor. It traveled a good two hundred feet, altering its course slightly to zero-in on the target that Boyd had sighted up just before he threw it. The two-foot-long V of computerized alloy steel sliced dead center through a purple cactus, cutting it in two. The top seven feet toppled over like an old tree struck by