Cads #2Tech Battleground by John Sievert

Author:John Sievert [Sievert, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Science Fiction, Suspense, Espionage, Thrillers
ISBN: 9780821717905
Publisher: Zebra
Published: 1986-04-01T00:00:00+00:00

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

A huge trailer-truck rig with DEKESON'S POTATO CHIPS emblazoned on its brilliant white aluminum side came roaring down the Interstate. Inside, the speed-demon driver gripped the big wheel with work-hard hands. His deep green eyes, hidden behind mirror-sun glasses, were glued to the clear road ahead. He had to get west, to Oklahoma, to deliver his twenty thousand Bibles. To spread the word for Jerry Jeff Jeeters' Christian Crusade. But he was worried about finding more wreckage or stalled cars on the road. At 90 plus miles per hour, it would be hard to stop the big truck.

His name was Rusty Anders, his CB nickname was Crusher. That was because he was a big man. In Cattauragas, Kentucky, he had won the bear-hug contest at every state fair for years.

He hadn't been a "religious" man until now. He had been a beer guzzling brawler. A womanizer. But Jerry Jeff Jeeters, the People's Reverend, the only American the Reds let use their television station in South Carolina, had changed him.

Rusty smiled. In his earphones, attached to his Sony Walkman, he heard the blasting song "I Can't Drive 55." True enough, for the message had to be spread, people had to understand Reverend Jeeters when he read scripture. Yessiree.

What was that ahead, dipping in and out of the heat-fog on the road? Some sort of dark objects. A whole mess of motorcycles. He hit the big airbrakes. Sparks flew from the grinding cylinders, calipers grabbed and carved gouges in the brake drums. He didn't know if he could stop in time. They were all across the road, these strange black riders atop their odd motorcycles. And they were coming at him at about the same speed he was approaching them.

Cursing, he worked the gearbox, slamming the tortured stickshift down into lower gear, double-clutching the rig down two more. All the time, standing on the big air brakes.

The cyclists were hitting the brakes also, and smoke was pouring from their big tires as they skidded to a halt. It was over. The truck was stopped. So were the bikers, a mere ten feet from each other.

Rusty jumped down from the cab of the truck, his big pump-action .12 gauge shotgun cradled in his arm. He figured them to be some sort of Russian rad-suited squad. Too many of them, only one of him, but maybe he could take a few of them with him to hell. He raised the gun, then lowered it. The strange black suited men on the odd bikes had American flags painted on their shoulders.

"Hello," Sturgis said. "You can put down that gun, mister. We're American, and I'm pretty damned sure you are too, seeing the way you look."

Rusty Anders did just that. In a half hour, Sturgis had explained most of what C.A.D.S. was about to the trucker, as they sat and talked at some rest stop picnic tables alongside the road.

Anders explained that he was a worker in the Army of God of the Reverend Jeeters.

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