Geronimo and Bertha were still verifying the status of the soldiers sprawled on the square.
Blade looked at Hickok. “Take Lynx with you. Bring the SEAL here.”
Hickok nodded and ran off, Lynx in tow. They had left the vehicle parked behind a dilapidated shack four blocks to the north.
Rudabaugh and Orson jogged up to Blade.
“We made a quick sweep of the command post,” Rudabaugh reported.
“It’s all ours.”
“What’s inside?” Blade inquired.
“Not much,” Rudabaugh detailed. “Two big rooms with cots for sleeping, a smaller room with a bunch of tables and a stove, an office, and a room with a lot of electronic equipment.”
“What type of electronic equipment?” Blade asked.
Rudabaugh shrugged. “Beats me. We don’t have anything like it in the Cavalry. All the fancy stuff we had like that wore out years ago. 1 did see an old shortwave set once, and I think this stuff inside could be a radio of some kind.”
“Stay here and keep alert,” Blade ordered. “I’m going to have a look.”
He took two steps, then paused. “You both did a good job,” he praised them.
“Even me?” Orson asked.
“Even you,” Blade confirmed.
Orson grinned sheepishly.
Blade headed for the command post. He sincerely hoped there was a radio inside. Unless they could find a trooper relatively unscathed, capable of driving an extended distance, they would need to devise another method of contacting the Doktor. A radio might be just what the… doctor… ordered.
Grinning at his thoughts, he entered the concrete structure and found himself in a hallway. There was a door to his left, partially open, and he walked to it and shoved.
One wall of the room was filled with sophisticated electronic equipment. There was a wooden table aligned against the wall, and several pieces of equipment were on top of the table. In front of the table was a swivel chair, and in the chair, slumped forward so his forehead was resting on the edge of the table, was a trooper, a pair of headphones on his ears.
Blade crossed to the chair and touched the trooper’s left shoulder.
The chair swiveled to one side, causing the trooper to begin to slide toward the cement floor. There was a neat hole in the back of the soldier’s head, and a larger cavity where his right eye had once been.
Rudabaugh, Blade guessed. It looked like the type of wound a Winchester would make. Evidently, Rudabaugh had caught this trooper in the act of radioing for assistance.
The soldier slipped from the chair and landed in a disjointed pile on the floor.
Blade leaned down and stripped the headphones from the soldier. He placed them over his own ears.
“Charlie-Alfa-Tango-Lima-Oscar-Whiskey, come in, please!”
Blade sat down in the chair and studied the equipment on the table.
“Charlie-Alfa-Tango-Lima-Oscar-Whiskey, come in, please!” a faint voice requested.
Blade racked his memory. The Warriors had confiscated some portable radio equipment during their previous encounters with the Army, but the items on the table were completely different in many respects. He recalled his hours spent in the Family library, and one book in particular.
Kurt Carpenter, the Founder of the Home, had personally stocked the hundreds of thousands of books included in the library. Books on every conceivable subject. History books, literature books, humorous books, music books, books on math, geography, astronomy, and all other branches of science. Encyclopedias, dictionaries, and reference books galore. How-to books proliferated. Carpenter had foreseen the Family’s future need for sources of knowledge and instruction. Accordingly, he had included books on the fundamentals of everything from gardening and weaving to metalworking and gunsmithing. As an added treat, Carpenter had added scores upon scores of photographic books to the library. These photographic books, filled as they were with pictures of the prewar society and its incredible accomplishments and lifestyle, were especially cherished by the Family, affording a glimpse of the wonders of the previous age. One of the books, a book Blade remembered at this instant, contained glossy photos and a fascinating narration of the astonishing array of electronic means of communication: television, radios, CBs, telephones, and more.
Blade reached out and took hold of a metallic stick on a stand. If his memory served, this thing was called a microphone. There was a black switch on the base of the microphone. He depressed it and heard an audible click.
“This is Charlie-Alfa-Tango-Lima-Oscar-Whiskey,” he said into the microphone, hoping his hunch was correct, and released the switch.
There were several seconds of static in the headphones.
Had he been wrong? Did he have to do something else to get this contraption to send a signal?
“Charlie-Alfa-Tango-Lima-Oscar-Whiskey, we receive you,” the faint voice stated. “What happened to you? You were cut off in midsentence.
You were saying something about an emergency. What emergency?”
Blade cleared his throat and pressed the switch. “The emergency is over,” he informed the man at the other end. “But I do need to ask a favor.”
“A favor? What are you talking about?” the man demanded.
“I need you to relay a message for me,” Blade told him.
“Say, who is this?” the man asked. “Is it you, Darren?”
“No, this isn’t Darren.”
“Then who is it?” the man impatiently queried.
“My identity isn’t important,” Blade replied. “Will you relay my message or not?”
“I don’t know who you are, buddy,” the man snapped, “but you’re in violation of standard operating procedure. Identity yourself!”
“Will you relay my message?” Blade reiterated.
“What message are you talking about? Why don’t you send it yourself? Who the hell is this?”
“I need you to send a message to the Doktor,” Blade stated.
“The Doktor? Are you crazy?” The man sounded fearful.
“Will you do it?” Blade prompted him.
“Are you serious? The Doktor? I could be taking my life in my hands!” The man paused. “What’s this message, anyway?”
“You’ll do it?”
“I didn’t say that. First tell me what this message is that’s so important.”
Blade smiled. “I can assure you the Doktor will want to receive this message. You have nothing to worry about.”
“So what the hell is it?”
“Tell the Doktor this: Lynx sends his love.”
“Lynx! Lynx!” the man sputtered. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”
“It is no joke.”
“Are you trying to tell me Lynx is there, in Catlow? Who is this, anyway? What the hell kind of game are you playing? If you don’t—”
Blade removed the headphones and switched off the set. He had no doubt the message would get through to its destination. The radioman would consult with his superior, and they would endeavor to contact Catlow again. After failing several times, the radioman’s superior would notify his superior, and so it would go on up the line until someone with the proper authority decided to report the situation to the Doktor. Hours might pass, but the Doktor would be apprised of the message.
Would the Doktor respond as Plato and Lynx had predicted? From what Captain Reno had said about the million-credit reward, the Doktor just might take the bait. Certainly, a man with the Doktor’s intellect would deduce the setup was a trap of some kind. But the key to the success of this operation was the Doktor’s monumental ego; would the Doktor march into the ambush anyway, confident in his ability to exterminate his adversaries? Another factor would be the Doktor’s unquenchable thirst for revenge against Lynx. According to the diminutive mutant—and verified by the statements Captain Reno had made—the Doktor would want to get his hands on Lynx personally.
Which meant, if the assumptions were valid and events proceeded as projected, th
e tiny community of Catlow, Wyoming, was going to be visited by a prestigious psychopath and his murderous misfits.
Blade walked outside and spotted the SEAL parked next to the fountain.
Geronimo and Bertha walked up.
“There are eleven injured,” Geronimo reported. “Seven or eight will die soon, and the rest might pull through with the proper medical help.’’
“We’re not Healers,” Blade stated. “There’s nothing we can do for them.”
Hickok, Lynx, Rudabaugh and Orson approached and joined them.
“We were lucky today,” Blade declared. “We can thank the Spirit none of us was killed. Now we have to get ready for the Doktor—
“How are we going to let him know we’re here if none of the garrison can take the word to him?” Geronimo interjected.
“I’ve taken care of that,” Blade disclosed. He jerked his right thumb toward the command post. “There’s a radio inside. I’ve just sent a message to the Doktor.”
“The one we agreed on?” Lynx inquired.
Blade nodded. “The same one you gave when you destroyed the Biological Center in Cheyenne.”
Lynx grinned contentedly. “That’ll do it! I can’t wait to get my claws on the bastard!”
“We have a lot of preparations to make,” Blade announced. “I want Bertha, Rudabaugh, and Orson to cart these bodies into one of the buildings. We don’t have time to bury them. Hickok, I want you and Geronimo to round up the good citizens of Catlow and assemble them in the town square. See if you can get some of them to tend to the wounded soldiers and have them moved to a house on the north side of town. Lynx, I want you to scout around. See how many vehicles there are in town. Also look for any supplies the garrison might have had stashed, especially weapons or explosives.” He paused. “Okay! Hop to it!”
All of them moved off except Bertha.
“Something the matter?” Blade questioned her.
“Do you really think it’s gonna work?” she bluntly asked.
Blade shrugged. “It might.”
“We could all be killed, you know,” Bertha mentioned.
Blade didn’t answer.
“Why didn’t we use the SEAL today?” Bertha queried.
“We’re saving it for the Doktor,” Blade divulged.
“Figured as much.” She gazed around the square. “I must be as wacko as you boys are to go through with this! But there’s something I wanted you to know.”
“What’s that?”
Bertha fondly glanced at Hickok and Geronimo, then at Blade. “I couldn’t die in better company.”
“We’re all going to live through this,” Blade disputed her. “You’ll see.”
Bertha laughed cynically. “I ain’t much for fairy tales, so don’t try and jive me, sucker! Besides, I got me a… a feelin’ about this.”
“What kind of feeling?”
“I don’t know how to put it into words,” she said.
“Your intuition could be wrong,” Blade remarked. “I think we have a fair chance of coming out of this in one piece.”
Bertha started to leave, chuckling. “You just keep thinkin’, Blade! That’s what you’re good at!”
Blade walked toward the SEAL, troubled. Bertha’s intuition had better be wrong, because he didn’t relish the thought of dying in Catlow, a town he’d never heard of until a couple of weeks before when Yama had returned from his spying mission to Cheyenne with Lynx. After several long talks with Lynx, Plato had formulated his plan. He had picked Catlow because it was one of the northernmost towns in the Civilized Zone, had a relatively small garrison, and was close to South Dakota, the Cavalry’s stamping grounds. Speed was imperative, with Plato insisting they achieve their objectives before the heavy snows began. Well, the first step had been taken.
The next move was up to the Doktor.
Chapter Seven
Joshua reined in his horse and stared at the road only five feet in front of him. U.S. Highway 85. He had made it! He glanced in both directions; there was a hill to the north and a plain to the south. He turned the horse to the north and slowly followed the road. If his calculations were correct, he should be five to ten miles south of Catlow.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
His long brown hair blew in the wind as his brown eyes surveyed the surrounding terrain, a panorama of sparse vegetation and essentially flat fields punctuated by a periodic low hill, like the one in front of him. His lean frame was garbed in a green shirt and faded brown pants. Moccasins covered his feet. Hanging on a chain draped around his neck was a large gold cross.
Joshua patted the saddlebags. If he consumed his rations in moderation, the jerky and other food should last a week or longer. He had brought two canteens, more than enough for his purposes if he drank sparingly. Unless Blade and the rest ran into unexpected trouble, a week should be more than sufficient. He could only pray the Doktor arrived on schedule.
The Doktor.
Joshua couldn’t really pinpoint when the idea had first occurred to him, but he did know it was shortly after hearing Plato disclose the plans for eliminating the Doktor and conquering the Cheyenne Citadel. Several of the Warriors had been enjoying their supper near a roaring fire, and Joshua had joined them.
Hickok had been one of the Warriors.
As expected, the gunman had been in a jovial mood and eager to commence the campaign against the Doktor. Joshua had chided him for being so anxious to take more lives, to add to his growing reputation as one of the deadliest men alive. Hickok had indignantly retorted that his reputation had nothing to do with it. The gunfighter had sworn that the only way to deal with someone like the Doktor was to kill him. Joshua had then disagreed, claiming the power of love could be as effective as a bullet.
The Warriors had burst out laughing.
Joshua smarted at the recollection. It wasn’t the ridicule, primarily. It was the ongoing dispute between Hickok and himself over which way was better: the gun or spiritual love. Ever since his trip with Alpha Triad to Thief River Falls, Joshua had been arguing with Hickok over the gunman’s predilection for shooting first and asking questions later. As one of the Family’s more spiritual members and its youngest Empath, Joshua fervently believed that all men and women should be treated as brothers and sisters. If you extended your hand in friendship to others, he reasoned, they would reciprocate in kind.
It was one of the fundamental laws of spiritual relationships. Love others as you would have them love you. Better yet, love others as you believe the Supreme would love them.
Joshua frowned at the memory of his experiences on several of the runs made by Alpha Triad. All of the killing, all of the slaughter, had rocked him to the core of his soul. After a while, he had become desensitized to the violence, and had even begun accepting Hickok’s philosophy as valid.
But it couldn’t be!
If the gunfighter were correct, it rendered all of Joshua’s heartfelt truths invalid.
Joshua refused to accept such an idea.
So, in a stroke of inspiration, he had hidden aboard one of the convoy trucks leaving the Home, then mixed in with the Moles, and later the Cavalry, as they had trekked across the country on their rendezvous with destiny. He doubted the Cavalry would miss the horse he’d stolen; they owned thousands. Which meant no one, absolutely no one, knew his whereabouts or his intention.
Jushua smiled, satisfied at the impending completion of his task. He was going to wait at the base of the hill ahead and, when the Doktor appeared enroute to Catlow, intercept the Doktor’s forces and prevail upon the Doktor to accept a treaty of peace.
He could do it!
He had done it once before, in the Twin Cities. He had been responsible for achieving a truce between the warring parties there. If he could do it in the Twin Cities, he could do it now—between the Family and the Doktor.
He would show everyone!
But especially Hickok! He liked the gunman. He truly did. But Hickok had to be shown the trut
h. Love was the greatest power in the universe of universes, not a pair of Colt Pythons.
Joshua began humming “Day By Day,” one of his personal favorites from the extensive music section in the Family library. The Spirit was smiling on his enterprise. Not once during his entire time in the saddle had he been molested by a mutate or an animal. It was all coming together, just as he knew it would.
Chapter Eight
It seemed as if a sea of faces were staring up at him.
“Is that all of them?” Blade demanded.
“All we could find,” Geronimo replied.
Blade, perched on the top of the SEAL, glanced down at the 340 or so people thronging the town square. The SEAL was parked in front of the command post.
Bertha, Rudabaugh, and Orson had spent several hours lugging the bodies of the slain soldiers to a house two blocks from the square. A dozen of Catlow’s residents had assisted in conveying the injured to a house on the northern outskirts. Hickok and Geronimo had gone from house to house, rounding up the inhabitants. Owning a firearm was illegal for civilians in the Civilized Zone, and since the military had long since confiscated all privately owned weapons, resistance had been nonexistent.
And now, after having climbed the metal ladder attached to the rear of the transport to permit access to the solar collectors on the roof, Blade was prepared to address the assembled citizens. Hickok, Geronimo, Bertha, Lynx, Rudabaugh, and Orson stood near the SEAL, their respective weapons at the ready. Lynx was there too, but he disdained guns and relied exclusively on his pointed claws.
“People of Catlow!” Blade began, raising his arms to attract their attention. “We mean you no harm! We require your cooperation, and if you do as we say, no one will be harmed! Do you understand?”
No one said anything.
“As all of you undoubtedly know,” Blade continued, “we wiped out the garrison this morning. Why we did it, I can’t say. Who we are, I can’t say. But I can say we are enemies of the Doktor! I can say we want to bring freedom to the Civilized Zone! We want you to become masters of your own lives, to live without the Government telling you how to do everything! Think of it! How would you like to be free? How would you like to set up a new Government, one where the people have the power and not a dictator?”
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