Boston Run

by David Robbins

  The KBG agent tripped and collided with the chair on which Milton's corpse sat.

  Blade's right hand flashed to the right Bowie. He went to raise his arm for an overhead toss when he heard the office door opening. Instantly he swiveled back again and saw the guard. Nelson, come into the room with his pistol drawn. Blade let the knife fly, his arm a blur, then spun to confront Krittenbauer.

  The KGB agent was just regaining her footing.

  In the stress of the moment. Blade couldn't afford to look at the guard.

  All he could do was hope his throw had been on target as he took two swift steps and executed a spinning roundhouse kick, his right leg snapping out to connect with Krittenbauer's face. The blow sent her into the chair again. Dazed, she sagged, a Falcon 45 ACP clutched in her right hand.

  Blade moved in and delivered the coup de grace, a swordhand chop to the left side of her neck.

  Something snapped and Krittenbauer's head flopped to the left.

  Blade whirled, ready for the worst, thinking he might have missed. But he hadn't.

  The guard was on his knees, his arms hanging limp, a Beretta Model 84

  lying next to his left hand, his eyes glazing rapidly. Protruding from the base of his throat, sunk to the hilt, was the Bowie. His lips moved soundlessly. Blood seeped from his mouth and gushed from his throat.

  Blade hurriedly retrieved his left Bowie and stuck Krittenbauer's Falcon under his belt. He walked to Nelson, added the Beretta to his collection by aligning the pistol near his left sheath, then jerked the other Bowie from the guard's neck.

  Nelson swayed, the blood spurting from the wound, then fell onto his face with a muffled thud.

  Time to haul butt.

  The Warrior took a step toward the door, and only then did he see the horrified nurse standing in the doorway, her hands over her mouth. She suddenly darted to the right and he took off after her. As he came through the door he saw her press a red button mounted under the counter on a wide shelf, and all hell broke loose.

  The nurse looked at him and screamed in terror.

  A raucous din erupted, a cacophony of blaring klaxons, seeming to emanate from everywhere, filling the air with strident discord.

  "Damn!" Blade exclaimed. He bounded to the nurse and slugged her on the chin, knocking her into the counter. She promptly collapsed, out to the world. Well aware that more guards would arrive at any second, Blade placed his hands on the counter and vaulted over it. He glanced at the elevator, chagrined to behold the floor indicator moving from the fourth floor to the third. The car was on its way down to pick up reinforcements!

  Now what?

  He recalled Milton saying something about stairs, and he sped to the junction and inspected each branch. Off to his right, perhaps 50 feet away, a small sign hung next to a closed door. On a hunch he jogged toward the door. Despite his predicament, despite being hopelessly outnumbered, and despite being half a continent from his loved ones, he felt oddly elated and strangely serene. He finally knew who he was and where he belonged, and the knowledge was a tonic to his troubled soul.

  Having an identity, an awareness of self, an appreciation of his place in the cosmic scheme of things, anchored him to the here and now and gave him a purpose for living. His elation, however, was rudely shattered.

  The door at the end of the hall unexpectedly opened, disgorging three Russian soldiers with AK-47's.

  Chapter Sixteen

  "What's the name of this town again, pard?"

  "Strawberry Point," Geronimo answered.

  "And how many folks lived there before the Big Blast?"

  "According to the Atlas there were two thousand one hundred and twenty-nine."

  "I doubt anyone lives there now," Marcus interjected.

  "Cockroaches and rats, maybe," Hickok said, staring at the ghost town 200 yards from the idling SEAL. The buildings were in various stages of collapse. Roofs were partly gone or sagging. Walls were cracked and blistered. Windows were shattered, doors missing. Vegetation had reclaimed the yards; brush and trees grew where once tidy lawns had been meticulously cultivated.

  "Where'd everybody go?" Marcus wondered aloud.

  "We know the U.S. government evacuated hundreds of thousands of citizens during the war into the area now under the jurisdiction of the Civilized Zone," Geronimo mentioned. "Perhaps the people living in Strawberry Point were among those forced to relocate."

  "Will we go around the town or straight through it?" Marcus asked.

  Hickok pondered for a few seconds, then accelerated. "We've wasted too much blamed time as it is. We'll cut straight through."

  Geronimo gazed to the right at a verdant field, then at the blue sky. In the distance, seemingly on the very horizon, hovered a dark speck, a large bird of some kind. He looked out the windshield at Strawberry Point, his brow knitting. Since when did birds hover? Few birds could hang stationary in the air. He glanced at the south again, studying the speck.

  "What's that?" Marcus asked, pointing straight ahead.

  Geronimo stared at the spot Marcus indicated, a spot well past Strawberry Point and several hundred feet above the ground, and he tensed when he spied another speck, only this one was slightly larger. He estimated the distance at over a mile, possibly two. Troubled by the fact there were two of the things, he twisted and checked the sky to their rear.

  And there, hovering far away, was a third speck. "Uh-oh," he said.

  "What is it?" Hickok inquired.

  "We've got trouble."

  The gunman slowed the transport while scanning the town. "Where?

  What kind?"

  "Look out your window and tell me if you see a big speck to the north,"

  Geronimo suggested.

  "A speck?" Hickok repeated quizzically. He searched the sky, then suddenly braked. "Yep. I see one."

  "There's one on every side," Geronimo revealed.

  "What are they?" Marcus queried, gazing from one dot to the next.

  "They sure ain't gigantic hummingbirds," Hickok quipped.

  "I wonder how long they've had us under surveillance," Geronimo commented.

  "Who?" Marcus questioned.

  "If they've been on our tail for a spell, it means we were set up," Hickok said.

  "Who set us up?" Marcus asked.

  "Maybe they found us by sheer luck," Geronimo stated. "Maybe they were on patrol and spotted the smoke from the barricade we destroyed or that car the grenade took out."

  "Maybe," Hickok said, but his tone lacked conviction.

  "Who found us? Will one of you tell me what's going on?" Marcus requested.

  Hickok pointed at the speck to the east. "Commies."

  "The Russians? But we're not in Russian territory," Marcus noted.

  "We're in eastern Iowa, about fifty miles from the border," Geronimo said. "The next state over is Illinois, which the Russians control portions of. We're well within the patrol radius of a standard copter."

  "So those specks are Russian choppers?" Marcus responded, and grinned. "All right! More action."

  Hickok glanced at Geronimo. "Would you remind me to dunk him in the moat when we get back?"

  "No problem. I'll even help."

  "Thanks, pard."

  "Hey. what's the big deal? We can handle a few helicopters," Marcus declared. "We've got the Stinger mounted on the roof, remember?"

  "Correct, rocks for brains," Hickok replied. "We've got one surface-to-air missile. There are four helicopters."

  "We can take them," Marcus predicted confidently.

  "I hope so," Geronimo said, "because here they come."

  The specks were rapidly growing larger and larger as the four helicopters converged on the SEAL, their spinning rotors and low, squat contours becoming visible within seconds.

  Hickok floored it, bringing the transport up to 60 miles an hour, heading for Strawberry Point. He held off activating the Stinger, preferring to wait until the missile was really needed. Why waste his ace in the hole early on when they
were about to fight tooth and nail against superior forces? He knew trying to elude the choppers in the trees would be next to impossible, and the dense vegetation would limit the SEAL'S

  maneuverability. Trying to outrun the helicopters would be equally ridiculous. So his sole option was to reach the town and try to reduce the approach angle the copters could employ by interposing buildings between the transport and the whirlybirds.

  The Russian copters came on swiftly. Despite the distance they had to cover, they almost overtook the van before it could enter Strawberry Point.

  Almost.

  But not quite.

  The Russian chopper speeding in from the east was only 100 yards off when Hickok steered the SEAL into the deserted town. He looked for a turnoff, a driveway, anything, uncomfortably conscious of the helicopter bearing down on them, expecting the brown craft to fire its rockets at any instant. To his astonishment, nothing happened.

  With a loud whump-whump-whump the military craft shot over the SEAL and continued to the west.

  "They didn't try to nail us," Marcus remarked in bewilderment.

  Hickok spied an alley a block off on the right side of the highway, and he made for it without delay.

  "Why didn't they open fire?" Marcus asked.

  "Maybe they want to take the SEAL intact," Geronimo conjected, "or else they want us alive."

  "They'll get us over my dead body," Hickok snapped, and jerked on the steering wheel as the transport arrived at the alley. The SEAL narrowly missed the building on the left and was 15 feet inside the alley before he slammed on the brakes. "Wait here," he directed them, shifting into Park.

  He grabbed the Henry from the console and quickly climbed from the van.

  Where were the Commies? he wondered. He anticipated the choppers would materialize over the alley in force, but ten seconds elapsed and they failed to appear although he could hear the sound of their rotors.

  What the blazes was going on?

  The gunman ran to the mouth of the alley and peered out. To the north, hovering several hundred yards from Strawberry Point, was one of the helicopters. He glanced over his right shoulder and found a second craft positioned to the south, likewise holding back. Why were the vermin waiting to attack?

  Seconds later a third chopper appeared, this time off to the east at the far edge of town. The copter alighted in the center of the highway and sat there, its blades still spinning, apparently waiting.

  For what? Hickok speculated.

  The fourth helicopter suddenly swooped down to the west and landed just outside of Strawberry Point, its fuselage across the highway, not more than 60 yards away.

  Hickok hefted the Henry, feeling frustrated. They were boxed in. He turned and motioned with his right arm at the transport, and moments later Geronimo and Marcus joined him.

  "What are they doing?" Geronimo queried.

  "Your guess is as good as mine," Hickok responded. "They have us hemmed in on all four sides."

  "I vote we make a break for it," Marcus proposed.

  "And if they won't move out of our way, we can ram them," Hickok said facetiously.

  "Now you're talking," Marcus replied eagerly.

  "We have company," Geronimo observed.

  The gunfighter glanced at the helicopter to the west. A tall, lean man in the uniform of an officer, his chest decorated with ribbons, was stepping from the cabin, his shoulders hunched against the wind from the rotors, his hands holding his cap in place on his head. He advanced for 20 yards, then halted with his hands on his hips. "Warriors!" he bellowed. "We must talk."

  "I'll go," Hickok said. "The two of you can cover my back."

  "You shouldn't be the one to go," Geronimo remarked.

  "Why not? I won't let the mangy polecat get the jump on me," Hickok promised.

  "I doubt he speaks Martian."

  The gunman glared at Geronimo, then slung the Henry over his left shoulder and ambled toward the Russian. He could see other soldiers in the helicopter, but they made no move to leave the craft.

  The officer came forward to meet the Warrior halfway, his steps clipped and precise. His uniform was immaculate, his boots polished to a sheen. A square jaw contributed to the impression he conveyed of no-nonsense authority, a soldier of distinction and a man who wielded power dispassionately. "I am Major General Ligachev," he announced when he halted two yards from Hickok.

  "Howdy. I'm the Lone Ranger."

  Ligachev smirked and shook his head. "You are the Warrior called Hickok, are you not?"

  The gunman's eyes narrowed. "How'd you know my name?"

  "You were captured once and taken to Washington, D.C., where you were interrogated by Comrade General Malenkov," Ligachev went on, ignoring the question. "Unfortunately, you escaped."

  "I'm partial to my freedom," Hickok said. "Besides, some of the folks there were a mite inhospitable."

  "You are a close friend to the top Warrior, Blade. You were with him in Cincinnati when he destroyed our greatest scientific achievement, Lenin's Needle," Ligachev stated.

  "That doohickey was an eyesore."

  "You are en route now to Boston, where you hope to rescue Blade. How many are with you?"

  Hickok didn't like the smug tone the officer was using. "You seem to know an awful lot about me," he commented.

  "How many of your fellow Warriors are with you?" Major General Ligachev repeated.

  "I've plumb forgotten. Ten or twenty, I reckon."

  The officer gazed toward the alley, then at Hickok. "The number doesn't matter. All of you will surrender immediately. You will lay down your arms and step to the middle of the street with your hands overhead."

  "Don't hold your breath."

  Ligachev gestured at the helicopter to his rear. "I have four such aircraft at my disposal. Each one is armed with machine guns, rockets, and nose cannons. Your vaunted SEAL is formidable and durable, but your van can't withstand my little fleet."

  Hickok glanced at the chopper. "I reckon we can give you a run for your money."

  "Be sensible," Ligachev said. "There is no way you will escape. Our trap has been too carefully planned. We have expended considerable time, energy, and expense to spring our surprise, and we have foreseen every contingency."

  The Warrior studied the officer's cold green eyes and haughty countenance. "This was planned?"

  "Of course, you moron," Major General Ligachev stated. "Allow me to elaborate so you will fully appreciate the extent of our genius and the folly of resisting us. As I noted, you are en route to Boston to try and save Blade, who was abducted slightly over a week ago while on his way back to the Home from Halma. Am I correct so far?"

  Hickok merely nodded.

  "Your accursed Family had no idea where the giant could be, although you did find signs of a struggle, until one of you discovered a matchbook,"

  Ligachev related arrogantly. "Am I still correct?"

  "You're a regular mind reader."

  "I get better. Part of the matchbook cover was missing, but the matches clearly came from Sam's Bar in Boston, Massachusetts. Your Elders decided to send a rescue mission, which explains your presence in this quaint town," Ligachev said.

  Hickok wanted to bash his head against the nearest building. He felt like such a chump. "The matches were a plant."

  Major General Ligachev chuckled. "The matches were a plant. Did you really believe one of our elite commando teams, the HGP Unit, no less, would be stupid enough to leave such incriminating evidence behind? We wanted you to find the matches. General Malenkov knew your Family would send Warriors to Blade's rescue. He predicted the SEAL would be used, and he arranged for our welcoming committee."

  "But we're not even in Russian territory," Hickok said lamely.

  "You will be by midnight," Ligachev stated. "We intended to spring our trap where you would least expect it, and you undoubtedly did not suspect we were in this area. Did you?"

  "No," Hickok admitted.

  "Actually, the SEAL has been unde
r surveillance since one of my flight spotted a spiral of smoke earlier. You see, although we couldn't be certain of the exact route you would take, logic dictated you would travel in a relatively direct line because of the time factor, which in your estimation would be critical. It was no wondrous feat to calculate that you would cut across the northeast corner of Iowa. Since we already knew of your predilection for traveling on secondary roads as opposed to the major highways, all we had to do was fly a grid pattern over the northeast corner, concentrating on the secondary roads, until one of us spotted the SEAL.

  Then we simply reformed and sprang our trap," Ligachev related.

  "But you couldn't have known what day we'd be comin' through,"

  Hickok noted. He took a quirky delight in being able to criticize their meticulous plot.

  "Which is why we have worked in six-hour shifts on a rotational basis.

  My flight is not the only one. There are three other flights of four copters apiece, and each of our flights pulls a six-hour shift daily. If we pulled a longer shift, we would expend our fuel and be unable to reach our base,"

  Ligachev said. "We've been waiting for the SEAL for a week. Frankly, we expected you long before this."

  "Glad we disappointed you."

  "Now don't be petty," the officer stated testily. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. Our superior intellect was bound to prevail."

  "Gee, I wish I was wearin' boots," Hickok quipped.

  Major General Ligachev frowned. "Enough of this idle chatter. I have graciously explained more than was necessary."

  "Why didn't you bozos just blow the SEAL to bits? Why go to all this trouble?" Hickok asked.

  "Because General Malenkov gave specific orders to avoid damaging the SEAL, if possible. Your vehicle is quite unique, and our scientists and engineers could learn a lot by examining it. Be smart and lay down your weapons. Now."

  "And if we don't oblige?"

  "Then we will reduce the SEAL to so much scrap. General Malenkov prefers the van in one piece, but he commanded us to obliterate it if you won't surrender," Ligachev stated, and looked meaningfully at the gunman. "So don't be a fool. I want your answer, and I want it now. Will you hand over your weapons and the SEAL?"