Bullets were thudding into the bunk above him.
Blade twisted onto his stomach and crawled frantically to the head of the bunks, then turned to the left and squeezed between the next bunk and the wall. The commandos were pouring their shots into the bunk he'd left, unaware of his move, giving him the gift of a moment's breathing space.
He quickly unslung the third AK-47, took hold of one in each brawny hand, then rose, firing as he straightened, shooting underneath the top bunk, downing several supersoldiers who were caught by surprise. But he couldn't stand still, not even for an instant, so he darted to the center of the room again, firing as he ran, and he continued to fire once he was in the aisle, sending a burst into a nearby woman, then taking the forehead off a stocky man who lunged at him from the right, and still he fired, swinging the barrels from side to side and up and down, always firing, firing,firing, always in motion, spinning and ducking and weaving. He fired as some of the commandos rushed him. He fired as they sniped at him from behind the bunks. And he fired at the few who attempted to flee out of the rear door. Only the fact that both magazines went empty almost simultaneously stopped him from firing.
An awful silence enveloped the barracks.
Blade threw the assault rifles to the floor and grabbed yet another leaning against a bed to his right. Acrid smoke hung heavy in the room.
Bodies were sprawled in the aisle, on the bunks, and near the back door.
Blood flowed copiously. Someone groaned.
No one else moved.
But there were two men still alive.
Blade swung toward the first bunk bed on the east side of the room and covered the men who were lying in a state of transfixed terror, the same men who owned the brown uniforms.
Scowling, he stepped over to the bunks. "You don't belong to the HGP
Unit. Who are you?"
The dark-haired man in the bottom bunk winced at the raspy, threatening tone in the Warrior's voice, while the man in the top bunk regained his composure, glared defiantly, and crossed his arms.
"I'll never tell you a damn thing!" the defiant one declared.
"Then who needs you?" Blade responded, and shot him.
Startled by the sudden demise of his companion, the dark-haired man held out his arms, as if to ward off a hail of lead, and cried out, "Don't kill me! I'll tell you anything you want to know."
"Do you know who I am?" Blade asked.
"Yeah. The Warrior we picked up in Minnesota."
"Who are you?"
"Captain Jim Nezgorski, Soviet Air Force."
"What are your duties?"
"I'm a pilot. I fly the unit wherever it has to go."
Blade nodded at the corpse in the top bunk. "Was he a pilot too?"
"Yeah."
So elite units usually included specialists within their own ranks? Blade reminded himself of his earlier observation, and shook his head, bemused by his inaccurate insight.
The pilot misconstrued the motion. "I'm not lying. Frank was a pilot.
We shared the flight duties."
Blade leaned forward. "I believe you. Now get out of bed."
Jim Nezgorski blinked a few times. "What? Why?"
"That helicopter I saw outside is fueled and ready to take off, isn't it?"
The man hesitated, as if he was about to lie, but he decided, after a glance at the carnage the giant had caused, to tell the truth. "Yeah."
"Then grab your uniform and let's go. Someone was bound to have heard all the noise. Reinforcements will be arriving in less than five minutes. I want us in the air in two."
"Two?" Nezgorski said, and scrambled from bed. He wore a pair of white boxer shorts. Nervously moving to the front of the bunks, he snatched a brown uniform from off the footlocker and went to put it on.
"You can do that after we're airborne," Blade told him, and wagged the AK-47 at the front door. "Move it."
"My shoes," the pilot declared. He knelt to pull a pair of brown shoes from under the bed.
Blade covered him, then gestured impatiently when Nezgorski straightened. "Now get your butt in gear. If we're caught, I promise you that you'll die before I do. You have one minute and fifty seconds to lift off."
The pilot hurried toward the entrance. "What then? Where am I taking you?"
"After we're up, you'll destroy the hangars—"
"I'll what?" Nezgorski blurted out, and stopped.
Blade prodded him with the barrel and the man hustled to the door.
"You'll destroy the hangars and all the aircraft in them so your Air Force pals won't be able to use the other choppers to come after us. Is that helicopter outside one of the modified jobs?"
Nezgorski looked at the Warrior. "How did you know about them?" he asked, then quickly added, "Yeah. It's one of those with extended-flight capability."
"So if we blow up the other one, they'll never catch us," Blade predicted.
"And after I destroy the hangars?"
"Home, James. Home."
Three Weeks Later
He found the gunman at the small cemetery plot located in the northeast corner of the Home, near the gently flowing inner moat. Birds chirped in the surrounding trees, and a warm breeze blew in from the west.
Hickok stood next to a recently constructed marker, staring at a mound of dirt, his hands clasped at his waist, his features downcast. New patches covered holes in his buckskins, one on his left leg and the other on his left shoulder.
"Nathan?"
The gunfighter turned and smiled wanly. "How's it going, pard?"
"I've never been happier," Blade answered, joining his friend beside the grave. "Jenny has been spoiling me rotten every day, waiting on me hand and foot. Gabe has been a perfect angel. Maybe I should be captured more often."
Hickok grinned. "Have you recovered from that little stroll of yours?"
"Walking from Detroit Lakes to here wasn't so hard," Blade said. "I was fortunate the helicopter got me as far as Illinois, and that jeep got me from Illinois to Detroit Lake before it broke down."
"Did those scavengers give you any grief when you swiped their jeep?"
"They objected, but I disposed of their objections," Blade said. "Too bad the jeep gave out when it did. I would have reached the Home that much sooner."
"The important thing is you showed up before Geronimo, Ares, and I took off to find you," Hickok noted.
Blade motioned at the grave. "Geronimo tells me you've been coming here every day."
"That mangy Injun is a blabbermouth."
"Care to talk about it?"
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Do you blame yourself for Marcus's death?" Blade inquired.
The corners of Hickok's eyes crinkled and his mouth curled downward.
"I picked him to go. I knew he was a greenhorn."
"You had the right idea. His death proves it."
Hickok looked up. "How do you figure?"
"At least half of the Warriors require more experience, and taking them on runs into the Outlands and elsewhere is the best way for them to acquire the combat seasoning they need. If Marcus had had more experience, he might have given the signal sooner and would still be with us," Blade said. "His death wasn't your fault."
"If you say so," Hickok responded skeptically.
"In fact," Blade went on, "I intend to implement your policy and start taking the less-experienced Warriors with us from time to time."
"I'm glad you like the idea, but I can't take the credit. Lynx gave me the brainstorm."
"Lynx? He never makes a suggestion unless he has an ulterior motive."
"I reckon he wanted me to take him along," Hickok guessed.
"So, Lynx wants to go on a mission, huh?" Blade said, then chuckled.
"Okay. We'll take him."
"We will?"
"Sure. Last."
For the first time in three weeks, Hickok threw back his head and enjoyed a hearty laugh.
David Robbins, Boston Run
Boston Run Page 18