by Jack Higgins
PROLOGUE
It was now or never!
The woman eased from the squat wooden hut, keeping her slim frame
close to the south wall, her long brown hair stirred by the gusting breeze, her brown eyes wide with fright. She eased the door shut behind her and gingerly walked toward the dense forest 40 yards distant to the east. A sliver of moon hung suspended in the heavens, well on its westward descent. The stars sparkled and flickered, animating the inky sky.
Had her gamble paid off?
The woman hunched over as she cautiously moved toward the trees. Her skin was crawling, and she expected to be challenged at any moment. She could only fervently hope the celebration had taken its toll on the inebriated guards. If they were all unconscious or too dazed from the alcohol they'd imbibed to function effectively, she stood a chance of escaping. But if just one of them was still on patrol, then she was as good as dead.
A twig snapped to her left, to the north.
Terrified, the young woman crouched and peered into the night. Nothing moved at the periphery of her vision.
Was it safe?
Motivated by her fear, she impulsively rose and sprinted for the beckoning shelter of the timber. Once she was screened by the vegetation, she felt confident she could elude the guards. The human ones anyway. And since the Hatchlings were preoccupied with feasting on the sacrifice in the tower, the human sentries were her primary concern. Out of habit, she crossed the first two fingers on each hand, a superstitious reaction to her desperate plight, her eyes fastened on the forest now 20 yards off, anxiously praying to the God her mother had told her about years before, to the Supreme Being of all Creation for her deliverance. She hoped her deduction was correct and all of the human guards were out of commission. But they weren't.
The woman instinctively dropped and flattened as a harsh cough rent the night to the north. Someone was moving out there!
She was panic-stricken, and her fingers dug into the compact earth, a sharp rock gouging her left knee just below the hemline of her crude brown homespun dress. Another cough punctuated the darkness. The woman could see an indistinct form walking slowly along the edge of the woods to the north, strolling in her approximate direction. At least one of the guards, then, was not drunk. Would he spot her lying on the ground and open fire? She held her breath, her thin lower lip quivering in fright. The guard was wearing the customary black uniform, and there was a sticklike object slung over his left shoulder.
The woman sensed. She knew what the object was: an automatic rifle!
Ambling in a haphazard fashion, the guard was drawing nearer, but he was staying close to the trees and would miss her by a good eight to ten yards if nothing went wrong. Something did. Her nostrils abruptly flared and she experienced an urge to sneeze. Instantly she damped her right hand over her nose, suppressing the impulse, her nostrils tingling. The guard was almost abreast of her position. She felt the tingling cease and she tentatively released her nose, assuming the urge was gone. Without warning, before she could pinch her nostrils a second time, to her utter horror, she sneezed. The guard abruptly stopped, facing the clustered huts, his arms a vague blur. The woman knew the sentry had unslung his weapon. Had he seen her yet? Or was she invisible to him, camouflaged by the grass and the night?
"Who's there?" the guard demanded.
The woman's flesh erupted in goose bumps.
"Jim, is that you?" the guard asked, walking several paces toward the wooden huts, toward her. Her heart seemed to be pounding in her chest.
"Jim?" the guard repeated uncertainly, slowly advancing.
The woman recognized the voice of the guard known as the Sadist, a wicked bastard who delighted in inflicting pain and suffering on the captives, a small man with a pallid complexion and a jagged scar extending from the corner of his left eye to the tip of his pointed chin. Of all the human guards, the Sadist was hated the most.
"Who the hell is there?" the Sadist angrily snapped.
She could see him surveying the huts, evidently perplexed. Not once did he glance at the ground, at her. If only he would pass her by or resume his patrol!
"You'd better speak up or else!" the Sadist warned, but his tone lacked conviction, as if he wasn't completely positive of what he'd heard.
The woman saw him pause, and she could readily imagine his train of thought. He knew no one had ever successfully escaped from the Spider's clutches. There had been a number of attempts decades ago, but the, Hatchlings and the human guards had tracked the escapees down and slain them. Or so the captives were told. The woman had often wondered if the guards were telling the truth or concocting lies intended to discourage any bids for freedom. In any event, no one had tried to flee during the seven years of her captivity. All of the women were acutely aware of the dire consequences of being outside their assigned hut after lights-out. So the Sadist wouldn't be expecting anyone except another guard or a Hatchling to be outdoors at such a late hour.
"Is anyone there?" The Sadist was five feet away.
The woman inadvertently trembled.
"Must be hearing things," the Sadist mumbled, looking over his right shoulder at the woods. Two more steps and the son of a bitch would trip over her! She twisted, reaching her left hand downward and grabbing the rock gouging her knee, dated to discover it was loose and about the size of her palm.
The Sadist looked at the huts. "Maybe it was one of the bitches," he speculated, and proceeded forward.
The woman was ready for him. She saw him take one stride, then lift his left leg for a second. He was almost on top of her, his crotch directly above her head. She swept the rock up and in, lunging to her knees, driving the unyielding stone into his groin.
Startled, overwhelmed by agony, the Sadist doubled over, his right hand covering his genitals.
"Take this, slime!" the woman exclaimed triumphantly, swinging the rock in an arc and dipping him on the jaw.
The Sadist grunted, sagging to his knees in front of her.
"And this for everything I owe you!" she cried, unable to contain her pentup emotions. Her loathing, the sheer repugnance accumulated over seven years of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse, surged to the surface. She bashed him again and again with the rock, five times in all, each blow delivered with all of her force to his chin and cheeks.
Groaning, the Sadist toppled to the left, landing on his face.
The woman jumped erect, glancing at the huts, then at the tower. No one was in sight. Yet. She raced to the forest and plunged into the trees, heedless of the limbs and the brush tearing at her arms and legs. She'd done it!
They'd never catch her now!
A strident horn blast suddenly sounded from the direction of the tower.
The alarm! The sound chilled her blood and lent speed to her legs. The alarm meant the other guards would be after her within minutes! And the Hatchlings! Dear God! The Hatchlings!
Loud yelling broke out behind her.
The woman flinched as a branch gouged her right cheek, drawing blood, stinging terribly. She pressed onward, scared to her core, determined to put as much distance as possible between herself and the Spider's lair, forgetting, for the moment, her original plan to travel due south. Several minutes elapsed, her breathing becoming labored, the strain of her pell-mell flight taking its toll on her undernourished and fatigued body. The ground was sloping upward.
What the hell was she doing?
The thought brought her up short. She gasped for air, gazing skyward in an endeavor to get her bearings. She had to get a grip on herself! She needed a clear head if she was to survive! Shock numbed her mind as she abruptly realized she was going the wrong way! She was supposed to be heading due south, but instead was making to the east.
The east and the cliff
s!
She doubled over, tears of frustration forming in the corners of her eyes. To be so close! And then to blow it because she was too stupid to head in the right direction! What an idiot!
A pronounced click-click-click wafted on the breeze, coming from the rear—an odd, eerie sound, as if someone with thick lips was smacking their lips together.
The Hatchlings!
The woman straightened and fled, still going to the east, knowing her pursuers would easily cut her off if she tried to alter course and bear to the south. Her sandals pounded on the hard ground. The chill, late January air caused her perspiration to become clammy and cold.
More clicking reached her ears.
How far to the cliffs? she wondered. She'd seen them as the plane had glided to a crash landing on the ridge seven years ago. The impact of plowing into the forest had shorn the wings from the aircraft and killed the pilot, impaling the hapless man on a jutting piece of metal from the crushed front of the plane. She had counted herself fortunate to be alive, albeit battered and bruised, and she had crawled from the wreckage confident she could signal a passing aircraft and would be home in Los Angeles: within a matter of days. But that very night the Hatchlings had captured her, initiating her into a nightmare existence of slavery and torture.
Seven years of hell! Seven years of being too afraid to try and escape! Seven years of being at the Spider's beck and call! Merely thinking of the monstrosity prompted her to moan in despair. She'd die before she'd go back there!
There was clicking off to the right.
Her legs were rapidly tiring, but she refused to give up, to surrender without a struggle. The penalty for trying to escape was death, the most horrid demise imaginable. Being consumed alive was a revolting prospect. As she dashed up a rise, she speculated on whether her final decision to flee had been inspired by suddenly acquired genuine courage, or if the knowledge she was slated to be the next sacrifice had mobilized her faltering resolve.
Click-click-click. To the left this time,
The Hatchlings were closing in. They must believe they had her cornered and weren't concerned about disguising their, pursuit.
The woman reached the top of the rise and came to an abrupt, petrified halt. In her haste she'd almost fallen to her death! She was perched on the very rim of the cliffs, silhouetted against the stars. Stiff wind whipped her hair. She crouched and whirled, debating which way to go.
A squat black form detached itself from the surrounding vegetation and stopped ten feet away. A Hatchling!
She tensed, raising the rock in her left hand in a defensive gesture, knowing the futility of using her weapon on a Hatchling. She could see its four hairy arms waving in the air and sensed, rather than saw, its flat, dark malevolent eyes boring into her.
What was it waiting for?
The Hatchling moved toward her, its bulky body rising and lowering in the awkward gait so typical of the hybrids.
So close, and yet so far!
Furious at her failure, she drew her left arm back to toss the rock at the Hatchling. Its tough epidermis would hardly feel the blow, but she needed to do somethingto demonstrate her defiance! Her left foot inched backwards as she braced herself for the throw, and she unexpectedly lost her balance as the gravel under her left foot gave way. She tried to regain her footing, but her left leg dropped from under her and she fell backwards. Her arms flailing wildly, she involuntarily screamed as she perceived her mistake and her predicament. She had stepped too close to the edge of the cliff!
Her scream rose in volume as she pitched over the rim and plummeted into the gloom below.
PART ONE
THE TRAINING CHAPTER ONE
The giant folded his muscular arms across his massive chest and idly
gazed upward, watching the VTOL descend. A brisk breeze off the Pacific Ocean"
rustled the Free State of California flag adorning the 20-foot pole atop the airport
terminal behind him. He glanced over his right shoulder at the flag, speculating
on the significance of the solitary red star in the upper left corner, the bright red
border along the bottom, and especially the grizzly bear depicted in the center.
Why a grizzly bear? he wondered. As far as he knew, there weren't any grizzly
bears inCalifornia, and there hadn't been for hundreds of years.
"Which one is coming in, Blade?" asked the giant's companion. Blade turned to the left, his massive physique rippling with raw power and
radiating physical force. At seven feet in height, he towered over his six-footthree friend. Blade's black leather vest, green fatigue pants, and black boots
seemed scarcely able to contain his imposing form. The sunlight glinted off the
hilts of the matching pair of Bowie knives strapped around his waist, one on each
hip. He brushed at the comma of dark hair hanging above his gray eyes with his
right hand. "His name is Spader. He's the one the Moles picked to represent
them."
"What do you know about him?"
"Not much, Boone," Blade answered. "He's supposed to be one of the
best fighters the Moles have."
"Which isn't saying much," Boone commented. His lean frame was clad in
buckskins. Buckled around his slim waist were a pair of 44 Magnum Hombre
single-action revolvers. The wind tossed his shoulder-length brown hair as he
tilted his head, his brown eyes squinting as he followed the progress of the
aircraft.
"I'll admit the Moles aren't known for producing top-quality fighting men,"
Blade conceded. "But we shouldn't prejudge this man. We'll give Spader a
chance to prove himself."
"I just hope he proves himself before we go on a mission," Boone
remarked. "I don't like the notion of laying my life on the line and not knowing if the other members of the Freedom Force will back me up when the chips are
down."
Blade frowned. "I know what you mean," he agreed, his mind filling with a
myriad of thoughts. The Freedom Force; The elite tactical squad formed to nullify
any threat to the Freedom Federation. Was it only two weeks ago that the
Governor of California, Governor Melnick, had proposed the formation of the
strike squad? What were the words Melnick had used? They came back to him in
a rush: "As allies in the Freedom Federation, we will be ready to band together
should any one of us be besieged. We will stand together against any invader…
Our treaty should serve to deter any aggression on a widespread scale. But what
about isolated incidents? What about localized problems within the boundaries of
each Federation member? I propose establishing a special strike force… a mobile
force organized with one purpose in mind. Namely, to deal with just such trouble
spots as we've been discussing. If a localized problem develops anywhere within
the Freedom Federation, or outside of our boundaries for that matter, this strike
force will be dispatched to deal with the situation."
And here I am, Blade thought, in charge of the Freedom Federation's elite
fighting unit. Which meant countless lives depended on his performance, on his
judgment in critical situations. All the members of the Freedom Federation were
relying on him. The Flathead Indians in what was once Montana; the people
known as the Moles, residing in their underground city in north-central
Minnesota; the Cavalry, the indomitable horsemen' controlling the Dakota
Territory, of which Boone had been second-in-command until selected to serve
on the Freedom Force; the residents of the state of California, one of the few
states to retain its administrative integrity after World War Three; the Clan, the
; refugees from the ravaged Twin Cities now living in a small town in northwestern
Minnesota; the Civilized Zone, the area in the West encompassing the former
states of Kansas, Nebraska, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico, Oklahoma,
portions of Arizona, and the northern half of Texas; and, finally, his own people,
the renowned Family, located in their survivalist compound in northern
Minnesota, These were the seven factions constituting the Freedom Federation,
and they were depending on him to train a combat unit capable of eliminating
any menace to the Federation's security.
The responsibility was awesome, and he felt uncomfortable being
responsible for the safety of so many. Before, it had been different. His life had
been much simpler. Asthe Family's head Warrior, he had been entrusted with
the Family's head Warrior, he had been entrusted with
acre retreat called the Home. Seventeen Warriors had been under his command,
and together the Warriors had been accountable for protecting the lives of less
than a hundred Family members. Less than a hundred. And now how many
might perish if he failed in his duty? Millions. The realization was sobering and
not a little distressing.
"When will the others arrive?" Boone asked, intruding on Blade's
reflection. Blade gazed at the Cavalryman. "The other VTOL is picking up the volunteers from the Flatheads and the Clan and should arrive here tomorrow
morning."
"What about the Civilized Zone?" Boone queried.
Blade nodded at the descending jet. "This VTOL is going right back out
and will collect the soldier the Civilized Zone is sending. He should get here by
tomorrow night."
"Kind of strange, isn't it?" Boone asked, his eyes on the VTOL hovering 50
yards above the tarmac.
"What is?" Blade responded.
"This Freedom Force thing was Governor Melnick's bright idea, right?"
Boone noted. "And didn't the Federation leaders figure the Force should be made
up of a volunteer from each Federation faction? So why haven't we met the
volunteer from California yet? I mean, we are inCalifornia. It was Governor