by Jack Higgins
"General," Blade said, nodding.
Gallagher looked at the two gate guards. "Open this damn gate!" he barked. The troopers promptly obeyed, raising the swivel bar and pulling the gate wide. They stepped to one side, at attention, saluting as the general entered.
Gallagher walked up to the Warrior. "I've got two more recruits for you."
"I've been expecting you," Blade said.
"I wasn't able to meet the one yesterday," Gallagher stated. "What's the Mole like?" ,
"Well…" Blade began, searching for a tactful reply.
Gallagher chuckled. "You don't have to tell me. I can see it on your face." He gazed at the jeep and motioned with his fight arm for the vehicle to drive inside. "Wait until you see the pair I've brought." He snickered.
"Whats wrong with them?" Blade asked, his gut muscles tightening reflexively.
"Nothing eight weeks of basic training wouldn't fix," Gallagher said. "Oh, the Indian doesn't look half bad. He might work out. But wait until you see the moron the Clan sent!" He smirked. The jeep braked alongside the general and the Warrior.
Blade watched as two men climbed from the vehicle. The first was the Flathead Indian. He appeared to be about 25 or so, with black hair down past his broad shoulders. Two braids, one hanging over each ear to his neck, framed his oval face. His features were handsome, almost noble in the strength of their lines and the fearlessness of his dark eyes. He wore a fringed buckskin shin and pants and moccasins. In one respect, the Flathead Indians and the Cavalry were alike; after World War Three, with store-bought clothing a thing of the past, both had reverted to wearing the typical frontier garb so popular with their ancestors— durable, easily acquired buckskins. He carried a green canvas bag. The second man was a striking contrast to the Flathead. He was several inches shorter than the six-foot-tall Indian, and he was heftier of build. His long hair was blond, and had been slicked and shaped until peculiar spikes projected from his head. Silver earrings adorned his earlobes. He wore a black leather jacket with bright studs circling the edge of the sleeves, dotting his shoulders, and forming a large V on the front. Black leather pants and black boots completed his apparel. In his left hand was a brown suitcase.
"Blade, I'd like you to meet the two new members of your Freedom Force," General Gallagher announced. He indicated the Flathead. "This is Thunder."
The Flathead offered his right hand and the Warrior shook. "My given name is Thunder Rolling in the Mountain," the Indian said, grinning. "But you may call me Thunder."
"I'm pleased to meet you," Blade said.
"I have heard much about you from Star," Thunder mentioned.
"How is she?" Blade asked. Star was the leader of the Flatheads, a beautiful young woman possessed of extraordinary wisdom and courage.
"Star is well," Thunder said. "She requested me to relay her greetings." The blond took a step forward. "Like, hey, man. When do I get to feed my face?" he interrupted. Blade glanced at the volunteer from the Clan "And what might your name be?"
"The name, dude, is Kraft," the blond stated;
"You'll get to eat shortly," Blade told him. He looked from Kraft to Thunder. "There's something I need to know. Did both of you volunteer for the Freedom Force?"
"I did," Thunder answered first. "Twenty-one Flatheads volunteered to come here. Star put us through a series of rigorous tests to determine which one would receive the honor."
"And you came out on top?" Blade inquired.
Thunder nodded.
"What about you?" Blade questioned the Clansman.
"Yep. I volunteered. I heard a lot of stories about California. They say there are a lot of heavy-duty foxes out here. I'm looking to groove on some fuzz. You know what I mean?" Kraft said. General Gallagher laughed.
"You came out here to find some women?" Blade asked in disbelief. "Why not, dude? A little squeeze never hurt nobody," Kraft said.
"You doknow the real reason you're here, don't you?" Blade asked. Kraft nodded. "Sure, man. To waste a few stiffs for you. No big deal." His green eyes twinkled.
"Why did the Clan select you?" Blade inquired.
"Zahner, our head honcho, said he needed somebody who doesn't mind killing," Kraft said.
"And you have no compunctions about killing?" Blade questioned.
"I don't know about no compunctions," Kraft said. "But when it comes to killing, I like it." Blade frowned. "You like to kill?"
Kraft beamed. "Sure do. Doesn't everybody?"
Blade stared at the ground, concerned his exasperation would show on his face. As if he didn't have enough problems already! This was just what he needed! A psychopath!
General Gallagher cleared his throat. "I've brought a present for you." Blade looked up, hiss emotions under control. "A present?"
"Yeah. And I think you'll like it," Gallagher said. He moved to the jeep and pounded on the top. "Now, sergeant," he said.
Another man emerged from the vehicle. This one was a professional soldier, six feet tall and close to 200
pounds in weight with every inch solid muscle. He wore combat boots, fatigue pants, and a green T-shirt revealing his muscular arms and chest. His black hair was cropped close to his head. His eyes were a penetrating blue.
"Blade, let me introduce Sergeant Havoc," General Gallagher said. "He's a gift from Governor Melnick."
"A gift?"
"The governor ordered me to find the best soldier I could for the Freedom Force," Gallagher disclosed.
"Havoc is the man for the job. He's thirty-four, and he's been in the Army since he was eighteen. He's a qualified marksman and an expert in hand-to-hand combat, with black belts in karate and judo and a brown in Aikido. Name any weapon and he's proficient in its use. You couldn't ask for a better trooper," he declared proudly.
Blade liked the traits he saw reflected in Havoc's rugged features: honesty, dedication, and a supreme sense of duty. He extended his right hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you." Havoc shook, his grip firm and hinting at latent power. "I'm looking forward to this assignment, sir."
"You can call me Blade," the Warrior said.
"Whatever you say, sir," Havoc responded.
"Sergeant Havoc is all military," General Gallagher commented. "He goes by the book." He paused and glanced at a watch on his left wrist. "I must be heading back to L.A.Governor Melnick is holding a meeting with his chiefs of staff later and I must attend." He looked at Blade. "The show is in your hands. Don't drop the ball."
"I won't," Blade responded, a touch testily.
General Gallagher was about to enter the jeep when he stopped and gazed at the Warrior. "Almost forgot. I'll be back here tonight with the volunteer from the Civilized Zone. The VTOLs ETA is seven. -I should be here between eight and nine."
"I'll be expecting you," Blade said.
Gallagher climbed into the jeep, and a moment later the vehicle executed a U-turn and left the compound.
The gate guards dosed the gate.
"Follow me," Blade said to the others. "We'll go to the barracks. Your training session will begin in an hour. Until then you can rest or grab a bit to eat. There's a kitchen in the barracks. You'll be responsible for preparing your own food."
"We cook our own food?" Kraft asked.
"That's right," Blade said, turning to the north.
"You got to be kidding, dude," Kraft said. "I don't know how to cook." Blade glanced at the Clansman. "How'd you get by all these years without knowing how to cook?"
"I've always had a squeeze handy for that," Kraft mentioned. "I mean, cowing is women's work, right?"
"No one is going to wait on you hand and foot here," Blade informed him. "You've got to learn to fend for yourself. Self-reliance is one of the keys to your survival."
"Well, this sucks," Kraft muttered.
Blade faced the Clansman. "You volunteered for this assignment, so you'll take the consequences without griping. From now on there will be no talking back. When in training, you will not speak until necessary."
"Hey, dude, chill out," Kraft said. "I didn't come here for this crap. Zahner never said nothing about all this military bullshit."
Sergeant Havoc's eyes narrowed.
"This bullshit, as you call it, could save your life," Blade said to the Clansman. "I don't want any more grousing out of you."
Kraft dropped his suitcase on the asphalt. "And what if I do? What are you going to do about it?"
"I'm in charge of this unit," Blade stated. "And I will enforce discipline. You will listen, or else."
"Or else what?" Kraft snickered. "You don't scare me. I can take care of myself."
"Can you now?" Blade asked flatly.
"I know you're supposed to be a real bad dude," Kraft said. "But you aren't the only one with a rep, man. I can handle a knife too, you know."
"You can?"
Kraft's right hand reached into the right pocket of his leather jacket and came out clenching a dosed folding knife. "Sure can, sucker." He grinned and pressed a small silver button, and the blade snapped out with a metallic click. The gleaming blade and the handle were both the same length, about five inches.
"A switchblade, huh?" Blade said.
Kraft smiled. "My favorite, dude. I could gut you in a flash with this."
"You think so?"
"I know so," Kraft replied confidently.
"Then let's see just how good you are," Blade said. "Your training will begin right now. Try and gut me."
"Are you for real?" Kraft asked in amazement.
"Try and gut me," Blade repeated.
Sergeant Havoc spoke up. ''Allow me, sir. I'll teach this punk a lesson he'll never forget:" . Blade glanced at the soldier. "This punk, sergeant; is part of the same unit you are in. You both belong to the Freedom Force now. You must learn to work together, to cooperate, or you'll jeopardize the lives of all of us. Understand?"
Sergeant Havoc nodded somewhat sheepishly. "Sorry, sir. It won't happen again."
"And now," Blade said, staring at Kraft, "let's get this over with. Or are you all mouth?" Kraft reddened, then lunged, sweeping the switchblade at the Warrior's midriff. Blade backpedaled, avoiding the slashing knife. He twisted and dodged, measuring Kraft's ability. As the Clansman pressed him, he found himself grudgingly admiring Kraft's skill. The man wielded his switchblade with flair, never making any reckless moves, never leaving himself open. For his part, Kraft was frustrated by his failure to connect. Try as he might, he couldn't so much as nick the weaving Warrior. He used every trick he knew, feinting and using reverse thrusts, always on the attack, but it was as if the giant knew his next move in advance. Only a master at knife fighting could evade an attack so deftly.
Blade admired the determination on Kraft's face. The Clansman's initial anger had subsided and been replaced by a calculating resolution. He waited another minute before making his move. Kraft saw the Warrior stumble and fall onto his back. He closed in, grinning, thinking he had his man. Too late, he perceived the fall was a ruse. The Warrior had turned and was rolling toward him! Kraft felt Blade's legs slam into his shins, and he toppled forward onto the asphalt. His right arm was wrenched downward, and the switchblade was torn from his grasp. He abruptly found himself on his stomach with the Warrior straddling his back and his own knife pressed against his neck.
"Now I want your word, Kraft," Blade stated. "I want your word you will obey me. Each time, every time. Without griping."
"You've got it, dude,"" Kraft said.
"No more of your grief?"
"No more grief," Kraft promised.
Blade rose, using his left hand to haul Kraft erect. He reversed the switchblade and extended the knife.
"Here."
Kraft seemed surprised. "You trust me with this?"
"Like I told the sergeant," Blade said, "you're part of our team. We must all learn to trust one another. We have to depend on each other if we're going to survive."
Kraft took the switchblade and replaced it in his coat pocket. "I gave you my word, dude. Whatever you want, you get."
"Then let's head for the barracks," Blade directed.
"That was very impressive; sir," Sergeant Havoc commented. "I was told about you, but I had no idea." Blade acknowledged the compliment with a curt nod. He glanced at the Flathead and noticed Thunder's forehead was furrowed, his eyes troubled. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"You wouldn't understand," Thunder replied.
"You let me be the judge of that," Blade declared. "We're a team now," he reiterated. "If something is bothering you, I need to know about it."
"You wouldn't understand," Thunder repeated.
"Try me."
"I was just wondering what I've gotten myself into," Thunder divulged. All three recruits were mystified when the Warrior burst out laughing.
"Did I say something funny?" Thunder queried, puzzled.
"If you only knew!" was Blade's reply.
CHAPTER THREE
Blade sat back in his metal folding chair in the HQ bunker, relaxing. The
day had gone well. All five recruits had fraternized with a minimum of fuss. After
Thunder and Kraft had rested from their flight and eaten, he had called all of
them outside and detailed the purpose behind the formation of the Freedom
Force. They had listened in rapt silence.
The afternoon had been spent in target practice. He'd had them stake out
targets, and had issued an M-16 to each man, then tabulated the results. Not too
surprisingly, Sergeant Havoc had scored highest with the automatic rifle. At 100
yards, Havoc could consistently place ten out of ten rounds in the bull's-eye.
Thunder and Boone had also performed in the superior range, averaging nine
out of ten. Kraft had managed to hit the target near the bull's-eye about four
times out of ten. With a lot of practice he could become quite deadly. But Spader
had been lucky to even hit the target, and not once had he come within an inch
of the center.
After the M-16 exercise, Blade had dispensed handguns. Everyone but
Boone had taken a pair of Colt Stainless Steel Officers Model 45"s. The Cavalryman had stuck with his revolvers, preferring the Hombres over
the automatics. With good reason. Boone had displayed an uncanny expertise with his handguns. At 25 yards, he could draw and fire ten shots with dazzling speed, clustering ail ten rounds in the center of the target. Sergeant Havoc had come in a close second, averaging eight out of ten. Thunder was third. The Flathead wasn't as comfortable with a handgun as with a rifle, and he'd never shot an autoloading pistol before. Still, he'd dotted the bull's-eye or come near it about half the time. Kraft had shot the 45's on a par with his ranking with the Ml6; four times out often he'd come close to center or hit it. Spader, again, would
have been better off clubbing the target with a stout branch.
Blade gazed at the clock on his desk. Almost nine o'clock. General
Gallagher and the recruit from the Civilized Zone would be arriving at any
minute. He hoped the leader of the Civilized Zone, President Toland, had sent
someone the equal of Sergeant Havoc, Boone, or Thunder. Someone with a
knack for killing, someone who could hold their own in any situation. His wish was granted.
The sound of a jeep grinding to a stop outside the bunker was followed by
the slamming of a door and the thud of boots on the sours leading down to the
office.
Blade stared at the open doorway.
General Gallagher tramped inside. "I have your recruit," he announced,
glancing around the office.
"Hello to you, General," Blade said.
Gallagher stared at the Warrior. "Sorry. I forgot my manners." He paused.
"Say, you wouldn't happen to have anything to drink here, would you?" "I do,'' Blade replied.
"What?" Gallagher asked eagerly.
"Wat
er and milk," Blade responded.
Gallagher frowned. "That's it?"
"That's it."
"No hard liquor? No beer?" Gallagher asked.
"I don't drink. You know that," Blade reminded him.
General Gallagher rubbed his chin. "Pity," he remarked.
Blade sat up, his curiosity aroused. The general was behaving in an
uncharacteristically nervous fashion.
"Where's the recruit?"
Gallagher licked his thin lips. "I left him out in the jeep."
"Why didn't you bring him in?"
"I wanted to prepare you," Gallagher said.
Blade leaned forward. "Prepare me? For what?"
"I think you'd better see for yourself," the general stated, wheeling and
striding from the office.
"Wait!" Blade called, but Gallagher was already gone. What was going on
here? He stood and moved to the front of his desk, watching the doorway. Moments later footsteps filled the short stairway.
General Gallagher entered the office first, quickly stepping to one side so
the figure behind him could enter: The general was clearly jittery. Distracted for a moment by the general's unusual conduct, Blade didn't
look up until the new recruit sent by the Civilized Zone was a full yard into the
room. When he did, his hands automatically dropped to his Bowies, and despite
his years of experience as a Warrior, despite continually striving for total selfcontrol, his mouth slackened in amazement and life-gray eyes widened. "What's the matter?" the newcomer asked in a low, raspy tone. "Ain't you
never seen a mutant before?" Blade had. Many, many times. Mutants had
become commonplace since World War Three, and were divided into three
distinct categories. The two most numerous groups had been spawned by the