Liberty Run

by David Robbins

  Not a trooper anywhere.

  Blade elevated his left leg, raising it over the barbed wire and placing his left foot on the outer rim. The barbed wire scraped his crotch, and he envisioned the impaling he would suffer if he slipped. Goose bumps broke out on his gonads. Holding the wire down with his left hand, he carefully eased his right leg up and over. For a second he perched on the outer rim, gazing at the ground 15 feet below. Then he launched himself into the air, dropping feet first, the air whipping his hair, and he landed and rolled, rising and running toward the woods.

  No one challenged him.

  Blade reached the trees and plunged into the brush. He bore to the right, seeking the jeep. The jeep was hidden near the turnoff, 60 yards from the road leading to the gate. After what seemed like an eternity, he parted the tall weeds before him and there was the turnoff. But which way was the jeep? Was he too far south or north? Acting on a hunch, he turned to the right, to the north, and within 15 yards discovered the field he wanted. He sprinted into the brush, smiling when he spotted the jeep. But his smile quickly changed to a frown when he reached the driver’s door and peered inside.

  Bakunin was gone!

  Blade straightened, scanning the landscape. What the hell had happened? Had Bakunin loosened his bounds? Had the captain gone to warn the Ministry? Had Sundance seen Bakunin? Was that the reason for the combat near the gate? Suddenly, all the pieces to the puzzle fit. If Sundance had observed Bakunin heading for the front gate, Sundance would have stopped him. And now Sundance was in mortal danger, resisting impossible odds, and all because Bakunin had been left alive.

  Blade grimaced. If Sundance was seriously injured, or worse, it was all his fault. He should have executed the officer, not spared the Russian. Plato’s philosophy was too idealistic for the real world, too compassionate for a seasoned Warrior. He had known it all along! Blade fumed. Anger washed over him, anger at his own stupidity. He removed his keys from his pocket and climbed in, placing the Commando to his right, gunning the engine, and flooring the pedal as he shifted into reverse.

  The jeep’s tires sent clumps of dirt and vegetation soaring as the tread dug into the turf.

  Blade glanced over his right shoulder, steering the jeep backwards in a tight loop. He shifted into gear, and the jeep surged across the field to the turnoff. Spinning the wheel, Blade turned to the right, making for the road to the gate. He traveled 20 yards, when he happened to look in the rearview mirror.

  Three motorcycles were roaring up the highway behind him.

  Where did the turnoff lead to? Blade wondered. He drove the jeep to the shoulder of the road and braked, grabbing the Commando.

  The cycles were 20 yards away, on the other side of the street, obviously intending to swing around the jeep as they raced to the intersection with the road to the gate, 40 yards to the north. Each rider was a Soviet soldier wearing a black helmet.

  Blade hastily rolled down his window and lifted the Commando barrel as the three motorcycles came abreast of the jeep. The Commando thundered, and the hapless drivers were rocked by a withering hail of lead.

  Two of the bikes wobbled, them smashed together, hurtling to the far side of the street in a tangle of crushed limbs and twisted metal. They slammed into a tree, breaking into bits and pieces.

  The third biker survived the ambush. He was nicked in the right arm, and his bike wavered for a few yards, then steadied as the rider slewed to a screeching halt 20 yards in front of the jeep. He drew an automatic pistol from a holster on his left hip.

  Blade waited for the biker to make the first move.

  The cyclist suddenly turned his handle bars and accelerated, making for the intersection.

  Blade mashed the gas pedal and the jeep sped in pursuit. The motorcyle was faster, closing on the intersection at a reckless speed. Blade knew he couldn’t catch the biker. And he also knew the rider would take a right, heading for the Ministry. He transferred the Commando to his left hand, steering with his right. Poking the barrel out the window, he angled the automatic in the direction of the intersection. The jeep was a mere 18

  yards from the junction when the motorcycle swung into the turn. Blade depressed the trigger and held it down, the Commando bucking as he fired. For a second or two, he believed he’d missed, miscalculated the range and the elevation.

  The biker was smoothly negotiating the turn, his cycle slanted, his body tucked close to the bike. His front tire abruptly exploded as four slugs shredded the rubber, and the motorcycle was catapulted forward, turning end over end, throwing the biker to the side, his spindly form smashing into the asphalt and rolling for a good ten yards, his arms and legs flopping and flapping. He came to rest on the right shoulder, his helmet cracked, his left leg bent at an unnatural posture, immobile.

  Blade reached the intersection and took a right. His keen eyes probed the road ahead, and narrowed as he spied the stumbling figure in the blood-drenched uniform.

  It was Sundance!

  Blade tramped on the gas, his right hand tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He could see a lot of bodies lining the road.

  A trooper suddenly shoved through the underbrush, aiming an AK-47

  at Sundance.

  Blade thumped on the brake, swerving the jeep so his side faced the trooper, shoving the Commando out the window and squeezing the trigger.

  The soldier was perforated from his knees to his shoulders. He twisted and fell, rivulets of crimson seeping from the holes.

  Blade clutched at the shift as the jeep began to lurch, and he shifted into park and leaped to the ground.

  Sundance had collapsed!

  Blade reached his friend in three bounds. He knelt, appalled by all the blood.

  Boots pounded to his right.

  Blade spun as a soldier emerged from the woods. The Commando boomed, ripping the soldier in half at the waist.

  Upraised voices bellowed in the forest.

  Blade swiftly slung the Commando over his left arm, and gently placed his forearms under Sundance. He lifted, hardly straining, and carried his fellow Warrior to the jeep. He was compelled to hurry, knowing the Russians were closing in, but he was reluctant to jostle Sundance.

  “This way!” someone called off to the left.

  Blade yanked the passenger door open, and solicitously deposted Sundance in the seat. He closed the door, moved around to the driver’s side, and hopped in. The jeep’s motor purred as he shifted and performed a U-turn, gathering speed, racing away from the Ministry of Psychological Sciences.

  Soldiers poured from the woods to the rear. Some fired their AK-47’s ineffectively.

  Sundance slumped forward until his forehead rested on the dash. His chin drooped onto his chest, and his body swayed with every bump in the road.

  Blade glanced at his companion, emotionally tormented. This was his doing! He knew it! The result of his incompetence! The mission had been a total washout! First Bertha had vanished, and now this! And all for what?

  The captured Vikings were all dead, leaving the Family with several files and the lingering hope of a possible alliance. Were the files worth the lives of two Warriors?

  “Hang in there,” Blade said to the unconscious figure beside him.

  “Don’t you die on me, damnit!”

  Sundance sagged to the floor.

  Chapter Twenty

  “There they are!” Cole whispered.

  Bertha and the three Claws were concealed behind four trees on the crest of a hill five miles to the south of the log cabin.

  “It’s the Bobcats!” Eddy exclaimed. “I knew it!”

  Bertha, her left shoulder pressed against the rough bark of an elm tree, watched 11 Bobcats 75 yards below her position. They were following a faint deer trail winding along the base of the hill. Eight were boys, 3 girls.

  They ranged in ages from about 10 to 16 or 17. Like the Claws, their clothing consisted of tattered rags. They were smiling, joking with one another, evidently happy over their
presumed defeat of the Claws.

  “Look at the sons of bitches!” Cole snapped. He stood behind a pine tree to Bertha’s right.

  “Let’s get the scum!” Eddy stated from his spot to Bertha’s left, crouched near another elm.

  “What’s that big gun?” Libby asked. She was standing next to a pine on Cole’s right.

  Bertha was asking herself the same question. It was a huge machine gun, mounted on a tripod, and it took four Bobcats to carry the weapon, tripod and all. The Bobcats must have swiped the machine gun from the Russians and decided to use it on their enemies, the Claws.

  “Who cares what it is?” Cole retorted. “It won’t stop us from wasting those creeps.”

  The corners of Bertha’s mouth turned downward. She didn’t like this.

  Didn’t like it one bit. It was all well and good to talk about teaching the Bobcats a lesson. But it was another matter to seriously contemplate shooting a 10-year-old. Or 11. Or 12. Try as she might, Bertha could only view the Bobcats in one light: as children. Savage little murderers, perhaps, but still children. She compared them to the children at the Home. The difference was incredible. The Family’s children were taught to reverence all life, to exalt love as the highest form of personal expression, and to strive for an inner communion with the Spirit. The Packrats, whether it was the Bobcats, the Claws, or any of the other gangs, by contrast had reduced all life to the primitive level of kill-or-be-killed. They didn’t have the slightest idea of the true nature of mature love. And of spiritual affairs they were pitifully ignorant. The disparity was like night and day. It was amazing, Bertha reflected, the difference the Family and the Home made in the lives of the children. She suddenly became aware Cole was addressing her.

  “…us or not?” Cole demanded.

  Bertha turned. “What did you say?”

  “I want to know if you’re with us or not?” Cole repeated.

  Bertha glanced at the Bobcats. “I don’t know,” she confessed.

  “I thought you were on our side!” pudgy Eddy interjected.

  “I am,” Bertha said. “But…” She paused, uncertain.

  “But what?” Cole pressed her.

  “But I don’t think I could kill the Bobcats,” Bertha stated, nodding toward the base of the hill.

  “Why not?” Libby inquired.

  “They’re just kids!” Bertha declared. “Look at ’em! Half of ’em aren’t much over twelve!” She frowned, staring at Cole. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do it.”

  Surprisingly, Cole shrugged. “Suit yourself. You stay here, then.”

  Bertha leaned toward the Claw chief. “Why don’t you forget about this vengeance bit? One of you could get hurt, or even killed. Drop it, Cole.

  Come back to the Home with me.”

  Cole averted his eyes. “I can’t,” he said.

  “You could if you wanted to,” Bertha prompted him.

  Cole stared at Bertha, his expression one of profound sorrow. “I can’t,” he reiterated, and motioned to Eddy and Libby. He moved from cover and started down the slope.

  Eddy winked at Bertha, then followed Cole.

  Libby stepped over to Bertha. “I’ll miss you,” she stated sadly.

  “Don’t do it!” Bertha said. “Please!”

  “I’ve got to go,” Libby asserted. “I can’t let Cole and Eddy do it alone.”

  “Talk to Cole some more,” Bertha suggested. “You can talk him out of it, if anyone can!”

  “I can’t,” Libby said. “I’ve already tried.”

  “Try again!” Bertha urged. “What harm can it do?”

  “It’s no use,” Libby insisted.

  “How do you know. What makes you so damn sure?” Bertha asked.

  Libby looked into Bertha’s eyes. “Milly was Cole’s sister.” She whirled and dashed after Cole and Eddy.

  His sister! Bertha sagged against the elm. Sweet little Milly had been Cole’s sister! No wonder he was out for blood! Bertha watched the three Claws cautiously descend the hill. She’d never even considered some of the Packrats might be related. But how else would the younger ones have made it to Valley Forge, unless they were accompanied by an older brother or sister?

  Cole and Eddy had halted and were waiting for Libby. Cole glanced up once at Bertha and smiled wanly.

  Libby reached them, and together they continued their descent, utilizing the trees, boulders, and weeds as cover as they crept ever nearer to the unsuspecting Bobcats.

  Bertha felt queasy in her stomach. Lordy! She had a bad feeling about this!

  Cole, Eddy, and Libby reached a maple tree 60 yards from the bottom of the hill.

  Bertha didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t bring herself to tear her eyes away. Indecision racked her soul. What if she was wrong? What if she should be helping the Claws? They’d befriended her, hadn’t they? Spared her, when they could have killed her? Back at the cabin, she’d believed she was partly to blame for the butchery committed on the other Claws. Now, she wasn’t so sure. She was torn between her desire to aid her friends, and her repugnance at the mere thought of killing a child.

  The three Claws attained a boulder 40 yards from the Bobcats, still undetected by their quarry.

  Bertha scrutinized the Bobcats. They were strung out over a 20-yard stretch of trail. The quartet bearing the heavy machine gun was bringing up the rear, at least ten feet behind the rest. The apparent leader, a tall youth with black hair, armed with an AK-47, was about five feet in front of the group. AK-47’s were the standard weapon, except for two boys who were toting rifles.

  Bertha tensed as she saw Cole, Libby and Eddy creep to within 20 yards of the Bobcats. They crouched behind a spreading pine. Cole wagged his hand to the right and the left, and Eddy and Libby started off in the corresponding directions.

  The Bobcat leader unexpectedly paused, scanning the hill.

  Bertha held her breath.

  Cole, Libby, and Eddy froze in their tracks.

  The Bobcat leader looked over his shoulder at the gang, then resumed his journey.

  Bertha took a deep breath.

  Cole, Libby, and Eddy were crawling down the hill, silently parting the brush in their path, stopping whenever a Bobcat idly gazed up the hill.

  The Bobcat leader halted beside a maple tree and leaned down, doing something with his right shoe.

  Cole was now within 10 yards of the Bobcats, close to the center of their column. Libby was 12 yards from the four carrying the machine gun. And pudgy Eddy was 12 yards from the Bobcat leader.

  What were they waiting for? Bertha craned her neck for a better view.

  The Claws should strike before the…

  Cole suddenly rose to his feet from a clump of weeds, his AK-47 leveled.

  “You slime!” he shouted, and fired.

  Three of the Bobcats in the middle of the line were ripped to pieces by the automatic barrage, the slugs slamming into their bodies and exploding out their backs, ravaging their torsos. Their limbs jerked and flapped as they were struck and knocked to the ground.

  The other Bobcats lunged for the nearest cover.

  Libby popped up from behind a log, and her sweeping spray of lead caught the four with the machine gun in their chests. They died in midstride, crumpling under the weight of the machine gun.

  Eddy rose, aiming at the Bobcat leader.

  Only the Bobcat leader was quicker. He must have sensed something was wrong, must have been toying with his shoe as a ruse, because he was already in motion as Eddy stood, and both fired at the same instant.

  Eddy’s head snapped back, a crimson geyser erupting from his left ear, and he toppled to the grass.

  The Bobcat leader ducked behind the maple tree.

  Bertha started to raise the M-16, but hesitated. No! She wouldn’t—she couldn’t—shoot children!

  Cole dropped another Bobcat, and then flattened. Libby did likewise.

  The three remaining Bobcats were raking the hillside with gunfire, shooting in the general directi
on of their adversaries.

  From her vantage point high on the hill, Bertha saw Cole’s left shoulder twist sharply, as if he had been hit.

  The firing abated, each side waiting for the other to make the next move. In addition to the Bobcat leader, a girl of 14 or 15 and a boy approximately the same age were the only Bobcats still alive. The girl was hidden in a cluster of boulders 20 yards from Libby, and the boy was concealed in a thicket less than 15 yards from Cole.

  Bertha could see Cole and Libby clearly. The Bobcat girl was visible every now and then, whenever she popped her head up for a quick look-see. Although Bertha knew where the Bobcat leader and the other boy were hiding, neither betrayed their position, neither appeared in her field of view.

  Cole was tentatively groping his left side, and when he drew his right hand aside, his fingers were dripping blood.

  Bertha nervously bit her lower lip. She was in an agonizing quandary. If she didn’t do something, do anything, and fast, Cole might die. But what could she do, short of shooting a Bobcat?

  Libby was on her hands and knees, sheltered by a log, trying to peek around the end of the log and spot Cole.

  Bertha doubted whether Libby could see Cole. He was too well camouflaged by a stand of weeds.

  Cole was checking the magazine of his AK-47.

  Bertha finally made up her mind. Just because she felt uncomfortable about killing a Bobcat didn’t mean she couldn’t aid the Claws in another manner. As a distraction, for instance. If she could attract the Bobcat’s attention, she might provide Cole and Libby with the openings they needed. The idea was worth a try. She began moving down the hill, crouched over, treading lightly.

  Libby was now on her knees, continuing to scan for Cole.

  Don’t do anything stupid! Bertha almost yelled. She skirted a blue spruce. So how, she asked herself, was she going to help Cole and Libby without getting herself shot? The Bobcats would shoot at anything they saw moving. She had to be extremely careful.