He’d been lucky so far.
Real lucky.
Hickok had been able to keep the helicopter in sight as it flew from the West Potomac Park, over the Jefferson Memorial, and landed at the airstrip. Traveling undetected from the West Potomac Park to the airstrip had been painstaking and arduous. Fortunately, the Jefferson Memorial had been leveled during World War III; all that remained were several shattered columns and the cracked and ruined dome lying on the ground.
Hickok was glad the structure had been razed. Otherwise, he might have encountered large crowds similar to those near the Lincoln Memorial. He silently thanked the Spirit as he crept toward the airstrip, using every available cover.
Once, as he was nearing Buckeye Drive, a squad of soldiers had tramped past his position. They were marching toward the Washington Channel.
Hickok had crossed Buckeye and hidden in the grass, and now he was only 15 feet from the northwestern perimeter of the strip. He parted the grass in front of him for a better look-see.
The airstrip was loaded with helicopters. Huge helicopters. Small helicopters like the one the SEAL had engaged. And medium-sized helicopters. Some had single rotors. Others, especially the immense ones, had twin rotors, one above each end of the whirlybird. Technicians and flight personnel crowded the airstrip. Several tanker trucks, evidently conveying fuel, arrived on departed at periodic intervals.
After he had observed the proceedings for a spell, Hickok’s interest was aroused by one particular copter. It was one of the largest on the airstrip, and the hub of intense activity. Hickok deduced they were preparing the helicopter for takeoff. A red tanker truck had pulled up, and three men were involved in running a hose from the tanker to the copter. Other men were engrossed in loading supplies onto the helicopter. One of the items Hickok saw rang a mental bell.
What was it General Malenkov had said?
“Our helicopter will use a winch and a sling and fly it here.”
Hickok was familiar with winches. The Family Tillers used small winches to store bales of hay and other perishables in F Block. So when he saw a gigantic winch mounted above the bay doors on the huge helicopter being serviced by the tanker truck, a surge of excitement pulsed through him.
What if it were the one they were planning to use to transport the SEAL to Washington?
Several minutes later, his hunch was confirmed. Two events took place.
First, a steel, sling-like affair was placed aboard the copter. And secondly, Lieutenant Voroshilov drove up in a jeep.
Now what would General Malenkov’s pet flunky be doing here?
Lieutenant Voroshilov carefully inspected the tandem helicopter, apparently guaranteeing the ship was airworthy. To Hickok, it seemed as if the lieutenant spent an inordinate amount of time involved in the task.
Voroshilov even climbed a ladder to examine the rotors. Wouldn’t that task normally be a job for one of the noncommissioned types? the gunman asked himself, if so, why did Lieutenant Voroshilov devote so much energy to the work?
A troop transport approached the helicopter from the direction of a building situated along the Washington Channel. The brakes squealed as the truck stopped. Six soldiers emerged from the rear of the transport and formed a line.
Lieutenant Voroshilov walked up to the soldiers and returned the salute of a big man at the end of the line. They conversed for a moment, then the lieutenant walked back to the copter and the six men stood at ease.
Hickok thoughtfully gnawed on his lower lip. Those six must be the men Voroshilov was taking on the mission. He speculated on whether the copter would be departing soon, or if they would wait for nightfall.
Considering the bustle of activity, they probably intended to take off soon.
Not so good.
If they waited for dark, he might easily slip aboard and hitch a ride to the SEAL. In a helicopter that tremendous, with so many crates and boxes being stacked in the cargo bay, it would be a cinch to hide out until they reached their destination.
But what if they didn’t wait for night?
Hickok surveyed his surroundings. About 15 feet away was the edge of the airstrip. About 20 feet beyond rested an unattended small helicopter.
About 40 feet past the small whirlybird was the tanker truck. And then came the jumbo copter.
How the blazes was he going to get from—
A portly military man was walking toward the small helicopter, a clipboard in his left hand. He whistled as he walked, and as he neared the copter he consulted his clipboard.
Hickok lowered his body until just his eyes were elevated. What was this hombre up to with the small copter?
The man peered inside the helicopter’s bubble, studying the instrument panel. Then he slowly walked around the aircraft.
Hickok glanced in both directions.
None of the technicians or other personnel was nearby.
The gunman waited until the military man had his back to him, and then he charged, sprinting forward, his moccasins nearly soundless on the hard tarmac.
At the last second, the man with the clipboard sensed someone was behind him and started to turn.
Hickok rammed his right hand against the man’s head, driving the soldier’s skull into the helicopter bubble.
There was a resounding crack, and the clipboard clattered to the blacktop. The man weaved back and forth, then slumped to the ground, a trail of crimson descending from the right side of his head.
Hickok knelt and scanned the airstrip.
No one had noticed.
Yet.
Hickok’s vanquished antagonist was less than an inch shorter than the gunman, but his limbs were heftier and his stomach was downright paunchy.
Might do.
Hickok hastily removed the soldier’s clothing, then his own gunbelt, and hurriedly donned the uniform, covering his buckskins. The shoulders and elbows felt a bit tight, but they adequately hid his buckskins and that was the important thing. Although the pants were too short, with the hem two inches above his ankles, Hickok decided to risk it anyway and hope the ill-fitting uniform was inconspicuous.
But what to do about the Pythons and the gunbelt?
Hickok frowned. There was no way he could wear the gunbelt in the open; the Reds would spot him right off. He could tuck the Colts under his belt, under the uniform shirt. And he could stuff the bullets from the gunbelt in his pockets. But where did that leave the gunbelt?
There was a sharp retort from the huge tandem helicopter, a mechanical coughing and sputtering, and suddenly the two rotors began to rotate.
They were getting set to leave!
Blast! Hickok reluctantly extracted his spare ammo from the gunbelt and filled his pants pockets. He dropped the gunbelt on the ground next to the unconscious soldier.
“Think of it as a trade for the duds,” the gunman said.
The rotors were increasing their revolutions, and a distinct hum carried on the breeze.
Hickok scooped up the clipboard and jogged around the small copter.
It was now or never!
The hose had been secured on the red tanker, and the three men were standing near the truck watching the tandem helicopter.
Hickok raced for the copter.
Lieutenant Voroshilov was nowhere in sight. The six troopers had likewise disappeared.
The rotors were revolving at a fantastic clip.
Hickok passed the red tanker and darted toward the helicopter. The cargo bay doors were still open, and he angled for them, waving the clipboard over his head.
One of the troopers stepped into view, framed in the cargo doors. He was reaching for one of the doors, intending to close them, when he spotted the blond man with the clipboard.
Hickok plainly saw the confused expression on the soldier’s face. He smiled up at the trooper as he neared the cargo doors.
The tandem helicopter started to rise.
No!
Hickok estimated there were ten feet to go. He took three bounding step
s and leaped, his arms extended, his fingers outstretched, discarding the clipboard as he clutched at the helicopter. He gripped the lower edge of the cargo bay and held on for dear life.
The helicopter was ascending at a rapid speed.
Hickok could feel his body swaying in the wind as his hands threatened to be torn from his wrists.
The tandem copter was 20 feet up and climbing.
Hickok grimaced as he attempted to clamber aboard. He wanted to hook his elbows, then swing his legs up, but the helicopter abruptly changed direction, swinging from a southeastern heading to a westerly course. The motion caused the gunman to slip and sag, and his left hand lost most of its hold. He made a valiant effort to haul himself up, but his tenuous grasp was unequal to the endeavor.
He was going to fall!
The copter was 60 feet up and still rising.
Hickok’s left arm slipped free, and for a few precarious seconds he dangled from his right arm, envisioning what it would be like to be splattered all over the landscape below.
Sturdy hands clasped the gunfighter’s right wrist, and he was unceremoniously lifted into the cargo bay, scraping his shins as he was hauled onto his back.
Two soldiers straddled him. One of them, the one he’d seen in the doorway earlier, was holding an AK-47 pointed at the gunman’s chest.
Hickok almost went for his Pythons. But they were under the uniform shirt and their barrels were wedged under his belt. He knew the trooper would blast him before he could whip the Colts clear.
The one with the AK-47 said some words to the Warrior in what Hickok assumed was Russian.
Hickok grinned.
The trooper repeated his sentence.
Hickok grinned wider.
The soldier leaned over and pressed the barrel of the AK-47 against the gunman’s nose. “I will use English,” the trooper stated. “I think I know who you are, and if you so much as twitch one of your little muscles, I will blow your nose off!”
Chapter Nineteen
Blade was beginning to think Grotto would never appear.
Hours had passed. Six more Leather Knights had joined the others already in the room. They took turns pounding the board against the side of the pit. Twice Blade had tried to initiate a conversation, but each time Terza had ordered him to shut his mouth. She became testier as the hours lengthened, pacing the lip of the pit, her hands entwined in the small of her back.
“Maybe Grotto ain’t gonna show,” Cardew said, voicing the thought most of the assembled Knights entertained.
“He’ll show!” Terza barked.
“He’s taken a long time before,” Erika interjected.
“Probably because he was far off in the sewers. But the damn thing has never taken this long.”
“He’ll show!” Terza repeated.
“What’s the big deal?” Erika demanded. “So what if we don’t feed this bastard to Grotto today? There’s always tomorrow.”
Terza ceased her nervous pacing and glared at Krika. “We’re not leaving this room until Grotto shows.”
“But why?” Erika insisted. “We’re getting hungry. Why don’t we call it quits for today?”
Terza’s hands drifted to her Comanches. “Are you questioning my judgment?”
Erika retreated a step. “Now you hold on—”
“Are you telling me what to do?” Terza asked in a menacing tone.
Erika paled. “No. No! Of course I ain’t! I didn’t mean nothin’ by it! Honest!”
Terza scanned the room. “Anybody else got anything they’d like to say?”
None of the Knights responded.
“Keep poundin’!” Terza shouted at the stud with the board, who had stopped while Erika and Terza were arguing.
“One big, happy family,” Blade said.
Terza turned and faced him. “Another word out of you, asshole, and I won’t wait for Grotto! I’ll do the job myself!”
“Big talk when you’re armed and I’m not,” Blade boldly replied.
Terza took a step toward the Warrior, the right Comanche easing upward.
A sibilant hissing filled the room, the same hissing sound they had heard earlier in the day.
“I hope the damn thing shows up this time,” Erika muttered.
The damn thing did.
Blade had seen many mutants over the years. Deformed and demented, they came in all shapes and sizes. Often they beggared description. There were the mutates themselves—former reptiles, amphibians, and mammals, transformed into ravenous, pus-covered horrors. There were the insects and their close kin, subject to rare strains of deviate giantism, thought to be a genetic imbalance caused by one of the chemical-warfare weapons employed during the Big Blast, or a combination of the chemicals and the massive radiation. There were numerous other… things… as well.
This was one of them.
A red snout appeared, visible in the subterranean entrance to the pit.
“Grotto!” Erika said, sounding relieved.
Blade tensed, enthralled and repulsed simultaneously.
The red snout was at least four feet wide and two feet high. Slowly, the creature creeped into the pit. Its eyes and head seemed to fill the entrance, its eyes a luminous brown, wide and unblinking, while its head was a grotesque, bloated caricature of a beast vaguely reptilian or amphibious by nature. More of the mutant emerged. Its skin was a bright red, crisscrossed with black stripes. The stocky legs were short in relation to the rest of the body, and its clawed feet were webbed. The body was bulky, bulging with raw power. Its thick tail was equally as long as the head and body combined. Tiny holes just behind the eyes served as ears, and its mouth was a thin slit from ear to ear. The monstrosity entered the pit and stopped, hissing, while a putrid stench hovered in the air.
Blade estimated the creature was close to ten feet in height and about seven feet wide. The mouth was large enough to swallow him in two bites.
Terza, Erika, Cardew, and some of the other Leather Knights were poised at the edge of the pit, admiring their “pet.” Every Knight in the room was gaping at it.
Blade was completely, momentarily, forgotten.
Blade saw his opening, and he took it. Warrior training encompassed years of intense instruction in the many facets of combat and war. One aspect was deliberately stressed by the Elders responsible for teaching the Warriors the tricks of their trade. As one Elder put it: “In a fight, in any life-or-death situation, victory is frequently predicted on recognizing the enemy’s weaknesses, on using your foes mistakes against them. All they have to do is lower their guard for a split-second, and their defeat is assured if you take advantage of their mistake. Always remember: if someone is trying to kill you or any other Family member, your primary responsibility is to your Family and yourself. Do whatever is necessary to win. You won’t get a second chance.”
So coordinated was Blade, so instantaneous his reflexes, that he was in motion even as he perceived his advantage. He took four steps and reached Terza and Erika. The two Knights, concentrating on the hideous Grotto, were unaware of his presence until a steely hand pounded each of them on the back and they were propelled over the edge of the pit, Erika screaming in terror.
Blade whirled, his granite fist crashing into Cardew’s right cheek.
The stud tottered backward and collapsed.
Petrified shrieks were coming from the pit as Blade spun and attacked a nearby sister.
The other Leather Knights began to react. Initially stunned by the sight of Terza and Erika falling into the pit, they recovered and attacked the giant Warrior. One of the studs went to use his rifle, but rejected the idea when he saw how close his target was to several of his friends.
Blade slugged the sister in the abdomen, and kneed her in the face when she doubled over.
Spouting blood from her pulverized nose, the sister catapulted backward.
Blade was tackled by a stud. He felt arms encircle his legs, and he was borne to the ground by the impact. He desperately threw his body
to the left to avoid being knocked into the pit, and he succeeded in digging his elbows and forearms into the very edge before arresting his momentum.
Hovering on the brink of the hole, he glanced down.
A pair of slim legs protruded from the corners of Grotto’s gaping maw, and rivulets of blood poured over its lower jaw.
Terza?
Blade couldn’t waste time speculating on the identity of the deceased.
The stud holding his legs was striving to push him over the edge. Blade glanced over his right shoulder, noting his opponent’s head was just below his buttocks, and he twisted, rolling to the left, throwing his entire weight into the movement.
The stud’s grip slipped, and he lunged for the Warrior’s waist.
Blade reached back and down with his right hand, his calloused fingers grasping the stud’s long black hair and yanking the Knight’s head upward.
The stud cried out as his neck was wrenched. He felt as if his neck were being torn from his shoulders. Cursing, he pummeled the iron arm clutching his hair, to no avail.
Blade heaved, drawing the stud higher until they were eye to eye.
The Knight attempted to punch Blade in the face.
Blade sneered as he rose to his knees. He placed his left hand under the stud’s chin, braced his coiled arms, and savagely snapped his hands to the right.
Several of the stud’s vertebrae fractured with an audible crack.
Two other Knights, both sisters, pounced on the Warrior, one from the left, the other from the right, clasping his wrists and trying to force him into the pit.
Blade flexed his arms and strained, throwing his arms forward and tossing the sisters over the lip of the pit. They screeched as they fell.
Pandemonium was rampant in the room. Some of the Leather Knights were converging on their prisoner. Others were bolting for the door. A few were perched on the rim of the pit, guns at the ready, watching Grotto. As Blade rose to his feet, the pandemonium was compounded by three developments. Grotto clawed at the pit, scrambling to climb to the top.
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