Denver Run

by David Robbins

  Blade, Yama, Teucer, and Kilrane were waiting for him near the SEAL.

  “Well?” Blade asked. “What did you find?”

  Rikki drew up next to them. He frowned and shook his head. “I didn’t find a thing,” he admitted.

  “Nothing?” Yama demanded.

  “Nothing I could put my finger on,” Rikki stated.

  “Then I’m going,” Blade announced.

  “Look!” Teucer exclaimed, pointing at the far hill.

  A single jeep was headed down the south hill toward the tent.

  “It must be the dictator,” Yama conjectured.

  The jeep slowed as it approached the tent, then pulled over on the east side of the Interstate. One man, and only one man, stepped from the vehicle and walked into the tent.

  “It has to be Samuel,” Blade said. “I’d better be going.”

  “What weapons are you taking?” Rikki inquired.

  Blade patted his Bowies. “Just these.”

  “No gun?” Rikki responded, surprised.

  “The driver told us Samuel would be unarmed,” Blade stated. “I’m not about to waltz into the tent packing a lot of hardware. My Bowies have never failed me before. They’ll suffice.”

  “Are you taking the SEAL?” Yama asked him.

  “Nope,” Blade answered. He glanced at Kilrane. “Would you have one of our jeeps driven up here?”

  “On its way,” Kilrane said, and departed.

  “Why won’t you take the SEAL?” Rikki wanted to know. “Its bulletproof body can protect you in case of an ambush.”

  “The SEAL stays here,” Blade declared. “We can’t run the risk of it falling into enemy hands. With all the firepower it has, the SEAL is invaluable to our Family.” He paused. “Besides, if I do get into hot water, you can bail me out with the SEAL.”

  “I don’t know,” Rikki commented doubtfully.

  “You have been paying attention to the driving lessons I gave you on the way down here, haven’t you?” Blade asked.

  “You know I have,” Rikki retorted.

  “Then what’s the problem?” Blade queried him.

  Further conversation was precluded by the arrival of the jeep. The driver, a brown-haired man from the Clan, parked the vehicle and hopped out, leaving the engine idling. “It’s all yours,” he said to Blade.

  Blade walked around the front of the jeep and climbed into the driver’s seat. He fondly gazed at Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. “Hold the fort until I return.” He hesitated. “If I shouldn’t return,” he added, “then you know what to tell Jenny.”

  Rikki nodded.

  “Give a yell if you need us,” Yama advised.

  Blade smiled at them and shifted into gear.

  “The Spirit be with you,” Rikki offered.

  Blade drove toward the tent. He didn’t want to alarm his friends, but he agreed with their assessment. Knowing Samuel II as he did, there was no doubt this arrangement was a setup. But if he refused to attend, the violent clash between the Freedom Federation and the Civilized Zone’s army became inevitable. If he did meet with Samuel, there was always the prospect, no matter how unlikely, of resolving the conflict, of settling the war, without the further loss of lives.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi had been right; the needless loss of life appalled him.

  He could kill when necessary, even ruthlessly on occasion, but not wantonly, not indiscriminately.

  The tent reared its dark green shape directly ahead, its sides whipping in the wind like a ghastly green ghost.

  Blade parked his jeep alongside the front one. He peered into Samuel’s vehicle before climbing from his own, noting it empty. As he slid from his jeep he happened to notice a brown tarp bundled on the back seat.

  The sun was almost overhead, at the noontime point in its aerial trajectory.

  Blade insured his Bowies were loose in their sheaths, took a deep breath, and entered the tent.

  “I was beginning to believe you wouldn’t show,” stated the lone occupant.

  Blade scanned the interior, noting the table, the chairs, the wide empty space beyond. A disturbing thought flitted across his mind: why so large a tent for a meeting between two men?

  “Did you have to bring them?” demanded the speaker.

  Blade stared at the man sitting to the left of the folding table, and it was only with consumate self-control that he was able to prevent his shock from showing.

  Samuel II was well on in years, and his aged body displayed every wrinkle, every crack in his dry, sagging skin. His shiny pate was bald, utterly devoid of hair, but laced with a prominent network of protruding veins. The man’s face seemed to have sunk, to have turned inward on itself; his cheeks were pronounced hollows, his eyes black pools in their recessed sockets, and even his chin had a decidedly cleft aspect. His nose, a long pointed extention of flesh and cartilage, was the only elevated feature on his countenance. Thin, tight lips covered his small mouth. Not much of his body was visible owing to the ill-fitting green fatigues he wore. He raised his withered right hand and pointed at the Bowies. “Did you have to bring them?” he repeated in his raspy voice.

  “I never go anywhere without them,” Blade replied.

  “Ahhhh, yes. Ever the devoted Warrior.” Samuel II indicated the vacant chair. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

  Blade slowly crossed to the chair and sat down.

  “Care for some water?” Samuel asked.

  “No thanks,” Blade replied.

  “Suit yourself,” Samuel said. He poured himself a tall glass and held it close to his lips. “Here’s to progress,” the remarked, and gulped a mouthful.

  What was that supposed to mean? Blade gazed around the tent again.

  “A bit nervous, are we?” Samuel inquired a trifle sarcastically.

  “You wanted to discuss a truce,” Blade reminded him.

  Samuel tittered, his dark eyes twinkling in their sockets. Despite his advanced years, there was considerable vitality left in the man.

  “What’s so funny?” Blade demanded.

  “A private joke,” Samuel responded. “We’ll talk about the truce soon enough. First, though, I’d like to get to know you a little better.”

  “What?”

  “I thought we’d have a nice chitchat,” Samuel mentioned.

  A nice chitchat? Blade studied the dictator, perplexed. What kind of game was Samuel playing? Was he senile? Here they were, the Civilized Zone and the Freedom Federation, embroiled in an all-out war, and Samuel wanted to “chitchat”?

  Something wasn’t right.

  “I must say,” Samuel said politely, “your Family has caused me no end of trouble. You Warriors are a fierce bunch.”

  Was that intended as a compliment? Blade remained silent.

  “If you don’t mind,” Samuel continued undeterred, “I’d like to pose a few questions your way.”

  Blade leaned forward in his chair. “Questions?”

  “Yes,” Samuel said, nodding, his skin quivering as he moved. “For instance, what have you done with the Doktor?”

  Blade didn’t reply.

  “Is he dead?” Samuel inquired. “I haven’t heard from him, and the last I knew he was heading for Catlow, Wyoming. I’ve received reports of a terrible battle there. Was that you?”

  “We were in Catlow,” Blade disclosed.

  “And now you are here and the Doktor isn’t,” Samuel observed. “The answer to my question is self-evident.” He examined Blade for a moment.

  “You are much younger than I expected.”

  Why was Samuel being so courteous? Blade was stumped. This didn’t conform to the dictator’s reputation as a singularly blood-thirsty individual.

  “Still,” Samuel went on, “I know age is no determiner of ability. You must be equally as surprised to find someone of my advanced years ruling the Civilized Zone.”

  “I am,” Blade admitted.

  “Do you know how I do it?” Samuel queried.

  “I know how you do it,” Blade sn
apped. “You rule with an iron fist and you crush all opposition.”

  Samuel nodded, cackling. “True. But that’s only half of my secret. Do you know what the other half is?”

  Blade shook his head.

  “Giving the people a third of the things they think they want. You can’t have them completely unsatisfied or a spontaneous revolution will develop practically overnight. No, you give them some of the luxuries of life, just enough to keep them contented and under your thumb. It works every time.” Samuel beamed.

  “And you admit it?” Blade asked, surprised.

  Samuel swept the tent with his spindly right arm. “There’s no one else here. Who’s to tell?”

  “Your audacity astounds me,” Blade stated.

  “Thank you,” Samuel rejoined.

  “About the truce,” Blade prompted him.

  “In good time, dear lad,” Samuel said patronizingly. “There are a few more items to cover. What happened to the Flatheads?”

  “Which Flatheads?” Blade responded.

  Samuel chuckled, his eyes sparkling. “You must think I’m a doddering old fool. I assure you, Blade, I am not. I’m referring to the Flathead Indians you rescued from Callow.”

  How did Samuel know about them? Blade couldn’t see any harm in divulging the truth. “They’re on their way back to Montana,” he said.

  “They wanted to return to their homeland.”

  “Why?”

  “They wanted to search for other survivors of your attack,” Blade explained, his mind straying to his run to Kalispell and the war between the Flatheads and the Civilized Zone Army, a war the Flatheads lost. “You didn’t kill or capture all of them, you know. The survivors are going to march to our Home for Star and take her to Montana if she wants to go.”

  “Who is Star?” Samuel inquired.

  “The daughter of the Flathead chief,” Blade commented. “You should remember him,” he said, baiting the dictator. “Your men slaughtered his people and killed him. You still use some of the Flatheads as slave labor.”

  “You sound like you disagree,” Samuel remarked.

  “Of course!” Blade said angrily. “Do you expect me to condone slavery?”

  “A moot point,” Samuel declared. He took a sip of water. “Do you know who Clarissa is?”

  The name didn’t ring a bell. “Should I?” Blade retorted.

  “Clarissa was the Doktor’s assistant,” Samuel elaborated. “My spies reported her traveling south through Denver over a week ago. You have no inkling of her destination?”

  “How would I know?” Blade responded.

  “No harm in asking,” Samuel said. He straightened in his seat. “Now to the important matters. How many thermos do you have at your disposal?”

  Blade suppressed a grin. So! Lynx had hit the nail on the head! The dictator believed the Family possessed some of the portable thermonuclear devices! “Why should I tell you?” he retorted.

  “Then you admit you do have some?” Samuel asked, his voice lowering as he peered intently at the strapping Warrior.

  “Do you doubt it?” Blade confidently replied.

  Samuel unexpectedly nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  Blade nonchalantly reclined in his chair. Uh-oh. This was trouble. His only hope of swiftly ending the war, of preventing more carnage, lay in convincing the dictator the Family had confiscated some thermos. “We have three thermos,” he lied.

  “Oh, you do, do you?” Samuel said skeptically.

  “If you don’t think we have the thermos,” Blade noted, “then why did you evacuate Fort Collins, Love-land, and the other cities?”

  “Because my generals think you have the thermos,” Samuel revealed.

  “They suspect you stole them from the Cheyenne Citadel before it was nuked.”

  “That’s what we did,” Blade stated belligerently.

  Samuel’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the Warrior. “And you have these thermos with your column?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you plan to use them on Denver if we don’t capitulate?” Samuel speculated.

  “Exactly,” Blade confirmed.

  A smile creased Samuel’s features, one more wrinkle in the sea of lines.

  “I… don’t… think… so,” he stated slowly.

  This wasn’t going as anticipated. Blade rested his hands on his Bowies.

  “Why not?”

  Samuel calmly placed his elbows on the table top and cradled his chin in his palms. “I consider myself to be an excellent judge of character. You don’t stay in power as long as I have if you can’t distinguish your friends from your enemies, or potential enemies. You become extremely adept at reading people, at assessing their character. My newly appointed generals believe you have thermos. They pressured me into this meeting. The fools are afraid you will nuke Denver.” He paused, smiling. “I agreed to this meeting on the remote possibility you might, indeed, possess thermos. But one look at your face convinces me you don’t have them. You’re a rotten liar, Blade.”

  Blade frowned, annoyed at himself. He never could lie well.

  Samuel cackled at his triumph. “Don’t feel so bad. Honesty is, by its very nature, transparent.”

  “So now we go to war,” Blade stated regretfully.

  “Perhaps not,” Samuel said.

  “You’re willing to forget your goals of conquering the territory formerly controlled by the United States of America?” Blade asked in disbelief.

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so,” Blade muttered. “Then there will be a war, after all.

  The Freedom Federation is not going to stand by and watch you subdue the entire country,” he declared. “We won’t forsake our freedom for a dictatorship. We will use everything in our power to stop you.”

  “One step at a time,” Samuel cryptically commented.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean,” Samuel said, leering, “you learn to take life one step at a time when you reach my age. I’ll dispose of the rabble comprising the so-called Freedom Federation presently. First, though, I will dispose of their commander-in-chief.”

  Blade glared at the dictator. “I won’t be easy to dispose of,” he growled, his resentment toward this smug, sanguinary megalomaniac growing by the moment.

  “Not easy,” Samuel agreed, “but not impossible either.”

  “I can’t wait for you to try!” Blade snapped.

  Samuel laughed. “I’m not crazy! I wouldn’t think of trying to kill you myself.” He paused, smirking. “I’ll leave it to them.” He waved his left hand in an arc.

  Blade glanced to his right, then froze, dumbfounded.

  There were 17 of them, all dressed in black, their faces covered by black masks, all armed with sharp Oriental swords. They completely encircled the folding table and the chairs.

  How?

  Samuel chuckled, delighted by the Warrior’s astonished reaction.

  Blade suddenly perceived the brilliance of their strategem. They had dug holes in the ground large enough to accommodate a man, 17 holes spaced at ten-foot intervals, aligned along the inner walls of the tent, invisible from the outside and imperceptible inside. An outstanding job of camouflage.

  “You won’t leave this tent alive,” Samuel predicted.

  Blade tensed, about to draw his Bowies. The odds were too great against him. His only consolation would be to take out Samuel before the Imperial Assassins got him.

  “There’s one more question,” Samuel casually mentioned.

  Blade started to ease his Bowies from their sheaths.

  “Do you miss your father?” Samuel asked.

  The unforeseen query startled Blade. His father? What did his father have to do with anything?

  Samuel was grinning, obviously relishing the emotional torment he was causing the Warrior. “How many years has it been now? Four years since your father was killed?”

  “Leave my father out of this!” Blade said, his tone low and threatening.


  Samuel ignored him. “Do you remember how your father was killed?” he taunted.

  Blade’s face was turning red.

  “Of course you do,” Samuel answered his own question. “Your father was killed by a big cat. Did you ever wonder where that big cat came from?”

  Blade felt as if he would explode. “I know where the cat came from! The Doktor sent it to kill my father!”

  Samuel’s white eyebrows arched upward. “Oh? You know that, do you? The Doktor must have told you the cat was one of his earlier genetically engineered creations. A test-tube animal. Did you know the Doktor developed the cat from a mountain lion embryo? He raised the animal from a kitten. It would do whatever he wanted.”

  Blade’s mind was spinning. Why was Samuel reminding him of all this?

  “Actually,” Samuel resumed as if lecturing a student, “the animal was a consequence of the Doktor’s research with test-tube produced mutations and his work with the chemical clouds.”

  Blade’s rage was almost uncontrollable.

  “You must hate the creature responsible for your father’s demise,” Samuel remarked.

  Blade slowly stood.

  “Would you like to meet it?” Samuel innocently asked.

  Blade couldn’t seem to find his voice. “What?”

  “Would you like to meet it? I thought a reunion might be in order,” Samuel said. He nodded at one of the Imperial Assassins.

  Four of the Assassins immediately lowered their swords and slid them into their scabbards. The four moved to a spot eight feet from the folding table. They formed a line, knelt, and felt along the ground with their hands. Satisfied, they rose as one and began walking to the right, pulling a section of the “ground” after them.

  “Take a look,” Samuel urged Blade. “It’s an old friend of yours.”

  Blade, bewildered, moved around the table.

  The quartet of Assassins had uncovered a circular pit 20 feet in diameter.

  So!

  This explained why the tent was so large.

  The pit had been covered by a heavy tarp, and the tarp coated with a layer of earth and clumps of weeds and grass.

  But what had held aloft the tarp?

  Blade walked to the edge of the pit and glanced down.

  There was a thin, clear sheet of plastic covering the pit. The plastic sheet was half an inch thick and attached to the edge of the pit by a series of huge metal clamps. Apparently, one end of each clamp was shaped like a stake and imbedded in the upper wall of the pit. The clamp portion was secured to the plastic sheet, supporting it. Small holes had been drilled in the plastic sheet for ventilation purposes.