World War Three had transpired 106 years ago, and neither side had emerged unscathed. The Soviets launched a two-pronged attack against the continental United States with conventional forces after their initial nuclear strike at a few strategically selected targets. Contrary to the media-fostered popular misconception, the Russians weren't interested in destroying America; they wanted to conquer the country. The Soviets wanted America's natural resources, and turning the U.S. into a devastated radioactive wasteland would have defeated their purposes.
Thermonuclear devices were used on certain military installations and a few major cities, such as New York and San Diego. But the Russians employed neutron bombs more extensively because the neutron variety were far less destructive and produced far less fallout.
On the Western Front the Soviets launched a massive drive through Alaska and Canada, aimed at the Pacific Northwest. Their armored columns were stopped in British Columbia by the worst winter in Canadian history, and they were forced to retreat back onto Russian soil.
The attack on the Eastern Seaboard was eminently successful. They wrested control of a corridor stretching from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mississippi River, including New England, southern New York, southern Pennsylvania, Maryland, New Jersey, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, and portions of Illinois, Kentucky, Virginia, and West Virginia. They also conquered sections of North and South Carolina. Eventually the Russian drive sputtered as resistance mounted and they experienced shortages of men and supplies.
For 70 years the Russian forces in American maintained their domination over the belt of occupied territories, receiving infrequent shiploads of supplies from the motherland. Then, all contact with the Soviet Union ceased. The shortwave and cryptographic communications from Russia stopped. All ships sent to investigate were never heard from again. The reason wasn't a mystery.
The Soviet regime, weakened by the staggering cost of the war, both in terms of personnel and armaments, and beset at home by ever worsening shortages of the simple necessities, eventually succumbed to internal pressures brought to bear by the non-Russian peoples and the virulent ethnic minorities who had always resented Russian dominance. Many rose up in rebellion and toppled their Communists oppressors.
Leaving the Russians in America stranded.
Realizing that without reinforcements from the motherland their numbers would gradually dwindle until the subjugated Americans were tempted to revolt, the Russian leaders in the U.S. opted to establish an ingenious alternate system for replenishing their ranks. They began a system of modified racial breeding. Carefully selected American women were forcibly impregnated, and their children were raised by the State.
The offspring were educated, trained, and indoctrinated by the occupation government. Communism was exalted. Russian values and history were stressed. The system produced soldiers every bit as Russian and as devoted to Communism as if they had been born and raised in the U.S.S.R. All of them were fluent in Russian and English.
Berwin opened his eyes and stared at the wall, feeling oddly happy despite his predicament. At last his memory was starting to return! Now if he could only recall who the hell he was, he'd be delirious! Although he knew more than he did before, he still didn't know what the Russians were up to at the hospital, and he had no idea how he fitted into the scheme of things.
So what should he do?
Stay where he was and try to uncover the Russian project? Or should he escape from the hospital? If he did, where would he go?
Damn.
What a mess.
Footsteps sounded outside and Nurse Krittenbauer entered, all smiles.
"Hi. How are you feeling?"
Berwin pasted a welcoming grin on his face. "Fine, thanks."
"I heard you had a visitor," she commented, coming over to the bed.
"Yeah. A janitor came in here and swept the floor. Doctor Milton didn't seem very pleased."
Krittenbauer scrutinized his face intently. "Did he explain the reason to you?"
Berwin nodded. "He was concerned about his patients."
"What all did the janitor and you talk about?" Krittenbauer inquired casually.
"Not much."
"Like what, specifically?" she prompted.
"Oh, he talked about his job and his wife. Nothing unusual. Why?"
Krittenbauer shrugged. "Just asking."
"So what's on the agenda today?" Berwin asked, her. "Do I get to go outdoors?"
"Not yet, I'm afraid. But your family will be back to visit you later, so you shouldn't be too bored."
"I can hardly wait," Berwin said, feigning enthusiasm.
"Can I get you anything?"
"How about explosives so I can blow a hole in the wall and a six-story-high ladder so I can climb down and escape this boredom?"
Berwin proposed.
Nurse Krittenbauer laughed. "Sorry. But you're stuck here for the duration."
Berwin sighed. "That's what I'm afraid of."
Chapter Ten
In the millisecond before Marcus squeezed the trigger, he heard Geronimo cut loose with the FNC and knew the Indian's nonchalance had been a sham. He saw six of the forms at the barricade topple over, then added a withering burst from the HK 94, downing four more. He instantly dove for the asphalt as the figures closing in from both sides opened up.
Bullets buzzed overhead and thudded into the road. Without a break in his motion, he rolled to the left, presenting as difficult a target as possible, swiveling and aiming at the attackers surging from the woods on his side of the highway. He aimed and fired on the move, and he was gratified to see three foes drop—and then he knew what they were.
The dozens of ambushers charging from the forest and manning the barricade were scavengers, a large band of predatory wanderers who preyed upon everyone they encountered. Scavengers were the bane of the postwar era, as prolific as the large rats that inhabited the underground sewers and tunnels in the cities. The Outlands were infested with both.
Marcus shot two more, continuing to roll, never lying still for a second.
To do so would mean his death.
Shabbily attired, many in filthy rags, and armed with everything from pitchforks to lever-action rifles, the scavengers screamed and bellowed as they rushed the two Warriors.
Geronimo and Marcus were taking a fierce toll of their adversaries, but the Warriors were hopelessly outnumbered. The fleetest scavengers were almost to Highway Three. In mere moments Geronimo and Marcus would be overwhelmed.
The heavy thundering of the SEAL'S 50-caliber machine guns rent the air, rising above the general din. A lethal hail of rounds punched into the scavengers on the barricade, mowing them down, and the whine of the transport's engine increased sharply in volume as Hickok floored the accelerator and drove the vehicle directly at the obstruction.
The majority of the scavengers turned their attention to the SEAL, peppering its impervious shell with bullets, arrows, and even spears, all of which were deflected.
Briefly free of attackers, Marcus risked a glance at the transport and saw it 15 feet away and barreling forward. He expected the gunman to ram the barricade, but the brakes were abruptly applied at the last possible second and the SEAL screeched to a halt between Marcus and Geronimo.
The driver's door was flung wide. "Get in!" Hickok shouted, then lunged at the passenger door.
Marcus pushed himself to his knees, about to bound to the SEAL, when he heard the thump of onrushing boots to his rear and whirled.
A tall man in jeans and a T-shirt, armed with a tire iron, was two strides off.
Marcus tried to bring the HK 94 into play, but the scavenger swung the tire iron, clipping the barrel and sending the Heckler and Koch flying.
Another blow hissed at Marcus's head, and he duck and threw himself to the right. He rolled and began to rise, his right hand gripping the machete that jutted above his right shoulder, and he was still in a crouch when the machete came clear of its sheath and he whipped the blade across the scave
nger's abdomen, slicing through the T-shirt and into the soft flesh underneath, cutting the man open with the same ease he would cut a melon, disemboweling his adversary.
The man shrieked, released the tire iron, and clutched at his stomach as his intestines oozed forth.
Marcus snapped his arms in an arc, sinking the machete into the scavenger's neck, nearly decapitating the man. He didn't bother to watch the scavenger fall. Instead he turned to the SEAL and took a stride.
Another scavenger, a woman armed with a makeshift metal lance, bore down on him from the right, hatred distorting her features, dressed in ragged jeans and a blue blouse. "You killed George!" she cried.
Twisting, Marcus raised the machete to block the tip of the lance, batting the six-foot spear aside. The woman's momentum carried her to within six inches of the Warrior, and he spun, reversing his hold on the hilt, and used a reverse thrust to impale the scavenger's midriff, burying the machete all the way.
The woman screeched, blood spurting from her mouth, and doubled over, the lance falling from her suddenly limp fingers.
Marcus wrenched the machete free and tried once again to reach the shelter of the SEAL.
A hefty man wielding an ax charged him.
Automatically Marcus adopted a defensive posture, elevating the machete to counter the anticipated swipe of the axe. But before the axe could descend, a .357 Magnum boomed and an expertly aimed bullet bored through the center of the scavenger's forehead and burst out the rear of the man's cranium, spraying brains, flesh, hair, and blood on the roadway. Marcus glanced at the transport.
Hickok sat in the driver's seat, a Python in his left hand. "Will you quit playin' around!" he ordered. "Get in here!"
The rest of the scavengers were converging on the SEAL with all the primal savagery of a rabid dog pack.
Marcus darted to the vehicle and clambered inside.
"About time," Geronimo quipped, already sitting in the other bucket seat, his door closed and locked.
"I lost the HK 94," Marcus informed them as he slid into the wide seat.
"Forget it," Hickok responded, about to holster the Colt and close his door when a grungy scavenger materialized outside with a rifle in his hands, which he tried to point at the gunfighter. Hickok shot the man in the head, the impact flinging the scavenger backwards.
Several rounds smacked into the windshield.
Using just two fingers, Hickok snatched at the door handle and slammed the door shut. He slid the Python into its holster and took hold of the wheel. "Hang on!"
Marcus nearly lost his balance when the gunman shifted into reverse and tromped on the accelerator, sending the SEAL racing rearward.
Several scavengers were right behind the transport, and their bodies made loud thumping noises as the SEAL bowled them over.
The rest of the scavengers discharged a concerted volley.
"Mangy cow chips," Hickok muttered, braking the SEAL 30 feet from the barricade. Over a dozen scavengers were charging toward the front of the transport. He flicked the silver toggle activating the 50-caliber machine guns again, and in less than five seconds every scavenger in front of the SEAL was dead or dying, their grimy forms perforated repeatedly, pouring blood from their multiple wounds.
"Hickok!" Geronimo abruptly yelled. "The barricade!"
The gunman glanced at the wall of trees, his steely blue eyes narrowing at the sight of a lean scavenger astride the top of the barricade. The man held a bazooka!
"He's going to fire!" Geronimo warned.
Hickok's right hand streaked to the toggle switch marked with an R, and the next moment the SEAL lurched violently as the miniature rocket flashed from its hidden compartment in the middle of the front grill.
If Marcus had blinked, he would have missed it.
The rocket sped straight into the center of the barricade and exploded with tremendous force. A mighty explosion consumed the wall of trees and a spectacular fireball rose feet skyward. Dust and debris swirled into the air, obscuring the scene in a billowing cloud.
"Wow!" was all Marcus could think of to say.
The Warriors waited for the cloud to disperse. They glimpsed scavengers retreating into the trees, and only a few desultory shots were fired in parting at the SEAL.
"Why didn't they use the bazooka on us before?" Marcus asked, leaning forward to peer out the windshield.
"The vermin likely wanted to take the SEAL intact," Hickok responded.
"When we proved too hot to handle, they figured they'd blow us to smithereens."
"That band won't be ambushing travelers for a while," Geronimo commented.
"Too bad we couldn't wipe 'em all out," Hickok said.
The dust cloud rapidly dissipated. Bodies and bits of bodies were everywhere, intermixed with jagged lengths of busted logs, broken branches, and fluttering leaves.
"I thought you wanted to save the rocket," Geronimo mentioned.
Hickok shrugged. "I did. But we have two more stored in the back.
Besides, I wouldn't have had to use the rocket-launcher if you two bozos had been on the ball."
"Meaning what?" Geronimo queried.
"Meanin' there were only fifty or sixty of those Yahoos. You should have been able to take them out easy."
Geronimo looked at Marcus. "You'll need to excuse him. He occasionally suffers from delusions."
"Well, I'll be darned. Look at that," Hickok said.
The barricade had been totally destroyed. A few man-sized logs, broken limbs, and leaves were scattered where the wall had stood.
"Should we replace the rocket now?" Geronimo inquired.
"Nope. There might be snipers in the trees. We'll drive a few miles first," Hickok replied, and drove forward, not bothering to skirt the corpses littering the ground. The SEAL's massive tires crunched over a half dozen before the transport passed the last of the logs and leaves and headed to the east.
Marcus sat back in his seat and stared at the blood dripping from his machete. He shifted and reached into the storage section.
"What do you need?" Geronimo asked.
"A rag."
"There's one in the toolbox," Geronimo said.
"Thanks," Marcus responded. He found the toolbox, got out a fairly clean red rag, and started to wipe the blade.
Hickok looked at the self-styled gladiator. "You did real well back there.
I was impressed."
"I lost the Heckler and Koch."
"You still have those pigstickers and the SIG/SAUERs. And we'll find you a machine gun or an auto rifle somewhere. I'm sure the Commies have a few they can spare."
"My performance was shabby," Marcus remarked absently, involved with cleaning the machete.
"What's with you?" Hickok questioned. "I pay you a compliment and all you do is gripe."
"I wanted to demonstrate my competence to you. Instead I lost the HK
94 and my technique was flawed."
"Your technique?" Hickok repeated.
Marcus nodded. "I should have taken care of that first guy in one move, not two. Economy of movement is essential in combat. You know that."
"What are you, a perfectionist?" Hickok asked, partly in jest.
"Yeah," Marcus answered.
Hickok and Geronimo exchanged glances.
"Not another one," the gunman muttered.
"Who else is a perfectionist?" Marcus inquired.
"Yama, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, and Samson to name just three," Geronimo answered.
"How are they perfectionists?"
"Yama is constantly striving to be the perfect killing machine, the consummate Warrior," Geronimo said.
Hickok snorted, his eyes on the road. "What do you expect from a guy who took his name from the Hindu King of Death?"
"And Rikki," Geronimo went on, "is constantly trying to attain the transcendent mental and emotional state of a perfected swordmaster.
Samson wants to be a spiritually perfect Warrior, the same as his Biblical namesake."
"So wha
t's wrong with any of that? All three of them are outstanding Warriors," Marcus noted.
"True. And any one of them would be the first to tell you that perfectionists must always be on guard against getting carried away with their quest for perfection. You'll have to watch the same tendency in yourself. There's a fine line between perfectionism and fanaticism, and you must be careful you don't cross that line and wind up useless as a Warrior."
"That'll never happen to me," Marcus confidently predicted. He finished cleaning the machete and replaced the blade in its sheath.
"Famous last words," Hickok joked.
"You're a fine one to talk," Marcus stated. "You're just as much a perfectionist as Rikki or Yama. You spend more hours practicing your markmanship than any other Warrior. Even Sundance doesn't practice as much as you do."
"Maybe I am," Hickok acknowledged, "but I don't—" he began, but abruptly stopped, tensing. "Blast!"
Marcus looked at the level expanse of highway before them. Five hundred yards distant were three vehicles approaching at a rapid clip. The trio suddenly braked to a stop and Hickok did likewise with the SEAL.
"More trouble," Geronimo said.
"Who do you think they are?" Marcus asked.
"Maybe they're the official welcoming committee from Strawberry Point, but I wouldn't count on it," Hickok stated.
"They could be friends of the scavengers," Geronimo speculated.
"Too bad we don't have another rocket in the grill," Hickok mentioned.
"Do we cut through the forest?" Geronimo inquired.
"No," Hickok replied. "I know this buggy can travel over any type of terrain, but going through the woods would slow us down. Time is of the essence. I want to reach Boston as soon as possible."
"If time is of the essence, why didn't we wait for the next shuttle flight and take a VTOL to Boston?" Marcus questioned.
Geronimo stared at the younger Warrior, thinking of the weekly shuttle service initiated by the Free State of California. The only Federation faction possessing functional jet aircraft, California had been the site of a summit meeting of Federation leaders at which they'd decided to use the jets to carry correspondence and passengers on a regular basis. "The next shuttle flight wasn't due for six days," he answered. "And we wouldn't have been able to commandeer the jet without the approval of the Federal Council. By the time a meeting of all the leaders could be held, another week would have elapsed."
Boston Run Page 8
