Boston Run

by David Robbins

  Chapter Eighteen

  Major General Ligachev wheeled and took a step.

  "Now don't go off in a huff," Hickok said. "We need to shoot the breeze a bit."

  The officer turned, the set of his features revealing his anger. "I have nothing left to say to you. Surrender, or else."

  The Warrior gazed at the helicopter at rest to the west. The troopers inside were still seated, their AK-47's in their laps or held in their hands.

  None of them were aiming a weapon at him. "Maybe I was a mite hasty."

  "What?"

  "I reckon a surrender is in order."

  Ligachev nodded and smirked. "You finally see the light. There is no way you can escape us. Resistance would be futile."

  Hickok hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. "Yep, you coyotes sure have this all thought out. But there's a few things I don't understand."

  "Such as?"

  "Why didn't you guys track the SEAL from the Home? It would have been a lot simpler."

  "True," the officer acknowledged, "But had we attempted to shadow your vehicle all the way from the Home, we increased the likelihood of being detected."

  "Why'd you spring your trap now? Why not earlier? Or why not later?"

  "Our fuel consumption was a major factor in our decision. Any earlier and we would have been too far from our lines to be able to engage you, if you refused to give in, and still have enough fuel left to return to our refueling site. Our helicopters haven't been modified to fly extended distances, like the one the HGP Unit used to fly to the Home. Such modifications are expensive, and only a few such craft have been converted," Ligachev said. "We could have waited until later, but we ran the risk of not being able to find the SEAL. There are few secondary roads in this section of Iowa, making the area ideal. And as General Malenkov said, the sooner the better."

  "How is old cow face?"

  "Eager to see you," Ligachev responded, and grinned wickedly.

  "I'll bet," Hickok stated. He allowed his hands to slowly drop to his sides. "I've got one last point that's puzzlin' me. Malenkov wants the Home destroyed. He hates our guts. So why'd he send in the commandos just to snatch Blade? Why not send them in to blow up the Home?"

  "That's been tried before without success. Your compound even withstood a direct assault by a vastly superior force during your war with the Docktor. Before the general sends his elite unit against the Home, he wants to learn all about your defenses. He wants to know everything there is to know about your compound. That's one of the reasons Blade was taken," Major General Ligachev detailed. "You are right about the general hating your Family. After he is done, your compound will be reduced to rubble and your Family will be dead or in prison. The general rates the destruction of the Home as his paramount priority, and he is giving the matter his personal touch."

  Hickok nodded. "I guess that's all I need to know. It's time to surrender."

  Ligachev extended his hands. "I'll take your weapons now."

  "You've got it backwards, turkey."

  "What?"

  "I'm givin' you a chance to surrender."

  "You're giving us—!" the officer exclaimed incredulously.

  "Have your men line up behind you with their arms in the air," Hickok instructed him.

  "You're insane."

  "I mean every word I say."

  Scarlet flushed the Russian's cheeks. "You've been toying with me. You had no serious intention of surrendering."

  "You're the one who should give up before you get me riled."

  Ligachev uttered a hissing noise and pivoted on his heel. He stalked toward the helicopter.

  "Hey," Hickok said.

  "What is it now?" the officer snapped, stopping and glancing at the Warrior.

  "Do I take it your answer is no?"

  "We'll never surrender to you, you dimwit," Ligachev said. "Once I give the word, your SEAL won't last two minutes."

  The corners of Hickok's mustache curled upward. "You won't be givin'

  the word."

  Major General Ligachev studied the man in buckskins, and the full meaning of the Warrior's words dawned. He glanced at the Colt Pythons, their pearl grips glistening in the sunshine, and remembered the many tales he had heard about the gunfighter's prowess. "Now wait a minute."

  "Surrender, or else," Hickok said, mimicking the officer.

  "If you shoot me, my men will slay you."

  "Maybe, Maybe not."

  Ligachev gestured at his waist. "But I'm unarmed. You can't shoot an unarmed man."

  Hickok's forehead creased. "Why not?"

  The unexpected question gave Ligachev pause. Why not, indeed? He'd executed dozens of unarmed political prisoners during his early years in the army. He cursed himself for being a fool, for not carrying a gun. "I came over here unarmed to show I only wanted to talk, to prove my good intentions."

  "Good intentions? You're fixin' to blow us to bits."

  Ligachev frantically thought of another argument he could use. "Killing me won't accomplish anything. My second-in-command will take over and the choppers will still destroy the SEAL."

  "Pluggin' you will buy us a minute or two while your boys get their acts together," Hickok said. "I may rattle 'em so bad that they'll make mistakes."

  Major General Ligachev began to back toward the helicopter. "Listen to me. I was told that Warriors are men of honor. How can you slay me in cold blood? Don't you have any morals?"

  "I do have this code I live by," the gunman admitted.

  Ligachev smiled. "There. See?"

  "It's called do unto others before they do unto me," Hickok said, and drew. The Magnums streaked from their holsters and cracked in unison.

  The officer's eyes disappeared and the back of his head exploded outward.

  Major General Ligachev died on his feet.

  Hickok spun as the Russian started to crumple. He holstered the Colts and raced toward the alley, unslinging the Henry as he ran. Shouts sounded to his rear and he glanced over his left shoulder to see Soviet soldiers pouring from the helicopter. He looked at the mouth of the alley but saw no signs of Geronimo and Marcus. Where the blazes were they?

  "Kill the son of a bitch!" someone bellowed gruffly from near the chopper.

  Hickok heard the chatter of AK-47's and he weaved, never running in a straight line for more than a few yards. Rounds smacked into the asphalt or buzzed by. He felt a stinging twinge in his left shoulder and glanced down to see that he'd been nicked. Fifteen yards separated him from the alley, and he knew the Russians were bound to bring him down before he could reach it if Geronimo and Marcus didn't provide cover fire.

  Where were they?

  A high-pitched whine emanated from the alley and the SEAL hurtled onto the highway, speeding in reverse. The van screeched to a halt, then rocketed in the gunman's direction.

  Grinning, Hickok whirled and crouched, pressing the Henry to his right shoulder. He took a bead on a soldier leading the pack of Russians and fired, gratified when the soldier reacted as if a sledgehammer had pounded the trooper in the forehead. He snapped off a second shot, flattening another Russian, and then the SEAL braked abruptly alongside him and the passenger door was flung open.

  "Need a lift?" Geronimo yelled.

  The gunman vaulted onto the bucket seat and closed the door. "I thought you wanted me to do all the driving."

  Geronimo drove forward, directly at the Russians. Bullets were striking the SEAL and ricocheting off. "I knew you'd pull a stupid stunt like this."

  His hands were glued to the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

  "Like what?"

  "I knew you'd blow that officer away," Geronimo said. "I figured you could use a little help."

  Hickok smiled at his friend. "Thanks, pard."

  They were closing rapidly on the Soviets. Geronimo pressed one of the toggle switches and the 50-caliber machine guns cut loose, their heavy slugs tearing the soldiers to ribbons. He kept the transport on a steady course, kept the machine guns belch
ing lead, narrowing the range to the chopper. A hail of high-powered rounds hit the helicopter broadside, slaying a Russian who was trying to close the bay door. Geronimo angled the SEAL at the copter cockpit and the 50-calibers tracked accordingly, drilling into the cockpit, shattering it, exposing the pilot and copilot. Both were slain the next moment, punctured repeatedly. Geronimo switched off the machine guns. He made a tight U-turn, heading into the town again.

  "That helicopter won't get airborne again," he commented.

  But the three others were already aloft and converging on the SEAL.

  "Here they come," Hickok said.

  The helicopter swooping in from the north and the one from the south drew close together above Highway Three, their cockpits slanted at the SEAL.

  "They're aimin' to use their nose cannons," Hickok declared, and he reached across the console to flick the toggle activating the Stinger.

  At a distance of less than 50 yards, the streamlined missile was on the Russian craft before the pilots could so much as blink, let alone attempt evasive maneuvers. The Stinger struck the chopper on the north side of the highway and the resultant blast was tremendous. A billowing fireball consumed the first helicopter, then swirled outward and enshrouded the whirlybird hovering only a few dozen yards to the south. A second explosion shattered the heavens and rocked the buildings in Strawberry Point, and the added heat and gas and force produced a cumulative effect, creating a small sun, a brilliant ball of candescent energy that scorched the structures and ground underneath.

  Geronimo applied the brakes and the transport lurched to a sudden stop. The SEAL was buffeted violently by the twin blasts, and even through the impervious shell the Warriors felt the heat.

  "Wow!" Marcus exclaimed.

  Intense but short-lived, the fireball dissipated swiftly. Debris rained on Strawberry Point. Twisted, smoldering wreckage and fried body parts thudded onto the highway and the roofs.

  Hickok leaned forward, searching for the fourth helicopter, the one that had landed far off at the east end of town. Reddish-orange flames and plumes of black smoke obscured his view for over a minute. He finally caught sight of the ribbon of highway stretching into the distance, and tensed.

  The last chopper was gone.

  "Get this buggy movin'," Hickok urged.

  Geronimo drove eastward, adroitly avoiding the larger segments of wreckage scattered in their path.

  "Where'd the other helicopter go?" Marcus asked.

  "Your guess is as good as mine," Hickok responded.

  "Maybe it's on its way back to the Russian lines," Marcus said.

  "I doubt it."

  "Why? We just took out the other three. The Russians in the fourth helicopter won't want to mess with us."

  "They'll come at us with everything they've got for the same reason I would if I was in their shoes," Hickok stated.

  "What's that?"

  "To get even."

  They rode in silence for several hundred yards, their eyes on the sky.

  "What are they waiting for?" Marcus queried impatiently.

  "My guess is that they don't know we only had one stinger mounted on the roof," Geronimo said. "They don't want to suffer the same fate as their buddies, so they'll come in fast and low."

  They did.

  Like an enormous bird of prey, the Russian helicopter swept on the transport from out of the south, flying only a few yards above the trees and the rooftops.

  Hickok glimpsed the chopper out of the corner of his right eye and swung around, crying in warning, "This side! Look out!" He saw a tiny puff of white smoke appear underneath the fuselage.

  The roadway in front of the SEAL suddenly exploded, spraying chunks of asphalt and dirt in all directions.

  Geronimo jerked on the steering wheel, cutting the van to the right, hanging onto the wheel tightly as the concussion from the blast hit the SEAL. He straightened the vehicle and scanned the sky for the enemy aircraft.

  But the chopper had already vanished to the north.

  "Hit and run," Hickok said bitterly. "Whatever you do, don't stop. We'll be sittin' ducks."

  "Maybe we can lose it by hiding in an alley," Geronimo suggested.

  "Get us out in the open where we can maneuver," Hickok said. "Then we'll teach those hombres a lesson."

  Geronimo angled the SEAL closer to the curb on the north side of the highway, using the structures bordering the road as partial cover. "How can we fight back? The machine guns, the rocket, and the flamethrower are all aligned to take care of targets directly in front of the SEAL."

  "I'll think of something," Hickok replied.

  "I was afraid you'd say that."

  Two hundred yards passed and the helicopter failed to attack.

  "Maybe they've given up," Marcus remarked.

  Its rotors spinning and shimmering, the great brown craft came at them from out of the north, flying low as before. They fired another rocket.

  Hickok grabbed the dashboard as a section of sidewalk to the south blew up, spewing concrete skyward. He kept his eyes on the helicopter, tracking the chopper as it flashed overhead and flew to the south. "Blast!"

  "Sooner or later they'll nail us," Geronimo said.

  "Too bad we can't ram 'em," Hickok responded. He scrutinized the highway ahead and spotted a huge building off to the left, perhaps an abandoned warehouse or a factory. Gigantic metal double doors hung wide, disclosing a gloomy interior. "Drive in there," he instructed.

  Without an instant's hesitation Geronimo complied, steering deep into the bowels of the building, bypassing stacks of crates and cartons, and abruptly braked. "What now?"

  "Everybody out," Hickok said, and shoved his door open. He jumped to the cement floor, cradled the Henry, and sprinted toward the metal doors.

  He spied a pile of metal drums along the right-hand wall.

  Geronimo and Marcus raced on the gunman's heels.

  "What are we doing?" Marcus asked.

  "Hickok has a clever plan," Geronimo said. "Don't you, Nathan?"

  "Nope," the gunfighter answered. "I'm wingin' it."

  Geronimo looked at Marcus. "I trust you've made out your will?"

  Hickok led them to the right and up to the corrugated metal wall, near the double doors. He placed his back to the wall and inched to the edge, then peered out. There was no sign of the Russian helicopter.

  Yet.

  "We've lost it for the time being," Hickok said.

  "They'll figure out where we are eventually," Geronimo commented.

  The gunman glanced at his friend. "Why do you always look on the bright side of things?"

  Geronimo shrugged. "Just habit, I guess."

  "Spread out," Hickok stated. "Check this whole place and let me know what you find."

  "What are we hunting for?" Marcus wanted to know.

  "I'll know that when we find it," Hickok replied, and darted away from the sunlight, into the building, making for the left side, inspecting every item he found. There was a lot of litter and trash. In one spot he found a heap of old tires. Elsewhere he came across a mound of cinder blocks, once apparently arranged in a tidy stack, now lying in a jumble. He also discovered more crates and disintegrating cardboard boxes.

  From outside, from far away, arose the muted sound of the helicopter's rotors. The Russians were searching for them.

  Hickok returned to the front of the warehouse where Geronimo and Marcus awaited him. "Well?"

  "I found a lot of boxes, some chairs, and lumber," Marcus detailed.

  "What kind of lumber?"

  "Oh, planks, boards, a few shorter pieces."

  "Is the wood rotten or sturdy?"

  "I didn't test it," Marcus said.

  "See if you can find me two sturdy boards about six feet in length and two feet wide," Hickok ordered.

  "On my way," Marcus responded and hastened off.

  The gunman faced Geronimo. "What about you?"

  "Crates containing nails. Cartons containing cans of paint. A half-dozen a
ntique washing machines. And metal strands of some sort."

  Hickok's interest was piqued. "Metal stands?"

  "Yeah. I have no idea what they were used for. They're flat on the bottom and the upper part slants to a peak."

  "How high are they?"

  "I'd say a foot and a half at the most."

  "Go get a couple."

  Geronimo nodded and jogged into the depths of the structure.

  An idea was forming in the gunfighter's mind, an elaborate ruse to lure the Russians into an ambush. He moved to the doorway and listened but couldn't hear the chopper. Good. The Russians were undoubtedly puzzled by the disappearance of the SEAL, and they were likely scouring the highway to the east, mistakenly thinking that the van was speeding from Strawberry Point. Their mistake. He wheeled and hurried to the metal drums he'd observed earlier. They turned out to be empty. After slinging the Henry over his left shoulder, he proceeded to roll one of the drums to the front of the warehouse. Back he went for another, and by the time he had three of them positioned in a line extending from the right-hand door across the doorway, Geronimo and Marcus came back bearing the items he'd requested.

  "Where do you want these boards?" Marcus inquired. He had hauled a pair of seven-foot-long boards, each three inches thick and two and a half feet wide, to the entrance. The exertion had hardly fazed him.

  "Lay them right there," Hickok said, and Marcus complied.

  Geronimo deposited the two strange metal stands. "What next, fearless leader?"

  The gunman nodded in the general direction of the cinder blocks.

  "There's a bunch of heavy blocks back that-a-way. I don't know how many I'll need yet, so lug about six of them over here."

  Geronimo and Marcus began to walk off.

  "Not you, Marcus," Hickok said. "You can lend me a hand with the drums."

  "How many do you want?"

  "Enough to make a wall."

  "A wall?"

  "You'll see," Hickok stated.

  Together they carted fifteen more metal drums to the front and stacked them three high and six across, constructing a makeshift wall.

  "We'll need six more," Hickok declared after gazing at the SEAL.

  Yet another layer was added to the top. Geronimo finished with the cinder blocks and assisted in carrying the last drum.