Boston Run

by David Robbins

  "That ought to do it," Hickok said, surveying their handiwork critically.

  "Do what? That dinky wall won't stop the copter," Marcus noted.

  "It's not supposed to stop that overgrown dragonfly," Hickok stated. He looked at Geronimo. "Would you drive the buggy on over here, pard?"

  "No problem."

  The gunman motioned at Marcus. "Give me a hand with these boards and the rest."

  Working rapidly under Hickok's guidance, the two Warriors placed the metal stands six feet from the wall of gray drums, positioning the stands about ten feet apart. Then they aligned three cinder blocks in a row behind each of the stands, leaving a foot of space between each block.

  Marcus studied the arrangement and snickered. "What in the world are you doing?"

  "I'm not done yet," Hickok said, and picked up the first board. He carefully set the end of the board on top of the left metal stand and positioned the full length over the cinder blocks, then set the board down.

  He repeated the procedure on the right side.

  Perplexed, Marcus scratched his head. They had fabricated a crude ramp with the high end near the makeshift wall of drums. He could see that much. But he still didn't comprehend how the wall and the ramp would enable them to defeat the last helicopter. "Care to explain what you intend to do?"

  "In a bit," Hickok replied. He stood next to the metal drums and watched the SEAL approach at a crawl. Motioning with his arms, he directed Geronimo, insuring the transport's tires were perfectly in line with the board.

  Marcus glanced from the board to the SEAL and back again. His eyes widened and he looked at the gunman. "I get it! But those boards will never support the entire weight of the SEAL."

  "They only have to support the front end," Hickok said, crossing his fingers. He beckoned Geronimo onward.

  The van crept forward until the tires touched the lower edges of the boards.

  Geronimo poked his head out of the SEAL. "How am I doing?"

  "Just fine," Hickok said. "Take it real slow and easy. I'll let you know when to stop. And hurry. That chopper will return soon." He riveted his gaze on the boards as the transport crawled onto the ramp. Please hold! he prayed. The boards creaked and sagged, but they didn't break. He measured the progress mentally, scarcely breathing, anxious to dispose of the Russians so they could go to the aid of Blade.

  One inch.

  Two.

  Four.

  At five inches the boards sagged even more, but they still held.

  Six.

  Seven.

  Nine.

  Hickok gestured for Geronimo to stop, then walked around to the driver's side. "Nice job."

  "As a certain friend of mine is so fond of saying, it was a piece of cake,"

  Geronimo said.

  "Sit tight and wait for Marcus to give you the signal to fire the rocket."

  Geronimo stared at the wall of metal drums. "But those things are blocking my view. How can I fire the rocket if I can't see the target?"

  "You let me worry about that," Hickok replied. "Just be ready."

  "What are you going to do?"

  Hickok ignored the question and stepped to the drum wall. He looked at the SEAL, at the middle of the front grill where the secret compartment housing the rocket was located, then envisioned the trajectory the rocket would need. He removed two of the drums from the center and pulled them aside. Now the SEAL had a clear shot at the airspace just outside the warehouse. "Marcus."

  "Yeah?"

  "Stand here and keep a watch. When the chopper gets within thirty feet of the front of this building, when you think the angle is right, signal Geronimo to fire."

  The gladiator came over. "I doubt the pilot will fly the helicopter so close."

  "You let me worry about that," Hickok said, and stepped to the left of his improvised wall.

  "What are you planning to do?" Marcus said, echoing Geronimo's question.

  Again the gunfighter ignored the query. "Be ready," he ordered, and darted into the open, making for the middle of the highway. He looked back at the warehouse, assessing the trap. The drum wall effectively screened the SEAL from any casual scrutiny, although the grill was visible where he had removed the two drums. Now everything depended on him luring the whirlybird into position. The ramp had elevated the transport enough so the rocket would speed on a slight trajectory. Not much of a trajectory, granted, but it would have to do the job.

  Now where the blazes were the Russians?

  Hickok slowed and strolled to the faded yellow center line. He surveyed the horizon in every direction. If the pilot had flown to the east after the SEAL, then the helicopter should return shortly. He unslung the Henry and walked eastward, his nerves on edge, feeling exposed and terribly vulnerable. A rifle and a pair of revolvers were no match for the flying arsenal.

  Several minutes elapsed.

  The Warrior halted and gazed at the warehouse, deciding he'd gone far enough. All he could do was wait.

  And wait.

  Hickok began to wonder if the Russians had called it quits and flown toward their lines. Why else would they be taking so long? He sighed and stared to the south.

  The helicopter came at him from the north.

  One moment he was alone, the breeze on his cheeks, the sun warming his skin, and the next an aerial demon rushed out of the blue, zeroing in on him, its machine guns blazing.

  To Hickok the sound of the machine guns resembled the din of thunder.

  He inadvertently flinched and crouched, shielding his face with his arms as the highway was stitched to the right and the left by the powerful rounds, the shots missing him by inches. In the space of seconds the chopper was past him and flying to the south. He spun and raced for the warehouse, following the copter with his eyes, watching the pilot execute a wide loop and swing back toward the town.

  Toward him.

  He covered ten yards and saw the familiar puffs of smoke under the fuselage. His arms outflung, he dived for the ground. A volcano seemed to flare into life at the very spot he'd vacated, and he was pelted with bruising fragments of the road.

  The helicopter arced overhead.

  Hickok pushed himself up and ran for his life, his moccasins pounding hard on the asphalt, his heart pounding even harder, his ears ringing from the explosions.

  This time the chopper swung to the west and banked, zooming at him once more, soaring over the warehouse. The pilot tilted the craft for a better view.

  In desperation Hickok threw the Henry to his shoulder and banged off three shots, working the lever as fast as he could, aiming at the cockpit.

  He must have struck it too, because the helicopter slanted to the south a few dozen feet, which wasn't enough to interfere with the pilot's aim.

  The nose cannons boomed.

  The Warrior flattened and hugged the roadway, his left cheek scraping on the rough surface, and he thought of his wife and son as an earthquake caused the earth around him to buck and heave. Dirt and dust cascaded upon him. He heard the copter fly to the east.

  Go! Go! Go!

  The word screamed over and over again in his mind as he rose and sprinted toward those inviting double doors, toward the makeshift wall, toward the friends he might never see again. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled and he imagined the Russian pilot closing the distance swiftly, the machine guns set to fire. He zigzagged, expecting bursts that never came. Confused, he glanced over his right shoulder and nearly tripped over his own feet.

  A ten-ton arrow whizzed at him, the chopper almost skimming the highway. In clear sight in the cockpit, beaming maliciously, sat the enemy pilot. His intent was obvious.

  Hickok stopped, stunned. The prick was going to ram him, to bowl him over and reduce him to so much crimson-soaked pulp! Enraged, he managed to squeeze off a single shot and dropped prone for a third time.

  A vortex of wind pummeled his back, causing the fringe of his buckskins to flap wildly. He peered skyward and saw the underbelly of the craft streak
by within two feet of his head. Every nut and bolt was visible. He could have sworn he heard mocking laughter. But that was impossible.

  The helicopter rose and flew to the south, performing a circular maneuver.

  This was it!

  Licking his lips, Hickok leaned erect and dashed all out for the warehouse. He had to be in the proper position, directly in front of the double doors, when the chopper reached him. Any mistakes now meant certain death. The Russians had missed him three times; evading them a fourth time would be extremely unlikely. Unless, as he suspected, they were toying with him.

  The copter came toward the gunman at a leisurely speed, the pilot apparently convinced he had the Warrior dead to rights.

  Hickok reached a point in the middle of Highway Three and 20 yards from the wall of gray drums. He faced the chopper, appalled to discover the craft hovering at least ten yards too far to the west.

  Blast!

  The Warrior sighted the Henry on the cockpit and squeezed off a shot, the 44-40 recoiling in his arms. In response the pilot banked the helicopter to the east a dozen yards, where the chopper hung poised over the roofs on the opposite side of the street.

  What was the polecat waiting for?

  Hickok lowered the rifle and fumed. He needed to draw the helicopter in closer to the warehouse.

  The aircraft didn't budge.

  How could he goad the pilot into coming nearer? Hickok asked himself, then smirked. He extended his left hand, made a fist, and flipped his middle finger up.

  Evidently the pilot got the message, because the next instant the helicopter swooped down at the Warrior, its machine guns chattering.

  Hickok whirled and scampered toward the entrance. Bullets smacked into the ground all around him, and bits of the road and dirt peppered his buckskins. Midway to the drum wall he stumbled when a searing pain racked his left thigh, and he went down on his knees. He glanced at the descending chopper, then at the drums, at the gap where the SEAL'S grill was visible, and wondered why Geronimo hadn't fired. A few more seconds and the craft would be too close to the warehouse to risk trying to destroy it.

  Fire! he was tempted to shout.

  The machine guns abruptly ceased.

  Which could only mean one thing. Hickok dove to the right and rolled, his intuition warning him that the Russian pilot was about to employ a rocket, and after two yards he came to a rest on his back in time to witness an event he hadn't anticipated.

  The SEAL launched its rocket.

  But so did the chopper.

  Geronimo unleashed the van's rocket a millisecond before the pilot fired. Right on target, the rocket flashed into the copter's cockpit and exploded. A heartbeat later the Soviet rocket struck the drum wall.

  It all happened so incredibly fast, Hickok could do no more than shout a horrified "No!" He automatically curled into a fetal position, his arms over his head. Caught in the open between the twin blasts, he felt as if a colossal invisible hand smashed him into the depths of an enormous furnace. The heat and the force took his breath away, and for several seconds he thought he would burst into flames. Even with his eyes shut tight, brilliant light engulfed him, penetrating hues of red, orange, and yellow. For the span of 30 seconds he endured the torment of being immersed in a veritable sun. His hair and exposed skin were singed. His lungs were on the verge of rupturing. He thought he was dying.

  The sun blinked out.

  As suddenly as it began, the ordeal ended. The heat and the wall of force evaporated. Smoke shrouded the area, as thick as the heaviest fog.

  An acrid scent permeated the air.

  Hickok rose to his knees, coughing and rubbing his stinging eyes, ignoring the agony in his left thigh. He placed his left hand on the ground and bumped the Henry, which he scooped up to use as a brace. Propping the stock firmly on the asphalt, he stood. "Geronimo! Marcus! Are you all right?" he yelled.

  There was no response.

  For one of the few times in his action-packed life, the gunman felt a surge of genuine fear. He hobbled in the direction of the warehouse, swatting at the smoke with his right hand. "Geronimo! Marcus! Where are you?"

  They didn't answer.

  Hickok's right foot thumped against a jagged piece of metal drum. He angrily kicked it aside and advanced to the verge of the doorway, where the smoke abruptly thinned, permitting him to see the interior. "Dear Spirit!" he breathed, aghast.

  The metal drums had taken the brunt of the impact and been blown to pieces. They had served as a buffer, cushioning the SEAL from the full fury of the explosion, enabling the transport to survive relatively intact. The destructive energy had demolished the ramp and knocked the SEAL a good 15 feet backwards.

  Hickok hardly glanced at the van. His attention was riveted on the blood-splattered form lying on the floor eight feet away. The tattered brown clothing, the scorched, lacerated flesh, and the wisps of smoke rising from the blistered scalp brought a lump to his throat. "Marcus!" he croaked, and limped over to the fallen Warrior.

  Marcus was flat on his back, his eyes shut, breathing shallowly in ragged breaths. His arms were bent at the elbows and suspended at grotesque angles. Blood flowed from a score of wounds.

  "Please. No," Hickok said weakly, and sagged to his knees. "Don't die."

  Marcus's eyelids fluttered and his eyes opened. He focused on the gunfighter with a supreme effort. "Hickok?"

  "It's me, pard," Hickok assured him, resting his right hand on the gladiator's shoulder. "I'm here."

  "I'm glad. I don't want to die alone."

  "Don't talk like that," Hickok stated, his voice rasping, sorrow pervading his being.

  A door slammed.

  The gunman looked up and saw Geronimo walking unsteadily toward them. Blood trickled from a five-inch gash in Geronimo's forehead.

  "Hickok?" Marcus said.

  "I'm still right here," the gunfighter stated, squeezing Marcus's shoulder gently.

  "It's my own fault. I didn't give the signal soon enough. I wanted to be sure."

  "You did just fine. We got the damn Commies."

  "Good," Marcus said, the word barely audible.

  Geronimo joined them, swaying slightly as he halted next to Marcus's head. He took one look and shuddered.

  "I feel so tired," Marcus commented.

  "Hang in there. I'll get the medicine bag from the buggy," Hickok offered, and started to push himself erect.

  "Don't bother," Marcus said softly. A wry grin creased his lips. "You know, I've always wondered what it looks like."

  "What?" Hickok asked.

  "The other side. The afterlife. Heaven. The mansion worlds. Whatever you want to call it."

  Hickok tried to adopt a lighthearted tone. "Don't talk like that," he reiterated. "We'll have you back on your feet in no time."

  There were a few seconds of silence.

  "You're a rotten liar, Hickok."

  The gunman and Geronimo exchanged tormented expressions.

  "Give my mom and dad my love," Marcus said. "And tell Blade I'm sorry. I—" he began, then stiffened and arched his back. His gaze seemed to center on something far, far away, and his mouth relaxed in a peaceful smile. He went into eternity with that smile as his parting farewell.

  Hickok leaned down and felt for his pulse. He looked up at Geronimo and shook his head.

  "I liked him," Geronimo said sadly.

  "Are you okay?"

  "I cracked my thick skull on the steering wheel, and I keep getting dizzy. I might have a concussion."

  "Then you take it easy and I'll handle the burial," Hickok stated, putting his right palm on Marcus's forehead.

  "Burial?"

  "We're not leavin' him lying here like this."

  "You're right," Geronimo said. "We'll take him back with us."

  Hickok glanced up. "What are you talkin' about? We're not going back to the Home yet. We've got to rescue Blade."

  "We're in no shape to rescue Blade. Look at yourself," Geronimo declared, and pointed at the gunfig
hter's thigh.

  Hickok looked at his leg and grimaced. A pool of blood had formed under him, and the hole in his thigh was large enough to accommodate two of his fingers. "I'll bandage this scratch and we'll head out."

  "We're returning to the Home."

  "Like hell we are."

  Geronimo leaned down and locked his eyes on his best friend. "I don't want to go back either, but we don't have any choice, Nathan. We've lost Marcus. I'm groggy and ready to keel over. And you're bleeding to death.

  The Healers can take care of us if we return to the Home, but if we try to press on now, in the condition we're in, we'll be committing suicide. We'll never reach Boston." He paused. "You can see I'm right, can't you?"

  "But Blade—"

  "Blade has been their prisoner for over a week. Another few days won't make a difference if he's still alive. We need to have our injuries tended to and select another Warrior to accompany us," Geronimo said, and sighed.

  "Do you think I want to go back? Do you think I like the idea of leaving Blade in their hands? You know me better than that."

  Hickok began to object, then changed his mind. He gazed at the blood coating Marcus, the blood seeping down Geronimo's brow, and the blood pumping from his thigh, and his shoulders slumped in agonized resignation. "Damn," he said bitterly.

  "We go back?"

  "We go back," Hickok stated reluctantly. "Until we heal up. Blade's on his own. I just hope the Big Guy can escape without our help."

  Chapter Nineteen

  The guard was as easy as pie.

  Blade came over the fence at the northwest corner of Gorbachev Air Force Base, scaling the eight-foot-high chain-link barrier effortlessly. The three strands of barbed wire at the top gave him momentary pause, but all he had to do was unsling one of the AK-47's, the one over his left arm, and use the weapon to press down on the strands until they were nearly level with the chain-link portion, then ease his legs over, balancing on his steely arms. A short drop to the ground and he was inside the base, crouched in the inky shadows.

  He breathed the cool night air and gazed upward at the stars, thinking of the cab driver he had left loosely bound in the front seat of the taxi, which was parked in a stand of trees situated less than 70 yards to the north of the military post. Harold would eventually free himself and radio for assistance, but the cab driver wouldn't be able to drive off because Blade had flattened all four tires.