Liberty Run

by David Robbins

  The driver was the initial casualty. A string of ragged dots blossomed on his forehead, and he slumped over the steering wheel. The soldier sitting next to the driver lunged for the wheel, but his head snapped back as he was raked with slugs and flung against the seat. The jeep began slewing across the road, and the machine gunner gripped the machine gun for support as the jeep tilted, then upended, rolling for 20 yards before grinding to a stop in the center of the road. The machine gunner was killed on the first roll, the top of his cranium smashing into the asphalt and splitting like a pulpy rotten tomato.

  Sundance rolled to the right, seeking cover behind the wall again. He stood and checked the magazine in the FN. One round left. He tossed it aside and reached for another clip in his pocket.

  There were none!

  Sundance frowned. That was all he’d brought along. The rest were in the SEAL. Fat good they did him there! But he still had the Grizzlies. He dropped the FN and began unbuttoning his shirt. On the fourth button he paused, gazing at one of the dead gate guards nearby.

  The AK-47’s!

  Sundance darted to the trooper and retrieved the AK-47. The magazine was almost full. He’d never fired one before, but they—

  There was a scratching noise above him.

  Directly above.

  Sundance dived onto his stomach and rolled, and there was a Russian trooper perched on the wall above where he’d been standing.

  The soldier blasted four rounds into the ground near the Warrior’s head, his AK-47 held extended over the barbed wire.

  Sundance returned the fire, lying on his back, the stock of the AK-47 cradled in his right elbow.

  A pattern of slugs stitched the soldier on the wall from his crotch to his sternum. He shrieked as he was hurled backwards and disappeared over the rim.

  Sundance heard the trooper’s body strike the earth on the other side of the wall. He rose and leaned against the stone wall again.

  That had been close! Too close!

  A resonant voice started shouting orders inside the complex. There was a subdued commotion.

  Sundance peered through the gate bars.

  The Russians were preparing for an all-out offensive. Dozens of soldiers were crawling across the yard fronting the barracks, and dozens more were following the road, using the trees for protection.

  Sundance glanced at the woods beyond the field. The Russians had probably held back at first, unsure of how many attackers were at the gate, saving their main force. By now, they’d learned there was only one man, and they were going to throw everything they had at the iron gate in a concerted effort to end the fray. And Sundance knew he couldn’t hold them all off. Not all of them. His best bet was to retreat, to draw them into the woods, buying Blade even more time. If Blade was still alive. A cautious peek verified the Soviets were slowly advancing toward him.

  What was that noise?

  Sundance cocked his head to the left, listening. It was a strident siren, and he suddenly realized the siren had been blaring for quite a while. In the stress and strain of the combat, he’s scarcely noticed.

  Several soldiers had reached the demolished jeep.

  Sundance took off, angling away from the front gate, heading for the woods. He’d gone only six steps when a startling insight streaked through his mind: if the Soviets were closing in from all directions, from the barracks to the left and the road to the right, then they must also have troopers closing in on top of the walls!

  They did.

  Sundance whirled, the movement saving his life as an AK-47 chattered and sent heavy slugs into the ground near his feet.

  The walls were swarming with soldiers!

  Sundance raced to the wall as a veritable explosion of gunfire sprayed the earth around him. He placed his back against the wall and looked up.

  There was a slight lip, or edge, rimming the top of the wall. Attached to metal posts imbedded in the outer edge of the upper surface were coiled strands of barbed wire. In order for the soldiers on the wall to see him, they would need to lean forward over the top strand of barbed wire, exposing themselves to him in the process. If he stayed close to the stone wall, the soldiers up above wouldn’t be able to spy him, let alone shoot him. But if he strayed from the wall by so much as 12 inches, the troopers would have a clear line of fire. So he was somewhat safe it he stuck to the wall.

  But what about the troops approaching from within the Ministry?

  Sundance carefully moved to the end of the wall and looked around the corner.

  The nearest soldiers were only 15 yards away.

  Sundance sent a short burst in their direction, then fled along the base of the wall.

  Someone on the wall was shouting to the soldiers in the complex in Russian.

  Go! his mind thundered. Sundance ran for all he was worth. If he could get several hundred yards from the gate, and if the soldiers on the wall and those within the Ministry believed he was still in the vicinity of the gate, they might not notice when he dashed to the woods. On the other hand…

  There was a lot of yelling on top of the wall.

  Sundance imagined the Russians were trying to pinpoint his location.

  Good. So far, he had them confused. Just a few more seconds was all he needed! His legs pumped rhythmically as he sprinted farther from the iron gate. He dodged the bodies of Bakunin and the two patrol guards and kept going.

  An officer on the wall was barking commands.

  Sundance exerted himself to the maximum. He discarded the AK-47.

  Speed was essential, and the AK-47 was too cumbersome and weighty a burden. His arms and legs flying, he covered 40 yards from the front gate, then 60, then 80. He glanced over his right shoulder just as a soldier appeared, and this trooper was followed by several more, coming from within the Ministry.

  The Russians had unlocked the gate and opened it!

  Sundance immediately swerved to the right, cutting across the field toward the trees, knowing his only hope was in reaching cover before the troopers downed him. He zigzagged, expecting to hear the Ak-47’s commence firing any second.

  They did.

  Sundance was turning to the left, running as crooked a path as possible, when the soldiers on the wall and at the gate were alerted to his maneuver by the shout of a watchful private exiting the complex. Fifteen yards separated Sundance from the woods when the soldiers began firing.

  Slugs smacked into the grass at his feet. He jagged to the right, followed by a hail of lead. Something stung his left calf and clipped his right shoulder. He focused his total concentration on reaching those trees.

  Move! He mentally screamed. Move! Move! Move! Four steps to the left, then cut to the right! Five steps to the right, then angle to the left! Never stop! Don’t slow down!

  He was ten yards from the trees!

  A slug dug a furrow in his left side, creasing his ribs, and he nearly stumbled and fell, recovering as he was pitching forward. He made a beeline for the woods. Round after round thumped into the earth all about him.

  Five yards!

  Sundance took a giant step and executed a spectacular leap, vaulting headfirst into the underbrush and rolling. He came to a jarring stop when his right shoulder collided with a tree.

  He’d made it!

  But the Russians weren’t about to let him escape that easily. Dozens charged from the open gate, fanning out, converging on the trees.

  Sundance sat up. His right shoulder was hurting terribly. Through an opening in the brush he saw the troopers approaching in a skirmish line.

  And all he had were the Grizzlies! He inched around the tree and rose.

  What should he do?

  Sundance glanced both ways. If he went to the right, back to the jeep, he risked the Russians finding the vehicle and him. Blade would be deprived of the sole means of transportation. But if he went to the left, toward the road leading to the front gate, he’d draw the troopers off, lead them away from the jeep. And eliminate his only hope of escaping.


  There was never any doubt.

  Sundance moved to the left, reaching under his shirt and drawing the Grizzlies. He silently skirted trees and dry brush, putting more distance between the field and himself.

  Some of the troopers reached the woods. Their boots created a pop-crackle-snap cacophony as they clumped through the underbrush.

  Stealth was forgotten in their eagerness and haste to find their foe. They knew their superior numbers would ultimately flush out their prey.

  And so did their quarry. Sundance prudently avoided a dead, brittle limb lying on the dank ground. He caught glimpses of the soldiers now and then. None of them knew he was there.

  Yet.

  Sundance wondered how far it was to the road. A boulder reared out of the brush, blocking his path. He walked to the left, around the boulder, speculating on his course of action once he reached the road. Preoccupied, he missed hearing the trooper until they nearly bumped into one another as they came around the seven-foot-high boulder at the same moment.

  The soldier’s mouth dropped, and he frantically leveled his AK-47.

  Sundance shot the soldier in the forehead with his left Grizzly.

  The trooper’s face snapped back as the rear of his head erupted over the nearby vegetation. He tottered and sprawled to the turf.

  And all hell broke loose.

  Suddenly, soldiers were everywhere, barreling toward the sound of the shot, yelling and shouting, closing in.

  Sundance darted in the direction of the road. He could see uniforms here and there, all bearing down on his position.

  He was surrounded!

  A tall trooper appeared from behind a tree directly ahead.

  Sundance fired, his right Grizzly booming, and the trooper was propelled into the tree. He twisted to the left, crashing through a dense thicket, the limbs and thorns tearing at his clothing and skin, and then he was in a small clearing and there were three soldiers coming at him from different directions. He spun to the right and sent a slug into the mouth of the first, beginning his next turn even as he squeezed the trigger, unable to ascertain the effectiveness of the shot, and he plugged the second Russian in the chest and ducked and twirled, and the third trooper was mere yards away and squeezing the trigger on an AK-47. Sundance threw himself to the right, firing as he dove, his shot searing an agonizing path through the third trooper’s abdomen. And then Sundance was up and across the clearing and into the trees on the other side.

  The forest was alive with bellowed orders and cries.

  Sundance heard an AK-47 blaze away to his rear, and his left leg took a hit in the fleshy area of his thigh. His leg nearly buckled, and he staggered and went on, dodging behind a tree and hastening over a low rise.

  Another AK-47, somewhere to his right, began shooting.

  Sundance swerved to the left, then the right, always heading in the direction of the road. He lost all sense of distance. The road was up ahead, but he had no idea how far it might be, the yardage he’d covered, and he was genuinely surprised when he abruptly plunged from the underbrush and there was the road to the gate, not six feet away.

  And soldiers.

  Seemingly materializing out of thin air.

  Sundance reached the road and bore to the left, going away from the Ministry, hoping his efforts weren’t in vain, hoping Blade was accomplishing their mission.

  “Freeze!” shouted a stern voice to his right.

  Sundance twisted and fired, and a thin trooper doubled over and toppled to the ground. And there was another one, charging from the left, and Sundance pivoted and shot the bastard in the right eye. A pair of soldiers came at him from the rear, firing their AK-47’s. Sundance felt a searing spasm lance his right side, but he refused to drop, to submit without expending his last ounce of strength. His body was a blur as he whirled, both Grizzlies thundering, and the two soldiers were slammed to the earth, but another one appeared to take their place, and Sundance shot him in the chest, continuing to rotate, moving, always moving, squeezing both triggers as three soldiers stormed from cover, and two of the Russians twitched and fell but the third wouldn’t stop for anything, and Sundance fired as the trooper fired, and fired again as the trooper dropped to his knees, then pitched to the asphalt. Momentarily, Sundance was alone, and he stumbled as dizziness engulfed him. He righted himself with a tremendous effort. How many times had he been hit? He’d lost count. And he’d lost a lot of something else too— blood. His uniform felt clammy and moist, especially the shirt. He lurched a few steps and stopped, reeling. If the Russians found him now, he was a goner.

  They found him.

  A lone trooper crashed from the underbrush on the left side of the road, swiveling an AK-47 at the crimson-soaked figure in the middle of the asphalt.

  And a jeep roared up from out of nowhere, a machine gun blasting, its tires squealing as it barked.

  Sundance tried to raise the Grizzlies, but his arms were enveloped by an overwhelming lethargy. His wounds took belated affect, and with a sigh he sank to the road.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Blade threw himself backwards, sweeping his Commando Arms Carbine up and pressing the trigger. The Commando boomed in the narrow stairwell.

  The Russian soldier half a flight above was just squeezing the trigger of his AK-47 when the Commando’s slugs tore through his face and flung him to the stairs. The AK-47 fell from his lifeless fingers, rattling as it slid down several steps.

  Blade hesitated, getting his bearings. He had entered Penza Hall on the ground level, then descended three levels to the lowest floor. The guard had led him up three floors from the bottom level, which meant he should be on ground level again.

  There was only one way to find out.

  There were two doors furnishing access to the stairwell. The one he’d just used, and another, the one which should lead to the loading dock.

  Blade opened the second door and found the hallway he needed.

  And a trooper jogging toward him with an AK-47 at the ready.

  Blade shot the startled soldier, sending a burst into the trooper’s chest and flipping him to the floor. He sprinted toward the door to the loading dock. The laundry truck was probably gone. He would need to improvise another method of departing the Ministry. As he opened the door to the dock, the sound of the siren rose in volume. Another noise blended with the sirens; the repeated blasting of gunfire.

  Sundance?

  Blade scanned the loading dock and the parking lot. There wasn’t a vehicle in sight.

  Damn!

  Blade ran down the ramp to the lot and started across, bearing toward the west wall. If the clamor was any accurate indication, then a war was being waged near the west wall. He hurried, the Commando in his right hand.

  A squad of soldiers unexpectedly came into view to the left.

  Blade slowed, expecting to be challenged. But the squad leader gave him a cursory inspection and continued on, hastening in the direction of the front gate. Off to the north, more soldiers were jogging toward the gate.

  If it was Sundance out there, he wouldn’t be able to hold them off for long!

  Blade bounded across the lot in mighty strides, reaching a lawn encircling a lofty structure. He bypassed the edifice to the south, heading away from the gate. If every soldier in the Ministry was converging on the front gate, then he might be able to sneak over the wall near the southwest corner. He darted around a huge maple tree.

  A Russian soldier, a big man with wide shoulders, was ten yards off, jogging to the northwest.

  Blade slowed, hoping he wouldn’t be spotted.

  The soldier glanced to the right and halted, his torehead creasing in perplexity. An AK-47 was slung over his right shoulder. “You!” he barked.

  Blade touched his chest with his left hand. “Me?”

  “Yes, you! Come here!” the soldier ordered.

  Blade walked over to the soldier. “Yes?”

  “Yes, sergeant!” the Russian corrected him. The sergeant’s brown eyes crit
ically examined the giant’s uniform. “Where are you going?” he queried.

  “To the wall,” Blade responded. “Sergeant!”

  The sergeant pointed to the north. “But the action is that way!

  Everyone is to assemble at the gate. Why are you going in the opposite direction?”

  “Orders,” Blade replied.

  “Orders. From whom?” the sergeant inquired. He began to unsling his AK-47.

  Blade knew the sergeant didn’t believe him, knew the noncom wasn’t unlimbering the AK-47 for the exercise. He couldn’t afford to be detained, not if Sundance was in jeopardy. He did the only thing he could do, under the circumstances. He kicked the sergeant in the nuts.

  The Russian doubled over, gasping, his hands covering his genitals, his mouth forming a wide oval.

  Blade rammed the Commando barrel into the noncom’s mouth and fired.

  The sergeant’s brains gushed from the rear of his cranium, and he was hurled to the grass, convulsing, his eyes glazing.

  Blade resumed his dash to the left wall. A quick scan confirmed no one else was in the area.

  The siren wailed and wailed.

  The battle near the gate raged on.

  Blade came within sight of the wall. To his left, perhaps 40 yards distant, a flight of steps led up to the top of the wall. One soldier was visible, and he was moving along the top of the wall toward the front gate.

  Blade slanted in the direction of those steps. He could feel the stolen KGB

  files rubbing against his skin, and the Bowie scabbards brushing his thighs.

  Yells and shouts were coming from the northwest.

  What if the cause of the commotion wasn’t Sundance? Blade asked himself. But if not Sundance, then who? The Packrats? No. They apparently confined their activities to Valley Forge and vicinity. Were there rebels active in the occupied zone? Freedom fighters opposing the Soviets? If so, the Freedom Federation would need to contact them and arrange aid. He reached the bottom of the steps, discarding all speculation as he sped to the top of the wall.

  Soldiers could be seen off to the north, atop the wall near the gate. But none were nearby.

  A four-foot-high barrier of barbed wire separated Blade from the field below. He gingerly touched one of the coiled strands, and his third finger was pricked by a sharp barb. The inner rampart was two feet below the wire. There was a six-inch lip, or rim, on both sides of the wire. By stepping up onto the rim, and balancing himself precariously, he was able to lean over the wire and survey the field and the woods.