Cincinnati Run
Page 2
Gail screamed.
A moment later the azure sky above Stapleton Airport was rent by an explosion of tremendous magnitude.
Chapter One
The giant gaped at the billowing fireball, aghast. His brawny hands clenched at his sides, his knobby knuckles protruding. “Dear Spirit, no!”
he blurted out, horrified to his core.
“What the blazes happened?” asked a lean man in buckskins standing to the giant’s right.
“Did you see that strange red light?” asked the stocky Indian in green on the giant’s left.
“I saw it,” the giant confirmed, his penetrating gray eyes locked on the roiling, flaring cloud to the west of the airport. A comma of dark hair hung over his right brow. His features were ruggedly handsome, his physique outstanding. Every muscle on his seven-foot frame bulged, developed to perfection by years of vigorous exercise. A black leather vest covered his huge chest. Green fatigue pants and black combat boots completed his attire. Resting on each hip was a large Bowie knife, snug in its sheath.
“What the blazes happened, Blade?” the man in the buckskins repeated in a daze. His hair was blond, as was his sweeping mustache. Eyes the color of a crystal-clear mountain lake were wide in disbelief. Strapped around his narrow waist were a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers.
“I don’t know, Hickok,” the giant called Blade answered. “I just don’t know.”
“That light had something to do with the explosion,” the Indian said. “I just know it.” He was powerfully built, his black hair stirring in the breeze, his brown eyes squinting upward, his body clothed in a green shirt and pants constructed from a section of canvas tent. Both the Indian and the gunman wore moccasins.
“For once, Geronimo, I’ve got to agree with you,” Hickok said.
“If you think I’m right, then I must be wrong,” Geronimo responded, absently placing his right hand on the tomahawk angled under his black belt over his right hip.
“Smart-alecky Injun,” Hickok mumbled.
“Can it, you two,” Blade ordered, glancing at the throng to their rear.
Not a word was being spoken. The audience was deathly still, staring skyward at the subsiding fireball.
“This is a tragic calamity,” declared the elderly man in front of the giant. “Intentionally performed, I’d say.”
Blade swiveled and thoughtfully regarded his aged mentor. “Should we call for an emergency Council of the Federation leaders, Plato?”
Plato shook his head, his long gray beard swaying with the motion. He was in his fifties, and the experience of his years was etched in the deep wrinkles lining his visage. His blue eyes were alert and bright, belying his seemingly frail constitution. Faded, patched jeans and a brown wool shirt hung loosely on his body. “No,” he said. “Calling for an emergency Council would necessitate awaiting the arrival of those leaders currently not present. We would waste precious time.”
“But four of the leaders are here,” Blade noted.
“And the rest have sent representatives,” Plato said. “So we should convene an emergency session of those leaders and representatives on hand. The absent leaders will understand, once they are apprised of the gravity of the situation.”
Blade nodded. As usual, the Family’s sagacious leader had shown incontrovertible logic. He looked to the right at the row of dignitaries.
Just beyond Hickok stood President Toland, his countenance conveying his intense inner torment. The head of the Civilized Zone, one of the two key figures instrumental in bringing the concept of a Federation Airline to fruition, the man who had diligently directed the renovation of the 757 and the rehabilitation of Stapleton Airport, was devastated. Tears welled in his blue eyes. “Dear Lord, no!” he exclaimed.
Plato walked up to the president and draped his right hand on Toland’s left shoulder. “Nick, we must disperse the crowd.”
Toland said nothing, his mouth slack, a tear streaking his left cheek.
“Nick, are you okay?” Plato queried.
“Forty-five people are dead!” President Toland said. “And it’s all my fault.”
Plato’s shoulders slumped. “The destruction of the 757 wasn’t your fault. You know that.”
“My fault,” President Toland stated, gazing into Plato’s kindly eyes.
“Snap out of it,” Plato said. “Your people need you. We must disperse the crowd and attend to business.”
President Toland straightened at the mention of the gathering, taking a deep breath and wiping his left hand across his cheek. “Sorry. You’re right. Thanks.” He turned and surveyed the sea of pale faces.
“I don’t envy him,” Geronimo said softly to Hickok.
“The measure of a man is the grit he shows when the chips are down,” the gunman remarked in a whisper.
Geronimo did a double take. “Since when did you become a philosopher?”
“I’m no slouch in the smarts department. Ask anybody. They’ll tell you that I’m full of bright ideas.”
“You’re full of something, all right, but it’s brown and keeps seeping out of your ears.”
President Toland raised his arms aloft. “My fellow citizens, hear me! I know that many of you are still in shock. I know that many of you had relatives on Flight 1 A, and I share your grief. You all saw what happened.
What we don’t know is why. I’m about to get to the bottom of this catastrophe, and I need your help.”
The crowd began to stir sluggishly.
“Stapleton Airport will be closed until further notice,” Toland announced. “The military will seal off the airport in fifteen minutes. Only those directly related to the victims on the 757 will be permitted to remain in the terminal. Please. We must seal off the area. Kindly leave now. Your cooperation in this matter will be greatly appreciated.” He swung to his left, looking at a lean man in a neat military uniform sporting gold insignia on the shoulders. “General Reese, have your men expedite the evacuation. I want all nonessential personnel removed promptly.”
General Reese saluted. “Consider it done,” he said, and stalked off.
“I want to call an immediate meeting of the Federation leaders and representatives present,” Plato said to Toland. “Where can we conduct our session in private?”
President Toland glanced at the terminal. “There’s a room on the second floor ideal for our purposes.”
“Excellent. Would you relay the word to the others?”
“Of course. Since I must bear the burden of responsibility for the flight, and since Denver is my capital, I’ll chair the meeting unless you would rather have the chore.”
“The honor is all yours,” Plato said.
Toland snorted. “Some honor. The innocent blood of forty-five people is on my hands.”
“You exaggerate, dear friend.”
“Do I? We’ll see if you change your mind later,” President Toland said.
“Should we start the meeting in five minutes?”
“The sooner, the better,” Plato said. “The Warriors and I will proceed on ahead.”
“Be my guest. Take the south stairs to the second floor, and you’ll find the room you want behind the third door on the right.”
“We’ll meet you there,” Plato stated.
President Toland hurried along the row of VIP’s.
“What did he mean about changing your mind?” Blade asked Plato.
The head of the Family pursed his thin lips. “Perhaps he has pertinent information to reveal,” he speculated.
“Let’s mosey to the meetin’ room,” Hickok suggested.
“What’s your rush?” Geronimo wanted to know.
“I need to tinkle.”
Geronimo made a show of surveying the area. “Looks like you’ll have to hold it in.”
“Why?”
“There isn’t a tree in sight.”
Plato was staring at the throng. “Perhaps five minutes is not enough time. How will we ever get through this crowd?”
Plato, Hickok, and Geronimo followed.
“It’s like I’ve always said, pard,” Hickok mentioned to Geronimo.
“Never argue with a mutant, an angry buffalo, and a guy seven feet tall.”
“I’ve never heard you say that.”
“Well, actually, I just made it up.”
“Do tell.”
“Why the dickens are you pickin’ on me, anyway?” Hickok inquired.
“I’m a sucker for an easy mark,” Geronimo said.
“Are you insulting my intelligence again?”
“I’d never belabor the obvious.”
“What?”
“Forget it.”
“What’s a woman havin’ a baby got to do with this?”
Geronimo smirked. “Just forget it, will you?”
Plato looked over his left shoulder at the pair of bickering Warriors.
“Gentlemen,” he said sternly.
“What’d we do now?” Hickok queried.
“I know you are trained to adjust readily to adversity, to take misfortune in stride,” Plato commented. “I know the Warriors are trained to employ humor to relieve stress—”
“Yeah? So?” Hickok interrupted.
“This is definitely not the time or place,” Plato observed harshly.
Hickok and Geronimo gazed around them at the slowly dispersing audience, most of whom were emotionally ravaged by the explosion.
Morosely, conversing in subdued tones, many sniffling and dabbing at their eyes, the people were shuffling toward the terminal, through which they would have to pass to reach the parking lots beyond.
“Sorry, old-timer,” Hickok said.
Blade glanced back at the gunman and glared.
“Sensitivity, Nathan, is a trait even Warriors should cultivate,” Plato advised Hickok.
“A Warrior can’t afford to be too mushy,” Hickok responded.
“Mushy?”
“We go up against mutants or lowlifes at least once a month,” Hickok mentioned. “We’ve got to be on our toes every minute of the day, and we’ve got to be ready to shoot first and ask questions later. If Warriors get too sensitive, they start lettin’ their emotions get in the way of their better judgment. And when that happens, they’re as good as dead.”
“I’m fully aware of the psychology of being a proper Warrior,” Plato said. “The Founder created the Warrior class to protect the Home and safeguard the Family. He intended the Warriors to be superbly efficient fighters, to be the best at their craft. But he never intended the Warriors to forsake all emotion in order to function effectively. Do you remember your Schooling years?”
“Of course.”
“And what was the paramount teaching of the Elders?”
Hickok sighed.
“What was it?” Plato prodded, staying on Blade’s heels as the giant continued to press toward the terminal.
“To love the Spirit and our brothers and sisters on this planet,” Hickok answered in a restrained tone.
“Have you forgotten the supreme teaching?”
“Nope. Just amended it.”
“In what manner?” Plato asked.
“I’m all for lovin’ other folks,” Hickok explained. “This old world would be a heap better off if everyone really did try to live the supreme teaching, but everyone doesn’t. There are a lot of nasty types runnin’ around, ready to blow your head off for no reason at all. Look at what just happened to that jet.” He paused and frowned. “As a Warrior, I can’t go waltzin’ around with a smile on my puss and love in my heart like Joshua does all the time—”
“Joshua is our Family’s spiritual counselor,” Plato interjected. “He has realized the living of the supreme teaching in his life.”
“Yeah, but Josh doesn’t go around killin’ mangy varmints for a livin’. I do. It’s my job to make sure no one harms any of our Family, and I’ll admit I’ve plugged my fair share of cow-chips. I know we all pass on to the higher mansions sooner or later, but I don’t much cotton to the notion of being sent there before my time by some wacko. I have a missus and a young’un I’m rather fond of, and I intend to spend the next twenty or thirty years with them. So I tend to keep a tight rein on my emotions, except around my loved ones. I try to give everyone else the benefit of the doubt, to treat them as my spiritual brothers and sisters, unless, of course, they look at me crossways.”
“And then?”
“I shoot ’em in the head.”
Plato stared at the gunfighter. “One of these days we must discuss your outlook on life.”
“Is there something wrong with it?” Hickok asked.
“Not at all,” Plato said. “Your attitude is ideal for a Warrior. But I must confess that I’m troubled by your lack of remorse over the lives you’ve taken.”
“Give me a break. Do you expect us to get all misty-eyed every time we blow away a scavenger or a raider?”
“Don’t you feel any compassion for the enemies you’ve slain?”
“Heaps of it,” Hickok assured the Family leader. “Why do you think I shoot the coyotes in the head? I don’t want them to suffer.”
“I was under the impression that you shoot your foes in the head because a shot through the brain is more likely than any other to instantaneously slay the…cow-chips.”
“Well, that too,” Hickok admitted.
Plato smiled. “Nathan, you’re a pip.”
The Warriors and the Family’s leader reached a point 20 feet from the terminal doors.
“Where are Toland and the others?” Hickok inquired, surveying the throng to their rear.
“They’ll catch up,” Geronimo said.
Plato abruptly halted, turning to gaze at the lingering vestige of the fireball. “Most extraordinary,” he commented.
“What is?” Geronimo queried.
“Did you observe any debris descending to the ground?”
“No,” Geronimo said. “But the 757 was bearing to the west. The debris may have fallen into the center of Denver.”
“Did you see any fall?”
“No.”
“Most extraordinary.” Plato repeated, and walked after Blade.
“What was that all about?” Hickok asked.
“Beats me,” Geronimo said.
“If you ask me, the man needs to eat more veggies.”
“Why?” Geronimo questioned.
“My mom always told me to eat my veggies or my mind would wind up warped,” the gunman elaborated.
“That explains everything.”
Chapter Two
“You won’t like what you’re about to hear,” President Toland predicted.
“Allow us to judge for ourselves,” Plato suggested, surveying the occupants of the room.
Eleven people were gathered in the conference chamber on the second floor of the Stapleton Terminal. Four stood near the closed door: Blade, Hickok, Geronimo, and General Reese. Seated at the rectangular wooden table were four Federation leaders and three representatives. President Toland sat at the head of the table, his back to a window affording a magnificent view of the imposing Rockies.
To Toland’s right was the frontiersman called Kilrane, a strapping man in the typical postwar garb of his people, buckskins. Kilrane was the head of the Calvary, the fiercely independent horde of horsemen who ruled the Dakota Territory. His hair was a light brown tinged with gray streaks, his eyes a deep blue. A Mitchell single-action revolver filled a holster on his right hip.
Sitting on Kilrane’s right was the leader of the Clan, a handsome man named Zahner. Originally his followers had resided in the gloomy, desolate shambles of the Twin Cities. Zahner had led one of three gangs struggling to survive in Minneapolis and St. Paul, until several Warriors and Joshua had arrived in the former metropolis. Joshua had persuaded the gangs to cease t
heir hostilities, and the Family had aided them in relocating in the small town of Raima located in northwestern Minnesota. Zahner wore black trousers and a faded white shirt.
Next to Zahner was a jovial, rotund character wearing brown pants and a yellow shirt. His name was Crofton, and he was the official representative for the Federation faction known as the Moles. Prior to the war, a group of survivalists had excavated an underground complex in north-central Minnesota. Their descendants later expanded the complex into a sprawling subterranean city that was currently ruled with an iron fist by an egotistical man called Wolfe. Wolfe seldom attended Federation functions, and Crofton served as his eyes and ears.
After Crofton came White Eagle, the delegate from the Flathead Indians, the tribe controlling the former state of Montana. Their leader was a lovely woman called Star. The entire tribe had voted on White Eagle’s selection as their standby representative. His responsibility was to stand in for Star whenever she was unable to meet her obligations. A bout with the flu had prevented her from being present in Denver for the inaugural flight of the 757. White Eagle wore beaded buckskins and an elaborate headdress.
Seated beside Plato was the California delegate, a woman named Eudora Macquarie. She functioned as the Undersecretary of State, and her presence was directly attributable to her lowly status in the administration of Governor Melnick. Unlike the Civilized Zone, which consisted of the former states of Nebraska, Kansas, Wyoming, Colorado, Oklahoma, New Mexico, the northern half of Texas, and portions of Arizona, and was the successor of the once-mighty United States of America, the state of California still referred to its Chief Executive as a governor and not a president. Because Governor Melnick was one of the prime architects of the Federation Airline concept, along with President Toland, and because Melnick and his top staff, most of whom were professional politicians, wanted to be on hand to receive the praise and admiration of their constituents when the 757 arrived in L.A., Melnick had sent Eudora Macquarie to fill in on the Denver end. A prim woman wearing a full-length beige dress, she now sat with her arms folded on the table and her green eyes on President Toland.
“I want you to know that I accept full responsibility for the loss of the 757 and the people on board,” the Civilized Zone’s leader was saying. “I should have postponed the flight until the information I recently received was verified.”