Cincinnati Run

by David Robbins

  “What information?” Kilrane inquired.

  “Spit it out, man,” Crofton said.

  Toland rested his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands, the picture of misery. “I should start at the beginning.” he stated, and looked at Plato. “Was it in July that one of the Hurricanes disappeared?”

  Plato was surprised by the query. “Yes,” he confirmed. “The VTOL had transported Blade and two other Warriors to Florida, but it never returned to retrieve them.”

  Toland nodded. “Okay. As I’m sure all of you are aware, California owns a pair of technological marvels, two jets with vertical-takeoff-and-landing capability. VTOLs they’re called, and they’re utilized as shuttles between the Federation factions and to ferry strike teams to hot spots. In July one of the jets took Blade to a spot near Miami. We know the Hurricane returned to California after being refueled by a tanker en route. The pilot, a Captain Lyle Stuart, was sent to pick up Blade and the other Warriors a week later.” He paused, frowning.

  “The Hurricane never arrived,” Blade said, finishing for him. “My friends and I were forced to return to the Home through the Outlands.”

  The leaders and representatives exchanged knowing glances.

  They were all familiar with the dreaded Outlands, the designation applied to all areas existing outside the few organized territories. The Russians governed a belt of land in the eastern half of the country, and in the wake of World War Three over a dozen strong city-states had arisen, each under the thumb of a different group or leader. But the Russians, the city-states, and the Federation members were the exception, not the rule.

  Most of the once-proud United States of America had reverted to a primitive state of savagery, where the survival of the fittest was the acknowledged law of the land.

  “How long did it take you to get back to your Home from Miami?”

  Crofton queried.

  “Three months,” Blade answered.

  “And the trip was sheer hell every step of the way,” Zahner commented.

  He had previously discussed the journey with Blade.

  “It wasn’t easy,” the head Warrior stated.

  “I thought it was a piece of cake,” Hickok quipped.

  “Were you with Blade?” Kilrane asked.

  “Yep,” the gunman said.

  “Now you know why it took three months,” Geronimo remarked.

  Blade gazed at President Toland. “We never did discover the reason the Hurricane failed to return.”

  “I may know,” Toland said sadly.

  “No one told us,” Plato mentioned.

  “I haven’t told anyone,” President Toland responded. “And I committed a terrible blunder.”

  “We’re listening,” Plato stated.

  Toland sat back in his chair. “Five days ago I stumbled across information concerning the missing jet. I should explain. The Civilized Zone is the largest Federation faction. Our borders are widespread, and we must continually patrol our boundaries for mutants, raiders, and scavengers.” He rubbed his chin slowly, his lips compressing. “We also keep a watch out for black marketeers who are attempting to smuggle contraband into the Civilized Zone. All of you know about the black market. Because of the chronic shortages we all face, the black market flourishes. None of us have much of a manufacturing capability. To tell you the truth, I don’t much mind having food, clothing, and other necessities smuggled in, but I draw the line at drugs, alcohol, and less savory products. Six days ago one of our border patrols apprehended a smuggler trying to bring cocaine in. We had him dead to rights, and he knew it.”

  “He offered to make a deal,” Blade guessed.

  “Exactly,” President Toland said. “He claimed he possessed information vital to the Federation’s future. The interrogating officer didn’t believe him for a minute, not until the smuggler alleged he knew the whereabouts of a Federation jet.”

  Blade took a stride toward the table. “He knew about the missing Hurricane?”

  “The smuggler claimed he’d been in Russian territory several weeks ago, and while he was there he’d heard an interesting story. There was a rumor going around that the Reds had shot down a Federation jet and retrieved it,” Toland said.

  “How?” Blade inquired. “The Russians don’t have any functional fighters left, and the VTOLs fly at a high altitude when passing over the Russian region, too high for the Soviets to employ anti-aircraft weaponry.”

  Toland scowled in self-reproach. “Here’s the rub. The smuggler told us the Russians have developed a new weapon, a means of downing an aircraft at any altitude and at any range.”

  “And you think the Russians used the same weapon on the 757?” Eudora Macquarie interjected.

  “Possibly,” Toland said.

  “What type of weapon is it?” Eudora questioned.

  “We have no idea.”

  “When was it constructed?” she pressed him.

  “We don’t know if it really was,” Toland replied, then corrected himself.

  “At least we didn’t, until today.”

  “A new Soviet weapon would account for the peculiar explosion we witnessed,” Plato commented, and suddenly he was the focus of every eye in the room. He deliberated for a minute before continuing, well aware of the influence he brought to bear at Federation Council meetings. Although the Family was the smallest Federation faction numerically and geographically, with approximately a hundred Family members residing in a walled 30-acre compound, the Family Elders, and especially Plato, were widely respected for their wisdom. When Plato spoke, the other Federation leaders listened attentively. “Every system on the 757 was tested repeatedly before today’s takeoff. Practice flights were conducted to insure the aircraft was airworthy. There was no logical reason for the airliner to explode, and yet it did.” He scratched at his beard.

  “An engine malfunction could account for the explosion,” Eudora noted.

  “True,” Plato agreed, “except for a few disturbing details. An engine malfunction would not account for the red light we saw. I’m positive a streak of crimson light struck the 757 shortly before the blast.”

  “All of us saw the red light,” Kilrane said.

  “There was another unusual aspect to the explosion,” Plato informed them. “There wasn’t any debris.”

  “Debris?” White Eagle repeated, puzzled.

  “If an engine had malfunctioned and the aircraft simply blew up, then there should have been debris. Pieces of the jet should have fallen to earth in the city,” Plato detailed, and looked at General Reese. “Have you received any reports of falling parts yet?”

  “None,” General Reese replied. “No wings, no fuselage, no bodies, nothing.”

  “I don’t understand,” Crofton said. “Where did the bits and pieces go?”

  “Therein lies the key to this mystery,” Plato stated. “There should have been debris. Gravity will not be denied. Since there wasn’t any debris, then the 757 must have been totally obliterated in the air.”

  “No known weapon could do that,” Zahner declared. “No explosion either.”

  “True,” Plato concurred. “Which indicates we witnessed an implosion, not an explosion.”

  “What the hell is the difference?” Crofton queried.

  “There’s a great deal of difference,” Plato elaborated. “An explosion is a violent expansion of an object invariably produced by a chemical agent or a mechanical means. An implosion, however, is the opposite. An implosion occurs when an object bursts inward.”

  “I don’t get it,” Crofton said.

  “Have you ever eaten an orange?” Plato asked him.

  The Mole blinked a few times. “Yeah. So?”

  “What would happen if you threw an orange against a boulder? Would the fruit explode?”

  “Yeah,” Crofton replied.

  “But if you held the orange in your hand and made a fist, what would happen?”

  “I’d crush it.”

  “Precisely my poi
nt. The force applied by your hand would cause the orange to turn inward upon itself. This is a crude illustration, granted. But perhaps, just perhaps, an external force was applied to the 757, a force that caused the aircraft to burst inward, a force that created an implosion and simultaneously consumed every particle of the airliner.”

  “The red light?” Kilrane questioned.

  “That would be my conclusion,” Plato said. “The red light completely enveloped the aircraft, even while the implosion was transpiring. I believe the 757 and the bodies of those poor people were somehow reduced to mere dust.”

  “What kind of weapon could do such a thing?” Zahner asked.

  “I lack sufficient data to extrapolate,” Plato responded.

  “Which brings us back to square one,” Eudora Macquarie said. “We suspect the Russians have developed a new weapon, but we don’t have concrete evidence supporting our suspicion. We don’t know what type of weapon it is, and we don’t know where this weapon is based, whether it’s mobile or stationary.”

  President Toland cleared his throat. “I might be able to help there.”

  Everyone turned toward the head of the table.

  “The smuggler claimed he’d heard through the black-market grapevine that the Reds have based this weapon at a military facility in Ohio,” Toland disclosed.

  “Did he supply the name of this facility?” Eudora inquired.

  Toland shook his head. “No, but he did give us the name of the city where the facility is supposedly located.”

  “Which city?” Zahner probed.

  “Cincinnati.”

  The leaders and delegates shifted in their seats and eyed one another, their features registering skepticism.

  “Are you trying to tell us that a 757 flying over Denver was shot down by a weapon based in Cincinnati, Ohio?” Kilrane said, voicing the thought uppermost on their minds.

  President Toland shrugged. “I can only relay the information we received from the smuggler. But now you can appreciate why we didn’t believe him, why I decided to hold the inaugural flight as scheduled.” His head drooped, his mouth curling downward. “If I’d only given him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Maybe the lousy commies have come up with a new weapon,” Crofton said. “But there’s no way in hell they can shoot a plane down from hundreds of miles away.” He paused and looked at Plato. “Is there?”

  Plato was deep in contemplation, absently chewing on his lower lip. He roused himself and gazed at the Mole. “Possibly. I’ve read a number of books in the Family library dealing with the prewar technology. Their accomplishments were astounding. There were trains capable of traveling over one hundred miles an hour. There were boats that rode over the water on cushions of air. And we’ve all heard the stories about the space flights, about the trips made to the moon and Mars.”

  Crofton snickered. “Yeah. We’ve all heard the tales about the good old days, when men and women could do anything. It’s all a crock.”

  “You don’t believe our ancestors traveled to other planets?” Plato queried.

  “No way, man,” Crofton said.

  “Why not, may I ask?”

  “If I haven’t seen something with my own eyes, I find it hard to believe,” Crofton explained.

  “But we all saw the 757 destroyed,” Plato noted.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Okay,” Zahner said. “Let’s assume the Russians have a new weapon.

  Let’s assume the smuggler told the truth. What are we going to do about it?”

  “There is only one recourse,” Plato stated, and glanced at the three Warriors. “We must send someone to Cincinnati to investigate.”

  Hickok glanced at Blade. “Why is he lookin’ at us?”

  “Three guesses,” the giant replied, then walked to the edge of the table.

  “Do you want us to go?”

  “The decision must be yours,” Plato said.

  Blade looked at his fellow Warriors. The three of them comprised one of the six Triads into which the Warrior class was divided. Alpha Triad was their code name, and together they had journeyed far and wide to counter threats against the Family and the Freedom Federation. As the head of the Alpha Triad, and as the commander of all the Warriors, Blade would make the ultimate decision. But like him, Hickok and Geronimo both had families. He felt constrained to offer them the opportunity to decline. As the top Warrior, such a luxury was denied him. “What will it be?” he asked them. “Do you want to go?”

  “We have a choice?” Hickok answered in surprise. “Well, in that case, I’ll pass. My missus will clobber me if I don’t get back on time. She hates to do the dishes by herself.”

  “I’ll go,” Geronimo volunteered.

  “That makes two of us,” Blade said reluctantly.

  Hickok looked from one to the other. “Thanks a lot, you ding-a-lings. If you’re going, I’m going.”

  “You don’t have to go,” Blade offered.

  “Where you guys go, I go,” the gunman declared, then smirked.

  “Besides, someone has to baby-sit you yahoos.”

  “Lucky us,” Geronimo said.

  “Then it’s settled,” Blade stated. “Alpha Triad will head for Cincinnati.”

  He glanced at Plato. “When do you want us to leave?”

  “I will remain in Denver while you are gone,” Plato said. “Time is of the essence. The Soviet weapon must be located and neutralized expeditiously.

  We would waste precious time if you transported me to the Home prior to your departure. The other Elders will supervise our Family in my absence.”

  He gazed at each of the Warriors fondly.

  “So you want us to leave now, old-timer?” Hickok asked.

  Plato grinned. “My compliments on your intellect.”

  The gunfighter looked at Geronimo and beamed. “See? What did I tell you?”

  Chapter Three

  “I don’t like the looks of this, pard.”

  “You and me, both,” Blade agreed, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

  “Do we go around them?” Geronimo asked.

  “No,” Blade said. “We can use some fresh meat. If they try anything, waste them.”

  Hickok chuckled. “Now you’re talkin’ my language.”

  Blade removed his right foot from the brake and eased down on the accelerator. The SEAL’S engine purred as the vehicle headed toward the cluster of tents and shacks situated at the base of the low hill.

  “I’m glad the Founder had his engineers make this buggy bulletproof,” Hickok said. “If the jokers down there start something, they’re in for the shock of their lives.”

  Blade nodded. The Family’s Founder, as he was called, a wealthy survivalist named Kurt Carpenter, had expended millions of dollars to have the SEAL developed. The Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle was a prototype, the first of its kind, and thanks to the war the only one of its kind. In appearance the SEAL resembled a van, with its boxlike body composed of a shatterproof and heat-resistant plastic, tinted green to enable those within to see out but preventing anyone outside from observing the interior. The floor was an impervious metal alloy, while four enormous, puncture-resistant tires, each two feet wide and four feet high, supported the transport.

  The SEAL received its power from the sun. Sunlight was collected by a pair of solar panels attached to the roof, then converted and stored in unique, revolutionary batteries located in a lead-lined case under the vehicle. The scientists had guaranteed Carpenter the SEAL would function indefinitely provided the battery casings and the solar panels were not damaged.

  While he had been pleased with the SEAL’S capabilities, Carpenter had not been satisfied; he knew his descendants would need more than an all-terrain vehicle to endure in a world ravaged by a nuclear holocaust.

  Consequently, after the automotive geniuses were finished with the development stage, he took the transport to another group of experts, men and women whose stock
in trade was killing. He hired mercenaries to outfit the SEAL with armaments, and he received his money’s worth.

  The SEAL was a virtual arsenal on wheels. A pair of 50-caliber machine guns were mounted underneath each front headlight. A flamethrower was positioned behind the front fender. There was a rocket-launcher in the center of the front grill. And there was a miniature surface-to-air missile concealed in the roof above the driver’s seat. The weapons were activated by silver toggle switches on the dashboard. A simple flick of a toggle, and the appropriate armament would slide out from its hidden housing and commence firing.

  “We shouldn’t get trigger-happy,” Geronimo cautioned. “These people might be friendly.”

  “We’ll soon know,” Blade said, glancing around. “But be ready, just in case.”

  The interior of the SEAL was roomy. There were two bucket seats in the front separated by a console. Hickok was sitting in the passenger seat.

  Behind the bucket seats was a wide seat, in which Geronimo sat, and the rear third of the vehicle was used as a storage section for their spare ammunition, food and other provisions.

  “I’m ready,” Geronimo assured the giant. He wore an Arminius .357 Magnum in a shoulder holster under his left arm, in addition to the tomahawk under his belt. Resting on his lap was a Springfield Armory SAR, converted to full automatic by the Family Gunsmiths.

  “So am I,” Hickok said eagerly. He held a Colt AR-15 in his right hand.

  Blade looked down at the Commando Arms Carbine on the console to his right. The 45-caliber Commando, with its 90-shot magazine, resembled the ancient Thompson-style submachine gun and was his favorite firearm.

  “A short stop won’t hurt us,” Geronimo commented. “We’ve been making good time.”

  “We’re almost to Red Territory, aren’t we?” Hickok inquired.

  Geronimo picked up a map from the seat beside him. “We’re west of Watseka, Illinois. I estimate we’re about eighty or ninety miles north of the Russian lines.”