Cincinnati Run

by David Robbins

  “Of course. Cynthia admits that she’s excessively worried about the likelihood of my being killed. She can’t help herself. And as far as Cochise is concerned, what do you say to a three-year-old? How do I explain my extended absences?” Geronimo wanted to know, his tone betraying his profound inner turmoil.

  “They’ll come around eventually,” Hickok said.

  “I’m not so sure,” Geronimo replied.

  “Have you mentioned resigning to Cynthia?” Blade questioned.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And she doesn’t want me to resign on account of them.”

  “The lady has brains,” Hickok stated. “You should listen to her.”

  “I am, with my heart.”

  “Have you made your final decision yet?” Blade asked.

  Geronimo shook his head. “No. I’m leaning toward resigning, though.”

  “Good. Then I’ve got time to help you see the light, pard. When we get back, I’ll talk to your missus too,” Hickok proposed.

  “This is personal, Nathan,” Geronimo said, using the name bestowed on the gunman by his parents. “I’ll handle it.”

  “Fine. Be that way,” Hickok said.

  “No offense meant,” Geronimo commented.

  “None taken,” Hickok said, his tone contradicting his words.

  They drove on in an uncomfortable silence for several minutes. Finally Hickok turned and stared at Geronimo.

  “I think you’ll be makin’ the biggest mistake of your life if you resign.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll be miserable if you step down,” the gunman predicted. “What else would you do?”

  “I’m considering becoming a Tiller,” Geronimo divulged.

  The gunman shook his head. “Never happen. You like excitement and adventure. Sittin’ around watching plants grow would bore you to tears.”

  “I could become a Hunter,” Geronimo proposed. “I like hunting and trapping, and providing meat for the Family is a worthy occupation.”

  “In that case, you might as well stay a Warrior.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Hunters go up against mutants and wild critters every time they go out of the Home,” Hickok said. “You could be killed just as easily.”

  “But the Hunters don’t venture as far from the Home as we do,” Geronimo argued. “The Hunters don’t usually take on cannibals or professional assassins or insane power-mongers. I’d be safer as a Hunter.”

  “If you want to play it safe, become a Weaver.”

  “I never expected bitterness from you,” Geronimo told the gunman.

  “I’m not bitter. I’m just ticked off,” Hickok asserted.

  “We’ve got company,” Blade announced abruptly.

  Hickok straightened and grabbed the AR-15. “Where?”

  “Behind us, about three quarters of a mile.” Blade informed them.

  Hickok looked out the rear of the SEAL, his blue eyes widening slightly as he spied a large, green, single-rotor helicopter. “How long has that contraption been there?”

  “I just noticed it,” Blade said.

  “Russian?”

  “It must be,” Blade deduced, “but I haven’t seen any markings.”

  “Who else would have a helicopter in this area?” Geronimo queried.

  “No one, to my knowledge,” Blade responded. He glanced at the side mirror repeatedly as the SEAL covered another mile, expecting the chopper to draw closer rapidly. Instead, the craft kept its distance.

  “Why is it hangin’ back?” Hickok asked.

  “Who knows?” Blade said.

  A rusted sign appeared at the side of the highway: WATSEKA 1 MILE.

  “Will we go through the town?” Geronimo inquired.

  “We’ll bypass Watseka,” Blade replied. He preferred to avoid cities and towns whenever possible. Prior experience had taught him that the inhabitants of urban centers were invariably hostile, and although most of the dwellers in the Outlands were poorly armed and ill-equipped to cause any serious damage to the SEAL, he wanted to avoid unnecessary confrontations and delays.

  “Look!” Hickok suddenly declared, pointing at the sky to the east.

  Blade glanced up and tensed.

  A second helicopter was less than a half mile distant and heading directly toward the transport.

  Chapter Five

  “They’ve got us hemmed in,” Hickok said.

  Blade braked the SEAL, peering intently at the oncoming chopper, striving to identify the model. His knowledge of aircraft was relatively limited, and he resolved to brush up on the various types of helicopters by studying the appropriate books in the Family library at the first opportunity.

  “The copter behind us is closing in,” Geronimo disclosed.

  A quick check of the side mirror confirmed the helicopters were working in tandem.

  “The old squeeze play,” Hickok remarked.

  Blade reached toward the silver toggles, then hesitated.

  “What are you waitin’ for?” Hickok demanded. “Sic the Stinger on one of them.”

  “We don’t know if they’re hostile,” Blade said.

  “Better safe than sorry,” the gunman noted.

  The chopper to the east was swooping at the SEAL, its rotor blades shimmering in the sunlight.

  “We’re sittin’ ducks if we stay put,” Hickok cautioned.

  Blade wrenched the steering wheel to the left and pressed on the accelerator, intending to drive the transport into the shelter of the woods.

  Even as he did, there was a puff of smoke and a brief burst of flame shot from under the helicopter in front of the SEAL.

  “They’ve fired a rocket!” Geronimo exclaimed.

  Forty feet from the SEAL a section of Highway 24 exploded, showering dirt, dust, and chunks of asphalt in all directions. The transport swayed but stayed on course, bouncing as it left the roadway and sped toward the nearest trees.

  Blade pressed the toggle labeled with an S. He knew a panel in the roof above him was opening, and he felt the SEAL lurch as the heat-seeking, surface-to-air missile was launched.

  “I can see it!” Hickok cried, his face pressed to the windshield.

  Blade glanced to the right, and he was able to glimpse the glistening Stinger as the missile arced toward the helicopter to the east. The next moment he was forced to devote his full attention to driving. The SEAL

  entered the forest, narrowly missing a towering oak tree. He skillfully manipulated the steering wheel, threading a path among the tree trunks, the transport flattening the underbrush in its path.

  “One down!” Hickok exclaimed.

  A resounding blast flared in the eastern sky, and a cloud of smoke and fire engulfed the second helicopter.

  Blade slammed on the brakes and craned his neck. He could see the crumpled chopper, a gaping, ragged hole in its side, plummeting earthward, its rotor blades twisted, spewing black smoke. The helicopter crashed into the trees less than 300 yards off, and a column of fire and smoke erupted toward the heavens.

  “The other one has stopped,” Geronimo said.

  Blade turned and gazed to the west. The first chopper was hovering 500 yards from the transport. Would the pilot decide to attack? The SEAL possessed the capability to fire just one Stinger at a time. A spare was stored in the rear section, but to mount the missile entailed climbing onto the roof using a ladder affixed to the back of the vehicle. Anyone trying to do so would be easy prey for the chopper.

  “Here it comes,” Geronimo declared.

  “Out of the SEAL,” Blade ordered, and threw open his door. He dropped to the ground with the Commando in his right hand, then slammed the door shut.

  Hickok and Geronimo jumped down on the passenger side, then came around the front.

  “What’s your plan, pard?” the gunman asked.

  Blade was watching the helicopter, which was flying slowly in their general direction. The pilot was keeping the aircraft 50 feet
above the treetops, swerving from side to side, evidently searching for the SEAL. The canopy of branches and leaves screened the forest floor from aerial observation.

  “Do we take it down?” Hickok queried hopefully.

  “We do,” Blade confirmed. “Take cover. Wait until I give the word.”

  The Warriors fanned out, taking up positions behind nearby trees.

  Blade crouched in the shelter of a Norway maple and pressed the Commando to his right shoulder. He could hear the whump-whump-whump of the craft’s rotors as the helicopter drew to within 40 yards of his position. A cool breeze stirred his dark hair. He stared through the branches and spotted a bright red marking on the right side of the chopper.

  A solitary star above a crossed hammer and sickle.

  Definitely Russian.

  Blade sighted the Commando on the forward fuselage, his finger on the trigger. He wanted the helicopter as close as possible before he fired. As he waited, scarcely breathing in anticipation, a disturbing thought sprang into his mind: The Soviet pilots must have contacted their superiors. Odds were, one or both of the pilots had radioed the nearest Red air base to report the presence of the green van. The Russians undoubtedly knew about the SEAL. Would a sharp officer recognize the Family’s unique vehicle from the description given by the pilots? If so, the Reds might put their border units on alert and advise their patrols to be on the lookout for the SEAL.

  The helicopter was now 30 yards from the Warriors, its elongated body fully visible. A sliding door was open, exposing a wide bay on the side.

  Framed in the doorway was a machine gunner.

  Blade waited. He saw the machine gunner surveying the woods below.

  That’s it.

  Just a little bit closer.

  The rotors were creating a loud clamor, and the wind generated by the rotating blades was bending the tops of the trees.

  A little closer.

  Blade saw the machine gunner’s head snap to the right.

  The Russian had spotted the SEAL!

  “Now!” Blade bellowed, and fired, the Commando thundering and bucking.

  Geronimo and Hickok cut loose.

  The cockpit windows dissolved into shattered shards, and a second later the helicopter banked to the south. Undaunted, the machine gunner sent a burst into the trees in the vicinity of the SEAL.

  Blade aimed at the soldier and squeezed the trigger.

  A dozen rounds struck the Russian in the chest, and he was hurled backwards into the helicopter.

  Hickok suddenly stepped into the open, into a small clearing, the AR-15

  elevated, going for the chopper’s tail rotor. He fired four times.

  The Soviet helicopter was speeding southward, and the craft abruptly started weaving, its tail out of control.

  “Piece of cake!” Hickok declared, elated.

  Blade walked to the gunman’s side. “Nice shooting.”

  “What else?”

  A thin plume of white smoke paced the helicopter’s passage through the blue sky. The tail section seemed to stabilize slightly, and the chopper pursued a steadier course.

  “Crash, blast you!” Hickok said.

  The Russian craft continued on a beeline toward the Soviet territory. In less than a minute the helicopter was lost to the view of the Warriors.

  “Darn,” Hickok muttered.

  Geronimo joined them. “They’ll be expecting us in Cincinnati,” he mentioned.

  “Maybe not,” Blade disagreed. “They know we’re here, but they don’t know where we’re headed. For all they know, our destination is somewhere in the Outlands.”

  “Who cares if they know or not?” Hickok asked. “We have a job to do, and we always get the job done.”

  “We keep going then?” Geronimo inquired.

  Blade nodded.

  Geronimo’s mouth curved downward, but he held his tongue.

  “Let’s go,” Blade said.

  They returned to the SEAL.

  “Now where were we?” Hickok queried as they climbed inside.

  “We were discussing my resignation from the Warriors,” Geronimo reminded him.

  “Let’s drop the subject for now,” Blade suggested. He placed his Commando on the console, then started the SEAL.

  “Is there something else you’d rather discuss?” Geronimo questioned.

  “We need to talk about Cincinnati,” Blade said, pulling out.

  “What about it?” came from Hickok.

  “The Russians have the city under their control. You and I have been in Soviet-occupied territory before, so we have some idea of what to expect.

  There will be troops everywhere. We can’t simply barge into the city and expect to accomplish our mission. We’ve got to use our heads,” Blade stated.

  “That leaves Hickok out,” Geronimo quipped.

  “We can hide the SEAL a few miles from the city and proceed on foot,” Blade said. “But if we try to enter during daylight, we’re bound to arouse suspicion, dressed as we are.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Hickok commented. “My duds are the height of fashion.”

  Blade concentrated on avoiding a tree as he headed for Highway 24.

  “We could try to enter the city at night, when we’d be less likely to stand out, but we’d still have a problem.”

  “Our weapons,” Geronimo said.

  “You’ve got it. Only Russian soldiers are permitted to carry weapons,” Blade noted. “They would pounce on any armed civilians.” He paused. “I’m not about to go in there unarmed.”

  “Then what do we do?” Hickok asked.

  “We find a Soviet squad and persuade them to lend us their uniforms,” Blade stated.

  Hickok chuckled.

  “With Russian uniforms on, we should be able to walk around unchallenged,” Blade said.

  “You hope,” Geronimo remarked.

  “Don’t worry, pard,” Hickok declared. “We’ll be in and out before the Commies know what hit them.”

  Chapter Six

  The full moon cast the nighttime terrain in a pale glow.

  “Looks like a farmhouse,” Hickok said.

  Blade nodded, surveying the farm below, noting the three-story house to the north, the barn to the east, and the fenced pasture containing a herd of cattle to the south. He looked to his right at the gunman, then to his left at Geronimo. The three of them were on a rise 60 yards to the west of the farm, lying prone with their heads above the rim, a forest to their rear. “Let’s pay the owners a visit,” he directed, bracing his palms on the grass.

  “Wait,” Geronimo stated, pointing at the porch bordering the south side of the farmhouse. “There are dogs.”

  “I don’t see any,” Hickok said.

  “Wait a moment,” Geronimo advised, placing the SAR on the ground.

  Blade was straining to perceive the dogs, thankful for Geronimo’s excellent vision. All of Geronimo’s senses were above average, and Blade wondered if the fact was attributable to his friend’s Blackfoot inheritance.

  He detected movement near the house, and two dogs appeared in a circle of light radiated by a lamp attached to a porch post.

  “They’ll raise a ruckus if we try to get closer,” Hickok whispered. “Do we take them out?”

  Blade pursed his lips, deliberating. Three hours remained until dawn, and he estimated they were still over 20 miles north of Cincinnati. The SEAL was concealed in dense woods seven miles to the northwest, not far from State Highway 725. “Yes, but we don’t kill them.”

  “Have you gone loco?” Hickok responded. “How the blazes will we do that?” His right elbow bumped the AR-15 lying at his side.

  “I have an idea,” Blade said, and sat up. He began undoing the laces on his left combat boot.

  “I’ve got it!” Hickok stated with a smirk. “We’ll let ’em get a whiff of your feet and they’ll keel right over.”

  Blade removed the lace from his left boot.

  “Are you aimin’ to take those clodhoppers o
ff?” Hickok asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Dam. And I forgot to bring my gas mask.”

  “Keep it up,” Blade said, working on his right boot.

  Geronimo looked at the gunman. “Does this qualify as cruelty to animals?”

  “Forget the critters. What about us?”

  Blade pulled the right lace free. “Here,” he said, and gave it to the gunfighter.

  Hickok studied the black lace for a second. “Am I supposed to lasso one of the dogs with this?”

  “Remind me to bring Yama on the next run. He doesn’t talk as much,” Blade retorted, and handed the left lace to Geronimo. He stripped his boots off and gazed at the farmhouse.

  The dogs were sitting at the base of the steps leading onto the porch.

  “I don’t want to kill the farmer’s dogs if it can be helped.”

  Blade explained. “The farmer will be less likely to cooperate if we slay them.”

  “We’re going to tie their tails together so they can’t go anywhere,” Hickok guessed sarcastically.

  Blade took off his combat boots and rose to his knees. “When I grab the dogs, I want you to tie their mouths shut.”

  Hickok glanced at Geronimo. “Next he’ll have us wrestling worms.”

  Blade sighed and motioned with his arms at the ground. “Stay down, and don’t make a peep.”

  They complied.

  “Here goes nothing,” Blade said, and whistled as loud as he could.

  Reacting instantly, the dogs stood on all fours and stared in the direction of the rise.

  Blade repeated the whistle. How keen was their eyesight? If they couldn’t see him, would they come to investigate? If they started barking now and woke up the householders, the jig would be up and the Warriors would have to move on. He could see wires leading into the house from a pole next to the curved front drive, and he concluded the people must possess a telephone. Neutralizing the dogs was imperative if he wanted to subdue the occupants quietly before they could use the phone. He didn’t want to cut the wires.

  The largest dog advanced several yards toward the rise, its head upraised, apparently sniffing the air.

  Nice try, dog, Blade thought, but the wind was blowing his scent away from the farm. He whistled a third time, lower than before.