Citadel Run

by David Robbins

  Blade almost nodded. He had seen them before. In fact, he had owned them, had taken them from the Family armory and brought them to the Twin Cities on the Triad’s last trip here. He’d given them up for lost after they’d been confiscated by the Wacks. “Where did you get them?” he asked Jarvis.

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” Jarvis responded. “After we attacked those crazies, the Wacks, at that hospital headquarters of theirs, we made a room by room sweep of the building. One of my men found these in one of the rooms on the second floor. I haven’t the slightest idea how they got there, but I do know I can get a pretty penny for them after we return to the Civilized Zone.”

  “Sell them? Who’d want to buy them?”

  “Anyone,” Jarvis answered. “I can’t sell them to civilians because it’s illegal for them to own firearms, but it is legit for us in the service to own guns. A lot of officers like to collect old firearms like these. We can’t manufacture them anymore, you know.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Colonel Jarvis placed the Commando and the Vegas on top of the green blanket in the corner. “Yes, sir. Between these and the ones we took from you Warriors, I should add about five thousand to my bank account. I think I’ll…” Jarvis began, then stopped, staring at the Commando. “That’s odd.”

  “What is?” Blade glanced at the tent flap. There was no sign of the guards; they must be standing on either side of the opening.

  “This gun…” Colonel Jarvis said absently. He knelt and retrieved the Commando, then lifted the green blanket.

  Blade gripped the edge of the table, excited.

  The A-1, the Dan Wesson, the Arminius, Hickok’s Henry, and the other Warrior arms were all under the green blanket.

  “Look at this!” Colonel Jarvis exclaimed. “The gun we took from you and the one we found at the Wack hospital look almost alike. Isn’t that strange?”

  “They both look like the Thompson submachine gun,” Blade revealed.

  “The Thompson submachine gun?” Jarvis reiterated. “Yes. I think I read an article about the Thompson once. An ancient piece, if I recall.” He looked at Blade. “You certainly seem to know a lot about it.”

  “The Family Library has an extensive section on firearms,” Blade divulged.

  “It figures,” Jarvis commented. He placed the Commando and the Vegas under the green blanket. “I’d better see about returning you to the stockade or your friends will think you’ve turned traitor on them.”

  “They know I would never do that,” Blade replied. Colonel Jarvis was tucking the blanket around the weapons, his back to his supper guest.

  This was his chance!

  If he could kill Jarvis silently, he could reclaim his weapons and…

  “Colonel!” someone shouted, and a moment later Rat burst into the tent.

  Jarvis stood, instantly enraged. “How dare you enter without my consent!”

  One of the guards peered inside. “Sorry, sir! He slipped past us before we could stop him.”

  Colonel Jarvis motioned for the guard to leave, which he promptly did.

  “I repeat!” Jarvis snapped, glaring at Rat. “How dare you enter my tent without permission!”

  Rat wasn’t about to be cowered by the intimidating officer. “I just heard about those men you sent after Hickok! They’re dead! You know what that means? He’s coming! He’s on his way!”

  “So? What can he do against all of my men?” Colonel Jarvis asked.

  “Why don’t you go ask Captain Rice for a drink? You could use something to steady your nerves, little man!” he said contemptuously.

  Rat clenched and unclenched his fists. “You’re makin’ a big mistake, Jarvis! You should have killed Hickok and his friends the moment you had them in your custody. Look at this! You’re having your meal with Blade!”

  Rat took a step toward the officer. “You jackass! Don’t you know how dangerous these guys are? They play for keeps!”

  Colonel Jarvis unexpectedly lunged, grabbing Rat by the front of his shirt and nearly lifting him from the ground. “So do I!” he warned. “If you’d care for a demonstration, it can be arranged right now!”

  It was as if Rat’s backbone turned to mush. He blanched and recoiled from the officer’s baleful glare. “Hey! Let me go! I didn’t mean nothin’! Honest!”

  “Mark my words, weasel!” Jarvis hissed. “Cross me again and it will be the last act you ever commit. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  Rat nodded his head over and over.

  Colonel Jarvis shoved Rat toward the tent flap. “Get out! And remember what I’ve told you!”

  “Yes, sir! I’m sorry, sir!” Rat’s chin was quivering as he backed from the tent.

  “Disgusting filth!” Jarvis stated angrily. Then he glanced at the Warrior. “The presumptuous fool has ruined my mood! My men will escort you back and I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll be going for a little ride.” Jarvis smiled. “Guards!”

  Two guards entered the tent.

  “Take this man to the stockade,” Jarvis ordered. “Watch him! If he escapes, I’ll have your balls for breakfast!”

  The troopers stood aside to allow Blade to pass.

  Blade rose and nodded at the officer. “I want to thank you for an… interesting… evening.”

  “Make the most of the time you have left,” Jarvis advised. “I have a feeling you won’t be eating too many meals after Samuel gets through with you.”

  Blade exited, marveling at how careless Jarvis could be. If only two soldiers were taking him to the stockade, he’d overpower them, return to the tent, and grab his weapons.

  “Hold it!” directed one of the troopers behind Blade.

  Four more soldiers appeared from behind a nearby truck. The tent was located on the grass near the parked troop transports.

  “Take this scum to the stockade,” the guard instructed, and one of the four nodded, pushing the Warrior with the barrel of his M-16.

  “Move it, jerk!”

  Blade meekly complied, hoping to deceive the four guards, to convince them he was docile. He idly gazed up at the full moon, then at the nearby trucks. The transports were about fifteen yards distant, providing the closest cover. If he could reach the troop transports, he stood a good chance of eluding the soldiers. The troopers weren’t about to fire into their own vehicles.

  At least, he hoped they wouldn’t.

  Two of the escorts were immediately behind the Warrior, the third walked just to his right, and the fourth was staying alongside his left elbow.

  Blade hesitated, stopping and glancing down at his left foot.

  “Why’d you stop?” demanded the one to his left, poking Blade for the second time with his M-16.

  Blade twisted his leg and used his right hand to elevate his left foot.

  “I’ve got something in my moccasin. Feels like a small stone.”

  “Ahhhh! Poor baby!” the one on the left cracked. “Does the teeny-weeny pebble hurt the big, bad Warrior?”

  The other three soldiers laughed.

  Blade grinned, surreptitiously scanning the area.

  The stockade was brilliantly illuminated by the spotlights mounted on the four sentry towers. Most of the soldiers were gathered around campfires, cooking and relaxing. Those troopers standing near the barbed wire fence seemed bored with their duty. The soldiers in the sentry towers seemed to be keeping their eyes on the prisoners.

  It was now or never!

  “Get moving!” the soldier on the left barked. “You can take off your moccasins in the stockade. Do you think we want to catch a whiff of your smelly foot?”

  “I guess not,” Blade said, placing his left foot on the ground. “Although it would be a distinct improvement over your body odor,” he added, calculating the remark would provoke another prod from the M-16.

  It did.

  Blade exploded into action at the same instant the barrel of the M-16 touched his left side. He swung his left elbow back and up, feeling it crunch again
st the trooper’s nose even as he gripped the barrel of the rifle and spun, jerking the M-16 from the soldier’s grasp and slamming the stock into the face of the trooper on his right, downing him, two of the four now out of commission.

  The pair behind the Warrior were starting to bring their weapons into play.

  Blade dove for the one on his left, knowing there was no way he could bag the one on his right before he was cut to ribbons. As he leaped, as his massive arms encircled his opponent and dragged him to the ground, Blade caught sight of the two soldiers in front of the tent. The tent guards were maybe ten yards off, and one of them suddenly perceived what was transpiring. He reacted automatically, whipping up his M-16 and firing a short burst.

  There was a grunt and a gasp and the last of Blade’s four escorts tumbled to the dirt.

  The one in Blade’s arms was still, stupidly, striving to use his M-16.

  Blade drove his stony right fist into the trooper’s mouth and felt teeth give. The soldier went momentarily limp, and Blade scooped up the M-16, rose to his knees, and pulled the trigger.

  The two tent guards were charging on the run, and they were caught in the chest by the slugs, their bodies flipping backward and crashing to the hard earth.

  Blade pivoted, staying on his knees to minimize the target he presented.

  Three soldiers were approaching from the direction of the fence.

  Blade angled the barrel of the M-16 to reduce the possibility of any of the bullets striking the captives in the stockade, and let loose with a short burst.

  The three were struck in the head and died in a bloody heap.

  A large gun abruptly opened up, one of the machine guns, the one on the western sentry tower.

  Blade rolled backwards as the spot he vacated erupted in a spray of dirt and sod.

  Soldiers were converging on the tent, drawn by the gunfire.

  Blade crawled toward the troop transports, wondering if the sentry gunner had lost track of him.

  No.

  The machine gun chattered, the heavy slugs ripping a path through the ground not four inches from the Warrior.

  Damn!

  Blade rose, running at full speed, making for the trucks. He was within seven yards of the parked vehicles when he whirled and fired a burst into the nearest troopers, four of them approaching from the north. He saw them go down as he turned and raced for the transports, diving when he was yet a yard away and scrambling underneath the first truck as shots punctuated the night above him.

  “Not at the trucks, you idiots!” Colonel Jarvis was bellowing, enraged.

  “We can’t get home without them! Surround them! Surround them and flush him out! Go truck to truck if you have to but get him!”

  Blade scurried under the second of the troop transports as boots pounded all around him.

  The soldiers were hemming him in!

  He was trapped!

  “Bring flashlights!” someone was shouting.

  “Watch yourselves!” another cautioned.

  Blade glanced over his shoulder.

  Boots!

  He looked to his left.

  More boots!

  Doubledamn!

  To be so close!

  “Listen to me!” Colonel Jarvis yelled. “Listen to me! I don’t care what Samuel wants! After what that bastard just did, I want him dead! An extended leave for the man who gets him! A month off with pay!”

  “Did you hear that?” Blade heard a young trooper ask from somewhere near the cab.

  “Sure did,” replied a friend. “This sucker is as good as dead!”

  “You got it!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Yama was all set to cut the approaching trooper in two when a funny thing happened.

  The soldier suddenly stiffened, snapped to attention, and saluted. “Sir! Sorry, sir!” He looked over his left shoulder at the four troopers standing behind the supply truck. “An officer!” he exclaimed, sounding petrified.

  “It’s an officer!”

  The four other soldiers immediately straightened, their arms held at their sides.

  “I didn’t see you were an officer,” the one with the M-16 explained, “until I was right on top of you, sir. I wouldn’t have called you a smart-ass had I known, sir.”

  Yama opted to bluff his way past these men.

  “I certainly hope not,” the Warrior said stiffly, “or you know where you’d end up, don’t you?”

  The trooper with the M-16 swallowed, his throat bobbing. “Yes, sir.”

  “What is your name?” Yama demanded.

  “Corporal Gardner, sir!”

  “Who did you think I was?” Yama pressed him.

  “Just one of us, sir! A grunt like us! I thought I could get you to help us finish loading this truck so we could get out of here faster. I didn’t see your bars until it was too late, sir.”

  Yama simulated making a momentous decision; he bit his lower lip and used his left hand to scratch his chin. “Well, Corporal Gardner, I’ll let you go this time, but only because we both have a lot to do before we depart for South Dakota. Consider yourself lucky. I won’t press charges for insubordination.”

  Corporal Gardner exhaled noisily. “Thank you, sir! It won’t happen again, sir!”

  “It had better not,” Yama advised him, about to leave, when he noticed several large crates in the supply truck. “What is it you’re loading up anyway?”

  “Explosives, sir,” Gardner respectfully revealed. “This is our last truck and we can take some time off. So far, we’ve loaded four trucks full of all kinds of stuff. Grenades, nitro, dynamite, mines, even a few of those rare tactical units, the small jobs that can lob a thermo about a mile or more.”

  Yama, puzzled by the references to “tactical unit” and to “thermo,” wanted to ask more. He refrained for fear of displaying an ignorance inconsistent with his status as an officer.

  “Anything else, sir?” Corporal Gardner asked, evidently eager to return to work and remove himself from the officer’s presence.

  “No. Carry on,” Yama directed. He continued on his way toward the Biological Center, staying in the shadows of the vehicles to reduce the prospect of detection. Fortunately, he did not bump into any more late workers, and before he knew it he was there, at the edge of a wide sidewalk below the towering edifice. To one accustomed to the sedate pace of life at the Home, it was as if he had walked into a madhouse.

  People were everywhere, great crowds of them, going every which way, pressing against one another in their haste to reach their destinations.

  Men, women, and children; civilians and military types; some in fine clothes, some in rags; a compact commingling of humanity surging to and fro, intent on their own lives to the exclusion of all else.

  Yama stared at the spectacle in bewilderment. Why was everyone in such a hurry? He looked down at his boots, then at the sidewalk not four feet away, confused. He gazed around at the parking lot, nearly deserted except for the vehicles and a few straggling soldiers, then at the sidewalk again.

  He didn’t get it.

  Why were they all staying on the sidewalk, crammed together, when they could simply spread out and use part of the parking lot? It didn’t make any…

  Hold it!

  Yama sensed he was being watched, and casually twisted, studying the passers-by, holding the Wilkinson close to his right side. Was he imagining things or…?

  There.

  A tall man wearing a blue uniform and carrying a night stick was standing on a small, circular white platform, about three feet high, twenty yards north of the Warrior’s position. The platform was located in the center of the sidewalk, forcing the pedestrains to bypass it on either side.

  The man was keeping an eagle eye on the crowd below his perch.

  Yama knew the man in blue—weren’t they called policemen?—was watching him closely and he wondered if he’d made a mistake or was about to make one. He couldn’t afford a mishap, not when he was so close to his destination! Shou
ld he simply barge onto the sidewalk and trust he could lose the policeman in the throng? What if the policeman sounded an alarm?

  Yama’s predicament was unexpectedly resolved.

  Another soldier appeared, walking from the parking lot toward the sidewalk.

  Yama caught sight of the trooper out of the corner of his left eye and he followed the soldier’s movement as inconspicuously as he could.

  The newcomer on the scene didn’t hesitate; he walked up to the sidewalk and stopped, directly across from the policeman on the white platform. At that particular point, Yama observed, the sidewalk tapered outward and formed a triangular-shaped section of cement. The soldier stood in the center of the triangle, patiently waiting, watching the lines of passing people. Suddenly, an opening presented itself and the trooper darted into the lane and was off, moving with the pedestrian traffic flow.

  Yama detected a method to this madness. Those on the far side of the sidewalk were all moving to his left, toward the north. The people on the nearest half of the sidewalk were all walking toward the south, to his right.

  They were traveling in distinct patterns, although the initial impression had belied the fact.

  The Warrior abruptly realized something else.

  The shouting he’d heard earlier was still assaulting the ears. He’d been listening to it for so long, he must have subconsciously blocked out the words. Now they were crystal clear, and their source was self-evident.

  Thirty yards to the south was a metal pole, twenty feet in height, with a loudspeaker attached at the top.

  “…arrested for littering,” the speaker was broadcasting, “Citizen Alfred E. Bradbury. Arrested for jaywalking, Citizen Norma T. Putz. Arrested for smoking. Citizens T.S. Doyle, Mary B. Martin, and Warren O. Sanderson. That concludes this edition of ‘Criminal Corner.’ The next report will be in thirty minutes. Ever remember: In Samuel We Trust.”

  Yama casually strolled toward the triangle, his mind utterly confounded by the sights and sounds around him.