“I appreciate your concern,” Yama told Lynx, “but it’s a bit premature. We’re going to get out of here together.”
Lynx climbed down and lifted the tactical unit from the jeep. “Bring the wooden crate, sunshine,” he said, and walked to the grass.
The people nearby studiously ignored him while many of them started to edge away.
Yama carried the wooden crate over to Lynx.
“This is the spot,” Lynx announced, depositing the tactical unit on the ground. “I’ll set it up here, but first…” He scanned the park and pointed at an elderly couple sitting on the bench fifteen feet away. “Hey! You two! Yeah, you! Come here!”
“What are you doing?” Yama inquired.
“Leaving our calling card,” Lynx replied.
The elderly duo drew near, doing their best to hide their obvious terror.
“Yes, sir?” the man timidly inquired. “How may we help you, sir?”
Lynx grinned, displaying his sharp teeth. “Citizen, I need you to do me a favor.”
“Whatever you want,” the man promised.
“Thought you’d see it my way. Listen up. I’d like you to go back to that bench and sit down. Stay there. After we leave, some soldiers are going to show up and ask everybody a lot of questions. I want you to give them a message for me. Will you do that?”
“What is it?” the woman asked.
Lynx winked at Yama. “I want you to tell them this. Say to them: Lynx and Yama send their love. Got that?”
“Lynx and Yama send their love,” the man repeated verbatim. “I’ll remember it,” he pledged.
“Fine, Citizen. Thanks. Now go sit on that bench and watch the fireworks.”
“Oh! There’s going to be fireworks?” the woman said excitedly.
“The loudest and the brightest you’ve ever seen,” Lynx confirmed. “Now go and sit down.”
“Anyone ever inform you that you have a warped sense of humor?”
Yama commented as the elderly couple departed.
Lynx laughed. “Let’s get crackin’!” He knelt and began assembling the tactical unit.
Yama looked to the southeast. The Biological Center was clearly visible, rising above most of the surrounding structures.
Lynx worked quickly, his task facilitated by the light from a nearby street lamp. First, he unfolded a collapsible tripod from underneath the rectangular metal box and elevated the unit to a standing position. He swiveled the box, aligning it in the general direction of the Biological Center. The top of the metal box housed a retractable tube, or barrel, and Lynx extended this tube to its full three-foot length. The side panels on the metal box flipped outward, revealing vents on both sides of the unit. Lynx unhinged a panel covering the bottom third of the unit, displaying a miniaturized control board complete with colored lights, meters, silver switches, and buttons.
“Looks complicated,” Yama remarked.
“Keep your fingers crossed, chuckles.” Lynx twisted a button and the meters lit up and a loud hum emanated from the unit.
“You’ve done it,” Yama congratulated him.
“Not yet,” Lynx corrected. He picked up the wooden crate, his claws digging into the wood along one edge, and strained. With a resounding crack, one side of the wooden crate split open. Lynx placed the crate on the grass, removed the remnants of the splintered side, and extracted a gleaming missile. The thermo was two feet long and six inches in diameter. Four fins extended several inches from the base of the missile.
“This is it!” Lynx stated. “We only get one chance.”
“What’s next?”
“We lock it on target.” Lynx handed the thermo to the Warrior. “Place it in the tube with the pointed end up. Those fins fit into special grooves at the bottom of the tube.”
Yama held the thermo aloft and peered down the tube on the tactical unit. He could barely distinguish the grooves at the bottom. Slowly, he eased the missile into the tube and aligned the fins with the slots. “Done,” he announced.
Lynx was bent over the control board. “Let me see. This digital display here will give us the range if I flick this switch.” He did, and the indicated display began showing a series of numbers. “We’re just over a mile and a half from the Biological Center,” Lynx disclosed. He punched several of the buttons and threw another switch. A row of six red lights brightened.
“Good,” he stated, and glanced at Yama. His right index finger hovered near a yellow button. “Once I press this button, there’s no turning back. I’ve set the automatic timer for ten minutes. In ten minutes, this unit will automatically fire the thermo at the preset target.”
“What about them?” Yama indicated the people in the park.
“Don’t worry about them, chuckles. They won’t touch this thing. Are you ready?”
“Do it.”
Lynx pressed the yellow button and smiled mischievously. “I just hope the Doc is in when our surprise package is delivered.”
“Speaking of surprises,” Yama remarked, “we have company.”
Lynx straightened and turned.
A black and white patrol car had turned into the cul-de-sac and was heading their way.
“Cops!” Lynx hissed. “Not now! We’ve got to get out of here!”
The patrol car stopped next to the jeep.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The blast of Bertha’s M-16 within inches of his left ear caused Hickok to wince, even as he spun, raising the Henry to his shoulder, knowing she was too skilled a fighter to fire without justification.
This time she had it.
A soldier had been standing not more than ten feet behind them, prepared to fire, when her shot caught him in the chest and knocked him to the ground. Behind him, other troopers were advancing across the field toward the troop transports.
Hickok sighted and the Henry boomed. He heard a soldier scream as he was struck.
Bertha was firing indiscriminately.
Hickok grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down to the grass. “Stay low!” he warned her. “They can see you better if you’re standing up.”
The troopers had opened up, most of them directing their shots at the crowd near the tent.
“I’m gonna flank ’em,” Bertha declared, and proceeded to crawl off.
Up on the highway, the ten volunteers had just reached the road when the first gunshots erupted.
Hickok, observing from his prone position, saw headlights abruptly come on, three sets of them, not more than twenty yards from his men.
The ten were exposed in the glare of the headlamps as three fifty-caliber machine guns let loose.
“Get out of there!” Hickok shouted at the top of his lungs.
Too late.
The ten were unable to flee before being cut to ribbons by the big fifties.
With a roar, the three jeeps gunned their engines, leaving the highway and making for the stockade.
Hickok found himself directly in their path. He aimed the Henry at the spot where he assumed the driver of the first jeep would be sitting and squeezed the trigger.
The result was better than he could have anticipated.
The first jeep suddenly slewed to the left, apparently out of control, and slammed into the second jeep. There was a tremendous crash and the second jeep was knocked over by the force of the impact, flipped onto one side. The third and final jeep swerved sharply to avoid colliding with the other two.
Hickok rose to his knees, sighted, and fired, hoping to repeat his performance and nail the driver of the third jeep.
Evidently, he missed.
The last jeep bore down on the Warrior, its machine gun belching lead and flame.
The slugs were kicking dirt into the air all around him as Hickok dropped the Henry and stood, his Pythons streaking from their holsters.
The Colts bucked in twin precision as he fired off the rounds, one revolver right after the other, eight, nine, ten rounds in rapid succession, and only ten because he seldom kept a round i
n the chamber under the firing pin.
The jeep was only six feet from the gunman, its fifty-caliber strangely silent, but still moving at a high rate of speed.
Hickok felt someone plow into his right side and he was yanked to the ground as the jeep hurtled past. He twisted and found his face next to Bertha’s.
“Watch yourself, White Meat!” she exclaimed. “We want you in one piece when we get you home to the missus!” She pecked him on the cheek, grinned, and was gone.
Hickok rose to his feet, smiling. The focus of the battle had shifted nearer the stockade as the remaining soldiers conducted a futile assault on the defenders of the troop transports. Were the Army troopers attempting to knock the transports out of commission? They were plainly outnumbered and outgunned and it was only a matter of time before they were mopped up.
The two jeeps that had collided were in flames, while the third jeep had mysteriously stopped in the middle of the field and was sitting there, the motor idling.
Hickok bolstered his Pythons. He detected the gleam of his Henry reflected in the fire from the jeeps and walked over to the rifle. As he stooped to retrieve it, a high, squeaky voice stopped him cold.
“Touch it and you’re dead!”
Hickok slowly straightened and turned. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
Rat was standing to the right of the burning jeeps, an M-16 in his hands, a wicked look on his feral face. “You remember me, then?”
“How could I forget vermin like you?”
“Yeah! That’s right! Have your fun while you can!” Rat cackled. “I’ve been waitin’ for this chance for so long! I’m gonna repay you for what you did to Maggot, you prick!”
“Too bad I wasn’t able to do the same to you,” Hickok said goading him.
Rat laughed. “I love it! I just love it! I’m gonna waste you! Are you scared, Hickok? Afraid I might pull this trigger?”
Hickok feigned a gaping yawn. “Nope. I’m bored to tears.”
“You’re faking it!” Rat snapped. “You just don’t want me to have my fun!”
“No. I’m just waiting for my friend, Geronimo, to put a bullet in your miserable head. He’s right behind you.” Hickok held his breath, hoping Rat would take the bait. It was literally the oldest trick in the book.
“You’re full of shit!” Rat declared. “You must think I’m really stupid to fall for a gag like that!”
“You have no idea of how stupid I think you are,” Hickok said.
“There’s no one behind me!”
Hickok yawned again. “Want to bet your life on it?”
Rat’s features mirrored his quandary. He didn’t believe the gunfighter for a minute. At least, he didn’t want to believe him. But a nagging doubt persisted in his mind. Maybe Geronimo was behind him. Otherwise, how could Hickok be so calm about his fate?
The issue was decided by the burning jeeps. One of the rear-view mirrors, overheated by the raging flames, suddenly shattered with a loud pop.
Rat, fearing the worst, whirled, firing the M-16 wildly. It took only seconds to realize he’d been duped. Geronimo wasn’t behind him! He spun toward Hickok, continuing to fire the M-16, spraying the automatic at waist level.
The gunfighter was prone on the ground, the Henry to his shoulder. He saw Rat’s mouth drop and his beady eyes widen in alarm. Perfect. The Henry thundered and recoiled against his arm.
Rat’s forehead was caved inward by the impact of the 44-40 slug. The back of his head spewed blood, brains, and greasy hair in every direction.
The M-16 flew from his hands as he slammed to the ground and lay still.
“Got ya!” Hickok elated, rising. He walked to his long-time foe and stared at the lifeless eyes.
The night was deathly still.
Blade and Geronimo materalized out of the darkness and reached Hickok’s side.
“Are you okay?” Blade asked.
“Fine,” Hickok answered.
Geronimo nudged Rat’s corpse with his right foot. “He give you any problems?”
“Piece of cake,” Hickok replied. “How about you? Finish off those soldier boys?”
“We got them all,” Blade said, “then heard your shot and came running.” He paused. “We can’t waste any time. Take ten more men and watch the road. We’re leaving here in an hour no matter what.”
Bertha came running up to them.
“We’ve got to get back,” Blade stated, leading Geronimo off.
Hickok faced Bertha, reading the concern on her features, the affection in her eyes. “No hard feelings?” he inquired.
Bertha shook her head, suppressing the inexpressionable sadness she felt in her heart. “No hard feelings,” she acknowledged.
Hickok offered his right hand. “Shake on it?”
Her hand was damp as she gripped his and shook.
“Let’s head back,” he suggested.
They moved toward the tent in silence, Hickok experiencing a peculiar sense of remorse.
“Just you remember one thing,” Bertha finally spoke up, grinning devilishly.
“What’s that?”
“If you and your wife ever have a fallin’ out,” she vowed, “I’m gonna be on you like flies on garbage!”
“Remind me to talk to you about your analogies sometime.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Nineteen miles northwest of the Cheyenne Citadel, resting that night after spending hours packing for their departure the next day, Adam Mason and his father and mother were relaxing on their front porch.
“I wish we didn’t have to leave our home,” Gail said, sorrow tinging her every word.
“We’ve been all through that,” Seth replied. “We don’t have any other choice. The Government will find us anywhere in the Civilized Zone. Yama is our only hope.”
“If he returns,” Gail retorted.
“He will,” Adam chipped in. “I know he will.”
“You hardly know the man, son,” Gail rejoined. “None of us really know him, and yet we’re all set to trust him with our very lives.”
“We don’t have any choice,” Seth reiterated.
“I wish you’d stop saying that,” Gail said.
Adam rose and stretched. “Don’t worry so much, Mom,” he advised.
“Yama will take good care of us. He’ll return. You’ll see.”
“I hope he hasn’t run into any trouble in the Citadel,” Seth commented.
“Yama can take real good care of himself,” Adam asserted. “You saw that. Nothing can kill him.”
Gail Mason suddenly cocked her head to one side, listening. “Shhhhh! Be quiet! Do you hear it?”
“I hear it,” Seth corroborated.
“So do I,” Adam ineterjected. “What is it?”
“Sounds like thunder,” Gail mentioned.
“That’s funny,” Seth said. “There’s not a cloud in the sky.”
Adam, trying to get a fix on the distant rumbling, walked to the southern tip of the porch. “Look!” he exclaimed. “Come look at this!”
Seth and Gail hurried to the end of the porch.
“Dear Lord!” Gail cried.
The southeastern horizon was lit by a brilliant fireball.
“What is it?” Adam asked.
“I don’t know,” Seth admitted, “but whatever it is, I think it’s coming from the Citadel.”
Adam gazed at his parents with frightened, dilated eyes. “Could it be Yama?”
Neither one answered.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The attack, while it may have been anticipated, came from a completely unexpected source and caught them off guard and unprepared.
The convoy, embracing sixteen transports, one slightly shot-up jeep, and the SEAL, was two days out of the Twin Cities and stopped for an afternoon break at Floyd Lake, just east of Highway 59. The SEAL was parked near the water as Alpha Triad snacked on smoked venison and fresh water.
“I don’t like it,” Blade said to the others between mouthfuls.
“We’re making too many stops. We should have been much further by now.”
“What did you expect with all the women and children along?”
Geronimo countered. “Children need potty breaks more often than adults, and water is essential.”
“I know,” Blade acknowledged. “It’s just that I have this uncomfortable feeling between my shoulder blades, like we’re being watched or something is about to happen. I can’t shake it.”
“You’re not the only one,” Hickok disclosed. “I can’t understand why the blasted Army hasn’t hit us yet. They’ve had plenty of opportunity. We didn’t even see one measly soldier in Detroit Lakes, and we know they were using it as a monitoring post once. What’s going on?”
“I wish I knew,” Blade stated. “I’m responsible for the lives of all these people, and I don’t mind telling you that this waiting is making me a bit antsy.”
“We’ve got company,” Geronimo mentioned.
Zahner and Bertha were strolling toward them. Bertha had opted to ride with Zahner.
“How much longer will we stay here?” Zahner inquired as the duo reached the Warriors.
“Until everyone has eaten and gone to the bathroom,” Blade revealed. “I intend to drive as far as we can tonight. The sooner we reach our Home, the safer I’ll feel.”
Bertha leaned against the SEAL and playfully winked at Hickok. The gunman pretended he hadn’t seen it, so she idly watched some white, fluffy clouds float by overhead.
“Any ideas why the Army hasn’t tried to stop us yet?” Zahner questioned them.
“We were just talking about that,” Blade replied. “Your guess is as good as ours.”
“Hey!” Bertha interrupted, pointing skyward. “Look at that!”
They all peered in the direction she was indicating and saw a bright pinpoint of light high in the sky.
“I learned about them when I was in Montana,” Blade detailed. “They’re called satellites and the Civilized Zone utilizes them to spy on other communities and towns. There are a few still up there, orbiting the planet, left over from before the Big Blast. That’s what that thing is. A satellite.”
Citadel Run Page 20
