Capital Run

Chapter Eleven

“Not now, honey,” Hickok mumbled. “I’m plumb tuckered out.” He rolled over and started to fall asleep again, but Sherry wouldn’t leave him alone. She was insistently shaking his right shoulder. Funny thing about wives. Before the marriage, they were all over your body and couldn’t seem to get enough. Then it was “I do,” and “Whoa, there, buckaroo!”

“Not tonight! I’ve got a headache!” Except when they were in the mood.

Then the man had best be able to get it up, or it was cold stares and leftovers until the woman decided the man had repented enough for another go. Contrary critters, those females! Sherry was shaking harder now.

Hickok eased onto his back and opened his eyes.

Uh-oh.

It wasn’t Sherry standing over him. It was three men, all wearing brown uniforms with red stars on their collars and other insignia.

Hickok suddenly remembered everything in a rush, and he automatically reached for his Colts. But his fingers closed on empty holsters.

They’d taken his Pythons!

One of the men, a burly man with sagging cheeks, a protruding chin, and bright blue eyes, held the Pythons aloft in his right hand. “Are these what you are looking for?” he asked in clipped, precise English.

Hickok started to rise, but the other two men had already drawn automatics from holsters on their right hips.

“Please,” said the first man, evidently an officer, “don’t do anything foolish. We have no intention of harming you.”

“Then what am I doin’ here?” Hickock demanded. “And where the blazes am I?” He rose on his elbows and scanned his surroundings, finding himself on a metal table in a well-lit room. Four overhead lights provided ample illumination. A row of equipment-medical equipment, if he guessed right—was lined up along one of the walls.

“We will ask the questions,” said the burly officer. “What is your name?”

“Annie Oakley.”

The officer’s blue eyes narrowed. “That is a woman’s name.”

“Would you believe Calamity Jane?”

“Another woman’s name,” the burly officer remarked. “What kind of game are you playing?”

“Poker,” Hickock said.

One of the other men began speaking to the burly officer in a foreign tongue.

Hickok listened intently, but couldn’t make hide nor hair of their babble.

“Ahhh. I see,” the burly officer said in English. “Lieutenant Voroshilov informs me you refer to a period in American history hundreds of years ago. Is this not true?”

Hickock glanced at Lieutenant Voroshilov, a youthful officer, in his 30s, with green eyes and crew-cut blond hair. “Don’t tell me. Voroshilov is partial to readin’ about the Old West!”

The burly officer shook his head. “Not exactly. But Lieutenant Voroshilov does have what you call a…” He paused for a moment.

“Photographic memory. He read a book once about the history of cowboys and Indians, or some such silliness, and never forgot what he read.”

“Photographic memory, huh?” Hickok said. “Then he should have smarts enough to know who you jokers are and where the dickens I am.”

Burly Butt smiled. “Please forgive my rudeness. I should have introduced myself. I am General Malenkov.”

“Malenkov. Voroshilov. With names like that, it’s a cinch I ain’t in the Civilized Zone,” Hickok quipped, alluding to the area in the Midwest and Rocky Mountain region occupied by the remnant of the U.S. Government after World War III.

“Are you from the Civilized Zone?” General Malenkov asked.

“Didn’t you ever hear about what curiosity did to the cat?” Hickok countered.

General Malenkov’s facial muscles tightened. “I have tried to be polite, but you will not cooperate. If you will not supply the information I need willingly, then I will use other methods.”

“Give it your best shot,” Hickok taunted him.

General Malenkov smiled. “I will.” He barked a series of orders at Lieutenant Voroshilov. That worthy wheeled and stalked to the row of medical equipment. The third, unnamed, soldier kept his pistol trained on the man in buckskins.

“What are you aimin’ to do?” Hickok inquired nonchalantly.

“We will inject you with a substance our chemists developed for recalcitrant subjects,” General Malenkov answered. “What’s it do?”

“It is a truth serum,” General Malenkov explained. “Once injected, you will divulge everything we want to know.”

Hickok watched Voroshilov remove a hypodermic needle from a glass cabinet. He didn’t like this one bit. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who these bozos were. He’d attended the history classes in the Family school, and he knew about the Russians and the part they’d played in the Big Blast. Who else could these clowns be?

Voroshilov was filling the hypodermic from a small vial.

Hickock calculated the risks. If they injected him with the truth serum, he’d probably spill the beans about the Family and the Home and the whole shebang. But if he went along with them for a spell, he might be able to withhold information crucial to the safety of the Family and essential to the Freedom Federation.

Lieutenant Voroshilov had finished filling the hypodermic needle. He turned and returned to the metal table.

“You don’t need to go to all this trouble on my account,” Hickok said.

“It’s no trouble,” General Malenkov assured him.

“I’ll answer your questions,” Hickok declared.

“Why have you changed your mind so quickly?” General Malenkov inquired.

“I’m fickle,” Hickok responded. “Ask anybody. They’ll tell you I never know if I’m comin’ or goin’.”

General Malenkov smiled, but the smile lacked any trace of genuine friendliness. His eyes were impassive pools of indeterminate intent. He said something in what Hickock assumed was Russian to Voroshilov. The lieutenant retraced his steps to the glass cabinet and replaced the hypodermic.

Hickok trusted the general about as far as he could toss a black bear.

He instinctively sensed the general was up to something, but he didn’t have the slightest idea what it might be. General Malenkov had acceded too readily to not using the truth serum. Why? What did the tricky bastard have up his sleeve?

“Tell us your name,” General Malenkov demanded.

“Hickok.” He abruptly realized Malenkov wasn’t holding his Colts.

Lieutenant Voroshilov interjected several sentences in Russian.

General Malenkov frowned. “Why do you persist in these games?”

“I told you the truth,” Hickok said. “My name is Hickok. I know it’s a name from the Old West. That’s why I took it. It’s the name of an old gunfighter I admire a lot.”

General Malenkov reflected for a minute. “All right. I will give you the benefit of the doubt. For now. Where are you from, Hickok?”

“Montana,” Hickok lied. Actually, the Family resided in northwestern Minnesota.

“You are far from home,” General Malenkov observed.

“We were on our way to St. Louis when your men jumped me,” Hickok detailed.

“Why St. Louis?”

Hickok hesitated. The general had to know about the Civilized Zone.

How much more did the Russians know? Were they aware of the existence of the Cavalry in the Dakota Territory? What about the Flathead Indians or the Moles? “We were sent to see if it’s inhabited,” he said.

“Who sent you?”

“The Government of the Civilized Zone,” Hickok fibbed again.

“I have heard of the Civilized Zone,” General Malenkov said slowly.

“What do you know about it?”

“Not a bunch,” Hickok replied. “I know the Government of the United States reorganized in Denver after the war, and they evacuated thousands of folks from all across the country into the Midwest and Rocky Mountain area. Later it became known as the Civilized Zone.”

“And you do not live there?”

“I told you,” Hickok said, enjoying their verbal sparring, their game of cat and mouse. “I live in Montana.”

“Why would someone from Montana be on a mission for the Government of the Civilized Zone?” General Malenkov asked.

“My people have a treaty with ’em,” Hickok revealed. “They sent us because we have the best vehicle.”

“I was told about your vehicle,” General Malenkov stated with interest.

“A most unusual vehicle too, I might add. Where did you obtain it?”

“It was left for us by the man who founded our Home,” Hickok replied.

“He spent millions building the contraption, then had it secreted in a special vault until we decided we needed it.”

“I intend to retrieve your vehicle,” General Malenkov declared.

“It won’t be easy,” Hickok said. “Didn’t your men tell you about the fight we had with your helicopter?”

“One of our helicopters,” the general corrected the gunman. “Another of our helicopters transported our commando unit to the site and captured you, a larger version than the one you saw. I am having one of our bigger helicopters outfitted to bring your vehicle here.”

“What are you aimin’ to do?” Hickok joked. “Take it apart, fly the pieces here, then put it back together again?”

“No,” General Malenkov said. “Our helicopter will use a winch and a sling and fly it here.”

“Fly the SEAL?” Hickok laughed. “You’re crazy! It weighs tons.”

“The SEAL? Is that what you call it?” General Malenkov inquired.

Hickok wanted to sew his lips shut. Of all the greenhorn mistakes! He’d gone and blurted out the name of the SEAL without realizing what in tarnation he was doing! What an idiot! “Yeah,” he had to agree. “We call our buggy the SEAL.”

“Interesting,” General Malenkov remarked. “And I am not crazy. Our tandem helicopters can transport over fifteen tons. By tomorrow morning, my crew will be at the site. Believe me, our helicopters can easily bear the load of conveying your SEAL. You don’t seem to know much about helicopters.”

“I don’t,” Hickok admitted. “I never even saw one before the fight we had with that copter of yours.”

“Odd. Don’t they utilize helicopters in the Civilized Zone?” General Malenkov innocently inquired.

What was the general up to? Probing for secrets concerning the Civilized Zone’s military capabilities? “I wouldn’t know,” Hickok answered, “I haven’t spent a lot of time in the Civilized Zone. But I did see a flying contraption of theirs once,” he added. “Something called a jet.”

General Malenkov’s interest heightened. “A jet? What type of jet?”

Hickok shrugged. “Beats me. I don’t know jets from turnips. It flew real fast, and it could fire machine guns and rockets.” He didn’t bother to mention the jet had been destroyed, downed in a battle with the SEAL.

General Malenkov and Lieutenant Voroshilov exchanged looks. The obviously considered the news of the jet important.

“Did you see other military hardware in the Civilized Zone?” General Malenkov queried.

Hickok repressed an impulse to laugh. The general was totally transparent; he was milking the gunman for critical tactical information.

But why? Were the Russians planning to invade the Civilized Zone? If so, why now? Why had they waited so long after the war? “I saw a heap of trucks and jeeps and a tank,” Hickok stated.

“Do you know any more?” General Malenkov goaded him. “How large a standing Army they maintain, for instance? What shape their weapons and equipment are in? Where their outposts are situated?”

“Nope,” Hickok replied. “Like I told you, I haven’t spent much time in the Civilized Zone.”

General Malenkov studied the gunman for a moment. “You said your people live in Montana?”

“Yep,” Hickok said, confirming his lie.

“Do they have a name?”

“No,” Hickok fibbed again.

“What about the name of the town you live in?” General Malenkov pressed the issue.

“We don’t live in a town,” Hickok said, telling the truth for once. “We have our own compound and we keep pretty much to ourselves.”

“Could you pinpoint its location on a map?” General Malenkov asked.

“Sure,” Hickok responded.

“We will bring one here later,” General Malenkov informed him.

“Do you mind if I ask a question?” Hickok politely inquired.

“What is it?” General Malenkov asked.

“Who are you guys? Where do you come from? And where am I?”

Hickok swept the medical room with his right hand. “Where is this place?”

General Malenkov nodded. “Fair is fair,” he said. “You have answered me, so I will answer you. Perhaps you will the better understand the nature of your dilemma, and you will realize why resistance is futile. You must continue to cooperate with us. You have no other choice.”

Hickok sat up on the metal table.

“As you have undoubtedly guessed,” General Malenkov declared, “we are professional soldiers in the Army of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”

“You’re a long ways from home too,” Hickok quipped.

General Malenkov paused. “True,” he said sadly.

“We are far from the Motherland.” He sighed and stared at red drapes covering one of the walls. “As to your location,” he said slowly, “a demonstration will be far more eloquent than mere words.”

Lieutenant Voroshilov and the third soldier moved aside, clearing a path between the metal table and the drapes.

General Malenkov beckoned toward the drapes. “Go ahead. Take a look.”

Hickok slid from the metal table. He noticed the general had placed his Colt Pythons on a wooden stand about four feet from the table.

“Open the drapes,” General Malenkov directed the gunman.

Hickok walked to the right side of the drapes and found several cords descending from the traverse rods. He gripped the first cord and pulled.

Nothing happened.

Hickok tried the second of the three cords.

The drapes didn’t budge.

What the heck was going on here? Some of the cabins at the Home were outfitted with drapes, and he knew how to work them. He pulled on the final cord.

With a swish, the red drapes parted, opening wide, revealing a picture window and a spectacular view.

It took a minute to register. Hickok had seen pictures of the scene in the photographic books in the Family library. But he’d never expected to actually be there.

It was impossible!

It just couldn’t be!

But there it was!

General Malenkov noted the astonishment on the gunman’s features.

“Your eyes do not deceive you,” he said.

“It can’t be!” Hickok exclaimed. “It can’t!”

“But it is,” General Malenkov said, beaming. “It’s the White House.”