Capital Run

Chapter Thirteen

Hickok’s amazement was plainly written all over his face. He gawked at the edifice before him, feeling as if he had stepped back through the pages of history to a prior era, to another day and age. He’d seen aged photographs of the White House in several of the books in the Family library, but the reality of actually observing the historically significant structure dwarfed the perceptions derived from viewing a picture. He could see six massive columns, formerly white but now faded and tarnished, in the middle of the building. On either side of the columns the walls were in fairly good shape, although all of the windows were broken or missing. A section of roof above the columns had caved in, littering the base of the columns with debris. “I’m in Washington, D.C.,” the dazed gunman said to himself.

“Indeed you are,” General Malenkov confirmed.

“But I can’t be!” Hickok declared. “How’d I get here?”

“You were transported via helicopter,” General Malenkov explained.

“All the way from St. Louis?” Hickok was boggled by the news. “That must be a thousand miles!”

“About eight hundred and sixty,” General Malenkov stated. “You were unconscious the entire trip.”

Hickok forced his mind to buckle down, to get a grip on his dilemma.

How in the world was he going to get back to St. Louis? Eight hundred miles through hostile territory would be well-nigh unachievable. He needed time to think, to formulate a plan of action.

“Washington is the last place you expected to be, eh?” General Malenkov said.

Hickok nodded. “I don’t understand. I’d heard Washington suffered a direct hit during World War III.”

“It did,” General Malenkov affirmed.

Hickok pointed at the White House. “Then what’s that doin’ there? A direct hit would’ve leveled the city.”

General Malenkov leaned on the metal table. “A direct strike by a conventional thermonuclear device would destroy the city, yes. But we did not use a conventional device.”

Hickok glanced at the general. “What did you use?”

“A neutron bomb.”

Hickok’s brow furrowed. “A neutron bomb?”

“Do you know what they are?” General Malenkov inquired.

“I think I read something about ’em years ago,” Hickok said. “But I can’t recollect what it was I read.”

“I will enlighten you,” General Malenkov offered. “To understand what happened, you must appreciate our strategy during the war. You see, Americans back then were really quite stupid. Only half of the population really believed a war was inevitable. The other half was either too absorbed in their own lives to even reflect on the likelihood of a conflict, or else they were gullible liberal fanatics who ignored our conquests worldwide and discounted all of our literature and policy statements clearly stating our goal of global domination. And even when the subject of a nuclear exchange was considered, the fools panicked. To them, a nuclear war was a worst-case scenario. Total annihilation. Radiation contaminating the environment for thousands of years to come.” The general chuckled. “Of course, the American military leaders knew better, but they could not overcome the bias and ignorance of the media elite.

The American leaders knew we entertained no intention of destroying the country. Why should we? Soviet leaders knew how rich this land is in natural resources. At a time when we were barely able to feed our own people, why would we ruin the breadbasket of the Western Hemisphere?

Our military leaders did use typical thermonuclear devices on carefully selected targets, but where possible we used other weapons like the neutron bomb.”

“So what’s a neutron bomb?” Hickok queried.

“A neutron bomb is a lot like an ordinary H-bomb, but it is not as destructive. It doesn’t have the same explosive power and produces far less fallout. Some years before the war, there was a controversy in America over the deployment of the neutron bomb in Europe. The idiotic press campaigned against the idea. Their inconsistency was incredible. They preferred to use the terribly destructive hydrogen warheads instead of the smaller, cleaner neutron variety.” General Malenkov paused. “I have diligently studied the prewar era, and I was constantly shocked by the ignorance displayed by the predominantly liberal media in America. I think their unrestrained freedom gave them an illusion of power. They believed they knew how the country should be run better than the officials elected to run it. In the U.S.S.R.,” he boasted, “we had no such problem.”

“So Washington, D.C., is still standin’,” Hickok said, gazing at the White House.

“We knew how important this city was to the American public,” General Malenkov revealed. “What a monumental psychological victory to occupy the capital of our hated enemy! The neutron bomb inflicted damage to many of the buildings, but otherwise Washington emerged from the war much as it was before our invasion began.” He nodded toward the White House. “No one is permitted to live there now. It stands as a symbol of American decadence and capitalistic corruption. This room we are in is located in our North American Headquarters. It was constructed on the south lawn of the White House, both as a symbol of our victory and a reminder to the American people of our superiority.”

“Don’t you Russians believe in modesty?” Hickok cracked.

General Malenkov frowned. “What do we have to be modest about? We won, didn’t we?”

“Did you?” Hickok countered.

“What do you mean?” General Malenkov demanded.

“I’ve been doin’ some thinkin’,” Hickok said. “And some things don’t add up. For instance, why didn’t you take over the whole country? Where’d you stop— at the Mississippi? How much of the country do you control anyway?”

General Malenkov straightened. “You ask too many questions, Hickok. I can’t answer them all now. Why don’t you rest, and we will continue our conversation later?”

“Whatever you say,” Hickok stated, and stared out the window.

General Malenkov took a step toward the door, positioned at the opposite end of the room from the window.

“Pardon me, my general,” Lieutenant Voroshilov made bold to speak, resorting to Russian so the fool in the buckskins could not understand.

General Malenkov stopped. “What is it?” he responded in kind.

Lieutenant Voroshilov indicated Hickok with a nod of his head. “I don’t trust him,” he said. “Why don’t we subject the idiot to proper interrogation and be done with this nonsense? Why do you treat him so politely? You know he must be an enemy of the people?”

“Of course I know it,” General Malenkov said with a trace of annoyance, irritated his subordinate would presume to challenge his judgment.

“Then why not inject him with our serum?” Lieutenant Voroshilov suggested. “Or hand him over to the Committee for State Security? They will make him tell the truth.”

“Certainly they would,” General Malenkov agreed, “but he might not survive the interrogation. The KGB are not gentle in their work.” He sighed and draped his right arm over Voroshilov’s shoulders. “My dear Nikolai,” he said paternally, “how do you expect to advance in rank if you will not exercise the discretion required of a senior-grade officer? Yes, I could have permitted the KGB to take him. But what if he didn’t survive their cross-examination? Where would that leave us? I receive the impression he is very strong, very disciplined. He would undoubtedly resist our efforts, force our interrogators to apply harsher measures. Many prisoners have died before they could be compelled to tell all they know.

Even the serum has drawbacks. It is not infallible, and has adverse side effects. You say I am treating him politely. Hasn’t it occurred to you there is a reason for this? I am judging the man, evaluating his character. By pretending to be friendly, I might win his confidence. I could learn his weaknesses. He might unwittingly reveal an exploitable factor we can use to our advantage. Didn’t you see the look on his face when he mentioned the name of his vehicle? He didn’t intend to tell us, but it slipped out. Do you comprehend?”

Lieutenant Voroshilov nodded sheepishly.

“I can turn him over to the KGB at any time,” General Malenkov went on. “What’s the rush? This is a most extraordinary case. I recognized its importance the moment I saw the report on this SEAL. Why do you think I took personal charge of the case? Why did I order this man to be brought here? We must proceed slowly. This calls for finesse, not brute force.” He thoughtfully stared at the tiled floor. “Our own vehicles are in disrepair.

We don’t have enough spare parts to go around. Our helicopter fleet has been greatly reduced, and we dare not use our jets because they are too old and unreliable. Yet this SEAL appears to be in perfect shape. We must learn more about it and the people who own it. Do they have any more?

Where did it really come from? I don’t believe Hickok’s story for a second.

We must be patient, lieutenant. Haste only breeds incompetence.”

Unnoticed by the picture window, Hickok surreptitiously peered at his captors. The general and the lieutenant were having a heart-to-heart about something, and they both had their backs to him. The third soldier, the one with the pistol, had relaxed his guard and was listening to the two officers.

This might be his big chance!

The wooden stand with his Pythons was to the left of the officers. The armed soldier was to their right.

How could he get to his Colts without being shot?

Hickok scanned the room. To his right was the row of medical equipment. He spotted a shelf near the edge of the window. On the shelf were shiny instruments: a forked object, one with a small circular mirror on its tip, a metal disk, and others. One of them appeared to be a thin knife.

The general and the lieutenant were talking away.

Hickok casually ambled toward the shelf, his hands clasped in front of him, his back to the room, feigning interest in the White House.

The Russians didn’t seem to notice.

Hickok reached the end of the window and calmly glanced behind him, a smile on his lips.

General Malenkov and Lieutenant Voroshilov were still jabbering. The third soldier idly glanced at the gunman, then back at the officers.

Hickok nonchalantly leaned his right hand on the shelf while gazing out the window. Slowly, expecting to be challenged at any moment, he inched his fingers to the handle of the silver knife. He covered the handle with his palm, then slowly closed his hand around the knife.

Malenkov was expounding on some subject to Voroshilov.

Hickok mentally counted to ten, and then eased his right hand from the shelf and lowered it by his side.

None of the Russians had noticed.

Hickok held the knife close to his leg.

“I must leave now,” General Malenkov said in English to the gunman. “I will return in an hour and escort you to the commissary.”

“The what?” Hickok asked.

“The commissary,” General Malenkov said. “You will be able to eat.”

“Thanks,” Hickok stated. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

“I will treat you to some,” Malenkov commented. “It’s a dish.”

“What’s in it?”

The general licked his lips. “It’s delicious. Borscht contains beets and sour cream.”

“I can hardly wait,” Hickok said deadpan.

General Malenkov smiled. “See you in an hour.” He walked to the door with Lieutenant Voroshilov in tow. At the door he halted and looked at the soldier with the pistol. “If he tries to escape,” the general ordered in Russian, “shoot him in the groin. I want him alive.”

The soldier nodded and saluted.

Hickok waved as the general and the lieutenant left the room. He grinned at the soldier and pointed at the White House. “They sure don’t make ’em like that anymore, do they?”

The soldier didn’t respond. He was a stocky man with dark hair and a square chin. The pistol was held steady in his right hand, aimed at the gunman.

“Don’t you savvy English?” Hickok inquired.

The soldier remained immobile.

“What’s the matter? Can’t you palaver without permission?” Hickok asked.

The soldier’s face creased in perplexity.

“So you can speak English,” Hickok said.

“Please,” the soldier remarked, “what is ‘palaver’?”

“It means to shoot the breeze,” Hickok explained. “Sling the bull. You know. Idle chitchat.”

The soldier seemed even more confused. “I know English, yes. But I do not know many of the words you use.”

Hickok took a few steps toward the soldier, acting innocent. He grinned. “That’s because I’m partial to Old West lingo I picked up in books in our library.”

“Does everyone where you are from talk like you do?” the soldier asked.

“Nope,” Hickok acknowledged. “I’m the only one.”

“Most strange,” the soldier commented.

Hickok nodded in agreement and moved several feet closer to the soldier. “That’s what my friends say too.”

“Then why do you do it?” the soldier queried.

“I reckon my momma must of dropped me on my noggin when I was six months old,” Hickok said. He took two more steps nearer to the soldier.

“You will stay where you are,” the guard warned.

Hickok shrugged. “Whatever you say, pard. But I’ve got a question for you.”

“A question?”

“Yeah. Do you mind if I ask it?” Hickok inquired.

“What is your question?” the soldier wanted to know.

“I don’t reckon there’s any chance of you letting me walk out that door, is there?” Hickok ventured to request.

The soldier laughed. “You are not serious, yes?”

“Deadly serious,” Hickok gravely informed him.

The soldier shook his head. “Nyet. I can not allow you to leave this room.”

“What would you do if I tried?” Hickok asked.

“I would shoot you,” the soldier soberly responded.

Hickok sighed. “And I don’t suppose there’s nothin’ I could say or do that would change your mind?”

“I will shoot you,” the soldier reiterated.

“Well, you can’t say I didn’t try,” Hickok said. He half turned, looking at the White House. “I can always spend my time counting the cracks in the walls.”

The soldier shifted his attention to the decaying structure. “A most fitting fate for the decadent warmongers,” he stated, quoting from a course he’d taken in Imperialist Practices and Fallacies.

“Speaking of fate,” Hickok said slowly. He suddenly whipped his lean body around, his right hand flashing up and out.

The silver knife streaked across the intervening space and sliced into the soldier’s right eye. He shrieked and clutched at the hilt, but the blood spurting from his ravaged eyeball made the handle too slippery to clasp.

His trigger finger tightened on the trigger of his pistol, but before he could pull it he started to tremble uncontrollably. Spasms racked his body. His facial muscles quivered as he arched his back and staggered into the metal table.

Hickok knew the man was in his death throes.

The soldier’s fingers involuntarily relaxed, straightening, and the pistol dropped to the floor. He gasped and sprawled onto the table, on his stomach, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth, his nostrils, and his punctured eye. His good eye locked on the gunman, and with a whining wheeze he expired.

Hickok walked to the wooden stand and retrieved his Pythons. He stared at the gleaming pearl-handled Colts, feeling complete again. What had they done with his Henry? he wondered. He hoped they’d overlooked it in the dark and it was still in the woods near the SEAL.

The SEAL.

How the blazes was he going to return to St. Louis? He needed to come up with one humdinger of an idea.

Voices, speaking in Russian, came through the closed wooden door.

It was time to hit the road.

Hickok quickly checked the pythons, and it was well he did. Someone had unloaded them while he was unconscious. He slipped the necessary cartridges from his gunbelt and reloaded both Colts.

Now let them try and stop him!

The gunman eased to the door and cautiously opened it. He found an amply lit corridor with brown floor tiles and white walls.

None of the varmints were in sight.

Hickok took a deep breath and stepped out of the medical room. He closed the door behind him and hurried to the left, searching for a place of concealment, somewhere he could get his bearings.

A door directly ahead abruptly opened and a tall woman in a white smock emerged.

Blast!

The woman spotted the gunman, her face registering utter bewilderment. She recovered and said something in Russian.

Hickok bounded forward.

The woman was opening her mouth to scream when the gunman slammed the barrel of his right Colt across her jaw.

The woman stumbled backward, bumping into the wall.

Hickok slugged her again for good measure.

She sagged to the floor in a disjointed heap.

Hickok ran now, knowing he had to get out of the building before the alarm was given. He hated being cooped up inside. Once outdoors, the odds of eluding his captors were infinitely better. He reached a fork in the corridor and bore to the left again. He was thankful he was on the ground floor; at least he wouldn’t need to contend with finding the right stairs.

Two men, both in military uniforms, one armed with a holstered pistol, another with a machine gun— an AK-47, if Hickok remembered the gun manuals in the Family library correctly—appeared at the end of the corridor. They reacted to the gunman’s presence instantly, the one with the pistol grabbing for his holster and the other soldier sweeping his AK-47 up.

Hickok was 30 feet from them. He never broke his stride as he leveled the Colts and fired, both Pythons booming simultaneously.

The two soldiers each took a slug between the eyes. The one with the pistol simply fell forward, but the trooper with the AK-47 tottered backwards, crashed into the left-hand wall, and dropped.

Hickok slowed as he neared the soldiers. He holstered the Colts and leaned over the soldier with the AK-47. “I need this more than you,” he commented, scooping the gun into his arms and continuing to the end of the hallway.

Bingo!

Wide glass doors were on the other side of a spacious reception area. A woman at an oaken desk was frantically punching buttons on an instrument of some kind.

Hickok was abreast of her desk before he recalled the name of the contraption she was using: a telephone. They had used them before the Big Blast for communications purposes.

The woman started yelling into the receiver.

Hickok gripped the barrel of the AK-47 and swung it like a club, striking the receptionist on the left side of her head.

She slid from her chair to the floor, the telephone plopping alongside her.

Move!

Hickok ran to the glass doors. He paused, confused. The dang things didn’t have any doorknobs! How was he supposed to—

The doors unexpectedly parted with a pronounced hiss.

What the—

Hickok raced outside. Never look a gift horse in the mouth! he always said. He scanned the scenery before him. From the position of the sun, he knew he was heading due south. In front, a park with trees and grass and couples strolling arm-in-arm and kids playing with puppies. To the right, a parking lot filled with vehicles. To the left, a sidewalk and a hedgerow.

Which way?

Hickok bore to the left, making for the hedge. He could hide and take a breather while he-Four soldiers pounded into view, coming his way, jogging around the hedgerow on the sidewalk.

Someone in the park had seen the gunman and was shouting at the top of his lungs.

In the parking lot, three troopers hopped from a jeep and raced toward him.

Behind him, the glass doors hissed open, disgorging three more soldiers in hot pursuit.

Hickok crouched and raised the AK-47.

So much for subterfuge!