Capital Run

Chapter Two

“He should have been back by now, pard.”

“We’ll give him a little while yet.”

“Whatever you want. I’ve just got a bad feeling, is all,” said the first speaker, a lean, blond man with long hair and a drooping mustache dressed in buckskins and moccasins. Strapped around his narrow waist were twin holsters containing a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers. The fringe on his buckskin shirt stirred in the afternoon breeze as he glanced at his traveling companion. “I reckon we should check on him, Blade.”

The other man slowly nodded. He was a towering giant, a powerhouse with an awesome physique and bulging muscles. His wardrobe consisted of a black-leather vest, green fatigue pants, and black boots. On each huge hip, snug in its respective sheath, was a Bowie knife. Slung over his left shoulder was a Commando Arms Carbine with a 90-shot magazine, modified to full automatic by the Family Gunsmiths. His dark hair and eyes lent a grim, somber aspect to his appearance. “Maybe you’re right, Hickok,” Blade said to the gunman. “Rikki was only supposed to scout ahead for a mile or two. According to the maps, we’re almost to the outskirts of St. Louis. Whether he saw any sign of the city or not, he should have been back by now.”

“I just hope he didn’t go and get into a fix,” Hickok griped. “I want to get this assignment over with and return to the Home.”

“You didn’t need to come along,” Blade reminded him. “This was a volunteer mission. You knew that.”

“Yeah,” Hickok said wistfully. “When Plato first announced it, I figured I could use the break. Get out of the cabin for a spell. Break the monotony. You know what I mean?”

Blade nodded.

“But I miss ’em,” Hickok said sadly. “I miss Sherry and my son. Little Ringo,” he stated proudly. “I want to see ’em both so bad.”

“I know how you feel,” Blade assured the gunfighter. “I miss my wife and boy too.”

“Where the blazes is Rikki?” Hickok snapped impatiently.

Blade gazed to the east, reflecting, recalling the day only three months before when the Leader of the Family, Plato, had called all of them together in the walled compound designated their Home, located in the extreme northwest of Minnesota. “We require volunteers from the Warrior ranks,” Plato had informed them. “As you know, we have established peaceful relations with the Flathead Indians in Montana, with the horsemen known as the Cavalry in the Dakota Territory, and with what’s left of the U.S. Government to the west and south, in the Civilized Zone. We’re also friendly with the refugees from the Twin Cities now living near us, and with the Moles to our east. But we are ignorant of what exists west of the Rocky Mountains and east of the Mississippi River.

Consequently, the leaders of the various groups I’ve mentioned, which we now collectively refer to as the Freedom Federation, have decided to send an expedition into uncharted land, to venture where none of us have gone in one hundred years. We’ve heard many terrifying rumors about the country east of the Mississippi. We must determine if the rumors are true or mere fabrications. It is imperative we learn if there is any danger to our Family and the Freedom Federation as a whole. We now have fifteen Warriors safeguarding our Home and preserving us from harm. I propose to have the Warriors draw lots, and the three drawing the shortest straws will make the journey. Do you agree?” Plato had asked.

Blade frowned at the memory. The Family had concurred with their leader, and Plato had held a conference with the head of the Warriors.

Blade, despite his better judgment, had offered to lead the expedition, to forgo drawing a lot. Plato had gladly accepted his offer. The rest of the Warriors drew lots, and Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and Geronimo had drawn the shortest straws. But Geronimo’s wife, Cynthia Morning Dove, had given birth only a week before the drawing. Hickok had therefore stepped forward and volunteered to go in Geronimo’s place, and Plato had accepted the proposition after Geronimo had reluctantly acquiesced.

So here I am, Blade told himself. Almost to St. Louis and wishing I was anywhere but here. What a jerk I was to agree to go! And all because I think I can drive the SEAL better than anyone else in the Family, and certainly better than any of the other Warriors.

The SEAL. The pride and joy of the Founder of the Home, a man named Kurt Carpenter.

Carpenter had wisely anticipated the advent of World War III. A wealthy filmmaker, he had devoted his millions to constructing a survivalist retreat he had dubbed the Home. Shortly before the outbreak of hostilities, he had invited a carefully selected group to the Home.

Because the retreat was located hundreds of miles from any primary, secondary, or even tertiary targets, it was spared a direct hit. Thanks to the prevailing high altitude winds at the time of the war, the Home received only minimal dosages of radiation. Carpenter had planned for practically every contingency. He’d stocked ample supplies of every conceivable type.

His crowning achievement was the vehicle he bestowed on his followers, a vehicle he’d spent a fortune having developed. Carpenter had christened it the Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle—SEAL for short. The SEAL was a van-like transport, green in color, with an impervious body composed of an indestructible plastic. The plastic was tinted, allowing those within to see out but preventing anyone outside from viewing the interior. Four enormous tires allowed the transport to navigate virtually any terrain. The SEAL received its power from a pair of solar panels attached to the roof, which in turn supplied converted energy to six revolutionary batteries mounted under the vehicle. As if all of this weren’t enough, Carpenter had then hired skilled mercenaries to install special armaments in the SEAL. As far as Blade knew, there wasn’t another vehicle like it on the entire planet. He abruptly became aware of Hickok speaking.

“—listening to me or am I flappin’ my gums for the fun of it?” the gunman demanded.

“Sorry,” Blade apologized. “What were you saying?”

Hickok chuckled. “I never realized how much you and my missus have in common,” he quipped.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Blade inquired.

“It means you’re both pretty darn good at ignoring me at times,” Hickok said. “It must be my introverted personality.”

“Yeah, right,” Blade responded. “You’re about as introverted as a bull elk during rutting season. What were you—”

Hickok suddenly held up his right hand for silence. “Shush, pard! Give a listen!”

Blade complied, his ears straining. “I don’t hear anything,” he declared after several seconds.

“You’d best clean your ears out,” Hickok cracked, then paused. “Now do you hear it?”

Blade did. A faint sound coming from the east. An odd noise. Sort of a soft whump-whump-whump. What could it be?

“There!” Hickok exclaimed, pointing. “See it?”

Blade saw it. About a mile off to the east, hovering in the air, a huge dragonfly-shaped object.

“What the blazes is it?” Hickok asked.

“I don’t know,” Blade admitted. He racked his brain, recalling all the hours spent in the huge Family library personally stocked by Kurt Carpenter. Hundreds of thousands of books on every conceivable subject: dozens upon dozens of how-to books for everything from woodworking to herbal remedies; history books; literature books; religion and philosophy books; photographic books depicting the state of civilization before World War III one hundred years ago; and many, many more. Several of the books were devoted to aviation, and one of the photographs came to mind as Blade watched the aircraft. “I think that thing is called a helicopter,” he remarked.

“A helicopter?” Hickok repeated doubtfully. “Who would have a functional helicopter? Where did it come from?”

From far off, from the vicinity of the helicopter, came the sharp retort of gunfire.

Blade and Hickok exchanged worried glances.

“Rikki!” Hickok said apprehensively.

“We’d better check it out,” Blade declared. He turned toward the SEAL, parked behind them in the center of the highway.

“Look!” Hickok cried. “That contraption is comin’ our way!”

The helicopter was rapidly approaching them, apparently flying directly over the road, following the course of the highway.

Blade’s hands dropped to his Bowies. As the craft neared, he could distinguish its features. The helicopter was a dull brown in color with some sort of glass or plastic bubble in the front section and a long metallic tail behind. There was a spinning rotor on top of the craft and another one attached to the rear. Long, metal legs were affixed horizontally to the underbelly of the helicopter.

“Orders?” Hickok asked.

The bubble on the helicopter was tinted, just like the body of the SEAL, preventing Blade from viewing the interior of the craft. He debated the wisdom of remaining in the open, of attempting to persuade the occupants to land, hoping they would be friendly.

“They’re almost on us,” Hickok said, stating the obvious.

What to do? Blade hesitated.

Without any warning, the helicopter abruptly opened up with its machine guns, belching death and destruction from a pair of 45-caliber guns mounted on the front of the craft.

“Look out!” Hickok shouted, diving to the right as the highway in front of them erupted in a violent spray of asphalt and dirt.

Blade leaped aside, sprawling onto the ground. Damn his idiocy! How could he forget his favorite motto! Better safe than sorry!

Several of the rounds struck the SEAL, whining as they ricocheted from its steely structure.

Blade rolled to his feet.

Hickok was already on, his Pythons out and angled. As the helicopter passed overhead he fired four times in swift succession.

The helicopter kept going, circling around for another strafing run.

“In the SEAL!” Blade commanded. He ran to the driver’s door, yanked it open, and vaulted into the driver’s seat.

Hickok bolstered his Colts and clambered into the passenger side.

“Dangblasted varmints!” he muttered as he slammed his door. “Do you reckon they got Rikki?”

“We’ll check on Rikki after we take care of these bastards!” Blade promised.

The SEAL was hit again, the screeching of the heavy slugs as they were deflected by the bulletproof body almost painful to the ears.

The helicopter streaked overhead, swinging for another try.

“Let’s take ’em!” Hickok said.

Blade turned the key in the ignition and the engine purred to life.

The interior of the SEAL had been designed with economy of space in mind. Two bucket seats were in the front, one for the driver and another for a passenger, separated by a console between them. Behind the bucket seats was a wide seat for additional passengers, while the rear section, embracing at least a third of the transport, was devoted to storage space.

The Warriors had their food, spare ammunition, and other provisions stacked in the rear section.

Blade shifted into drive and plastered the accelerator to the floor. The SEAL surged forward.

“They’re comin’ straight at us!” Hickok yelled.

The helicopter gunner fired again.

Blade swerved to the left as the windshield was rocked by a sustained burst.

“Are those bozos in for a surprise!” Hickok predicted, his right hand resting on the dashboard next to four silver toggle switches.

The mercenaries Kurt Carpenter had employed were proficient at their craft. The SEAL incorporated four offensive armaments into its framework: a pair of 50-caliber machine guns mounted underneath each front headlight; a flamethrower positioned behind the front fender; a rocket launcher in the center of the front grill; and even a miniaturized surface-to-air missile secreted in the roof above the driver’s seat.

Hickok’s hand touched the toggle switch marked S. “Ready when you are, big guy.”

Blade had lost sight of the helicopter. Keeping the SEAL at 50 miles an hour, he leaned down and craned his neck in an effort to locate their antagonist. “I can’t see them,” he said.

“So what?” Hickok replied. “This surface-to-air dingus is heat-seeking, isn’t it? Just say the word and it will take care of the rest.”

“I don’t want to waste it,” Blade stated. “I want to be sure.”

Hickok peered out his side of the transport. “I see a starling up there. Do you want me to practice on it?”

“Find the copter!” Blade ordered.

A minute passed without another attack.

“Maybe they headed for the hills,” Hickok said.

“We’ve got to be sure,” Blade told the gunfighter.

The SEAL was heading east, toward St. Louis.

“Where do you think it came from?” Hickok absently queried.

“How would I know?” Blade retorted.

Hickok grinned. “Boy! Somebody tries to kill you and you go to pieces! It doesn’t take much to put you in a bad mood, does it?”

Blade braked the transport. “Get the binoculars.”

Hickok climbed over the console and the wide seat into the rear section.

“Where the blazes did we put them?” he asked.

“They’ve got to be there somewhere,” Blade said, still searching for the helicopter.

Hickok unexpectedly started coughing. “Oh no!” he cried in mock horror.

“What is it?” Blade demanded, turning in his seat.

Hickok was pinching his nose shut with his right hand while he held a pair of black socks aloft in his left. “I found your dirty socks!” He wheezed.

“Whew! How does Jenny stand it?” he asked, referring to Blade’s wife.

Blade glared at this friend. “Forget the socks and find those binoculars!”

“We don’t need them,” Hickok said, dropping the smelly socks.

“Why not?”

“Look!” Hickok pointed out the passenger side of the SEAL.

Blade turned.

The helicopter was coming in from the south, angling for a broadside run.

In the fraction of a second before Blade reacted, he spotted a bright red star painted on the tail of the copter. He buried the accelerator and slewed the SEAL to the left, off the highway and into the trees, barreling through the brush and snapping limbs and small saplings as the transport plowed onward.

To their rear, a large portion of the road exploded skyward as a deafening blast rocked the countryside.

“They must have rockets!” Hickok exclaimed as he climbed over the center seat and the console and reached his bucket seat.

Blade stopped the SEAL under the spreading branches of a large maple tree. The vehicle’s green color, he reasoned, would serve as excellent camouflage in the midst of the forest.

“Do you reckon those hombres lost us?” Hickok queried.

“Let’s hope so,” Blade answered.

“I still think we should have used the surface-to-air gizmo on those suckers!” Hickok said.

“If they come back we will,” Blade pledged.

But the helicopter didn’t return. The two Warriors waited and waited, their windows lowered, listening for the whirlybird.

“They must have skedaddled,” Hickok speculated after a while.

“Maybe they were low on fuel,” Blade guessed. He had left the SEAL’s engine idle while they waited, knowing there was no way the occupants of the aircraft could have heard its barely audible motor. Besides, he realized, he might need to make a hasty getaway.

“We’d best check on Rikki, pard,” Hickok suggested.

“Yes, we’d better,” Blade agreed. He carefully wheeled the transport between the trees and other vegetation as he executed a wide circle back to the highway. “He shouldn’t be too far ahead.”

“What if he heard the fireworks and came a-runnin’?” Hickok inquired.

“That helicopter might have went after him.”

“We would have heard it,” Blade said. “What I want to know,” he added thoughtfully, “is what was all that shooting we heard when we first saw the copter?”

The SEAL broke though the final row of trees and reached the highway, coming out into the open about 20 yards from the point where they entered.

“Did you see that red star?” Hickok asked.

“I saw it,” Blade confirmed, driving east.

“What’s it mean?” Hickok questioned.

“Beats me,” Blade responded. “We’ll have to study up on insignias after we return to the Home.”

“If we return to our Home,” Hickok mumbled.

“Nothing’s going to prevent us from returning to our loved ones,” Blade vowed.

As if on cue, the helicopter zipped into sight from the north. It hovered stationary for a moment directly in front of the SEAL. There was a puff of white smoke from the underbelly of the craft.

“They’ve fired a rocket!” Hickok shouted.

Blade could see the black rocket or missile hurtling toward the transport. There wasn’t time to reach the safety of the woods again! And they certainly couldn’t outrun it!

What else could they do?