Capital Run

Chapter Twenty

This was another blasted mess he’d gotten himself into!

The gunman was seated on a long bench on one side of the cargo bay.

Across from him, on another wooden bench, sat five Red soldiers, each with an AK-47, each pointing their weapon in his general direction.

Nearby, toward the rear of the aircraft, boxes and crates and miscellaneous equipment were stacked to the ceiling. In the opposite direction, a narrow alley between more crates and boxes led to a closed door. The sixth Red, the one he’d first seen in the cargo bay doorway and evidently a sergeant or of some equivalent rank, had disappeared through the door mere minutes before. After the sergeant and one other trooper had hoisted the gunfighter into the helicopter, they’d shoved him to the bench and ordered him to sit.

But the rascals had made a serious mistake.

Hickok wanted to laugh. The cowchips had neglected to search him for weapons. Consequently, the Pythons were safely tucked under his belt, hidden by the bulky uniform shirt over his buckskins.

“Any of you gents feel like shootin’ the breeze?” Hickok amiably inquired.

None of them responded.

“I have a pard by the name of Joshua,” Hickok genially told them. “He once told me a motto of his. You bozos could learn from it. If you ever want to make friends, old Josh once said, you’ve got to be friendly. You jokers sure ain’t the friendly type.”

One of the Reds wagged his AK-47. “Shut your mouth. We are not your friends.”

“Why do we have to be enemies?” Hickok countered. “The war was a hundred years ago.”

“The war is not over until Communism has conquered the globe,” the soldier said.

Hickok sighed. “You must be minus a few marbles. There ain’t no way you turkeys will conquer the world.”

“In time we will,” the trooper said confidently.

“You’re breakin’ wind.”

The soldier’s eyebrows narrowed. “Breakin’ wind?”

“Do you really expect the folks to just roll over and play dead while you run roughshod over ’em?” Hickok asked. “If you do, you must be eatin’ loco-weed on a regular basis.”

The trooper was about to speak, but the door toward the front of the aircraft opened. The sergeant returned, followed by a familiar figure. They approached the gunman.

“Hello, Hickok,” Lieutenant Voroshilov greeted the warrior. “This is a surprise.”

“Not as big of a surprise as I wanted,” Hickok said.

“I just finished talking to General Malenkov on the radio,” Lieutenant Voroshilov revealed. “He was equally surprised. It seems we underestimated you.”

“So how soon before we get back to Washington?” Hickok asked.

“We are not turning around,” Lieutenant Voroshilov disclosed.

Hickok’s own surprise registered on his features. “Why not? I reckon the general is a mite eager to get his paws on me.”

Lieutenant Voroshilov nodded. “He is most desirous of talking with you again,” he said. “Only the next time it will be different. Your escape angered the general. He is going to have his… consultants… question you next time. Perhaps you have heard of them? They are the KGB.”

Hickok shrugged. “Never heard of ’em.”

“Why don’t you relax,” Lieutenant Voroshilov suggested. “We will be in the air several hours before we refuel.”

“Why aren’t you takin’ me back to Washington?” Hickok inquired.

Lieutenant Voroshilov sat down on the bench alongside the gunman.

His green eyes studied the warrior, as if he were examining an inferior life-form. “Several reasons. Precious fuel would be wasted by the return flight, and fuel is one resource we cannot afford to waste.”

“Don’t have a lot of it, huh?” Hickok interrupted.

“Not as much as we would like,” Voroshilov said. “We have two refineries in operation, but they can’t supply enough fuel for all our needs.”

“Why don’t you just get some more from Russia?” Hickok queried.

Voroshilov’s mouth tightened. “If only we could.”

“Why can’t you?” Hickok pressed him.

Voroshilov considered the question for a while. “I see no reason why I can’t tell you. The information isn’t classified, and you won’t live to pass it on.” He thoughtfully stared at the closed cargo bay doors. “We lost touch with our motherland thirty years ago.”

“What? You’re kiddin’,” Hickok said.

“I do not jest,” Voroshilov stated bitterly. “The war took its toll on our country too. It depleted our natural resources and restricted our industrial capability. The non-Russian peoples in the U.S.S.R., the ones who always resented our superiority and our control, saw our weakness and decided the time was right to throw off their yoke. The Baits and the Mordivians, the Udmurts and the Mari, the Tartars and the Kirgiz, and many others rose in rebellion.” He stopped, his face downcast.

“And what happened?” Hickok goaded him, stalling. The longer he could keep the lieutenant talking the further they would get from Washington and the more likely a chance would develop to make his play.

“We don’t know,” Voroshilov said sadly.

“You don’t know?”

Voroshilov sighed. “During and right after the war, thousands of our troops were sent to America, to invade and conquer the capitalistic pigs.

Our forces took over a large territory in the eastern U.S., but we did not have enough supplies and men to continue our push to the north and west of the Mississippi. Our drive through Alaska and Canada was stopped in British Columbia by the worst winter they had there in centuries. Over the decades, we have consolidated our domination of the American area we rule. Until thirty years ago, we maintained contact with the motherland.

We knew the rebellion there had reached a critical stage. Then the shortwave broadcasts stopped. Cryptographic communications ceased.

Every ship we sent to investigate failed to return. Our forces in America found themselves isolated, cut off from our motherland.”

“Hold your horses,” Hickok interjected. “You say you lost contact with Russia thirty years ago?”

“Yes.”

Hickok pointed at the five soldiers on the opposite bench. “Then where the dickens did they come from? They sure don’t look over thirty to me.”

“They are not,” Lieutenant Voroshilov replied. “Since we could not replenish our forces from the motherland, we’ve established a system of modified racial breeding.”

“I don’t follow,” Hickok said.

“We impregnate selected American women,” Lieutenant Voroshilov stated. “Their children are turned over to us for training and education.

Our indoctrination is quite thorough. Russian history and values are stressed. Communism, of course, is exalted. The result you see before you.

Soldiers every bit as Russian as if they had come from the U.S.S.R., and fluent in English and Russian.”

“Where do you get these American women?” Hickok asked. “Do they volunteer?”

Voroshilov snickered. “They cooperate whether they want to or not.”

Hickok ruminated on the revelations he’d received. The information explained a lot. Like, why the Russians had not invaded the Civilized Zone, why the Reds hadn’t taken over the whole country. Simply because they lacked the manpower and the resources to achieve it. “How much of the country do you have under your thumb?” he ventured to ask.

Voroshilov reflected for a moment. “Let me see if I can remember the names of the states involved. New England we control,” he said, “and southern New York, southern Pennsylvania, Maryland, New Jersey, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, portions of Illinois, Kentucky, Virginia, and West Virginia. We also have sections of North and South Carolina under our hegemony. We wanted to subjugate all of the Southeast, but the Southerners are a most hardy, independent lot. They resisted us every foot of the way and stopped our advance, leaving us the Northeast and a wide corridor in the middle of the East.”

Hickok stared at Voroshilov. “I can’t get over you tellin’ me all of this.”

Lieutenant Voroshilov grinned. “As I said before,” he stated, “you won’t live to pass it on. General Malenkov will not treat you so lightly the second time.”

Hickok idly gazed at the five troopers on the other wooden bench, and at the sergeant, standing to the right of Voroshilov. The five had relaxed their guard and lowered their weapons, but the sergeant still covered him with an AK-47. He needed to stall some more, and hope he had a chance to go for his Colts. “You said there were several reasons why you’re not takin’ me straight back to Washington,” he reminded the lieutenant.

Voroshilov nodded. “Time is of the essence. We must reach your vehicle as quickly as possible, before your people can remove it.”

“You still think you can tote the SEAL to Washington with this contraption?” Hickok smacked the metal side of the copter.

“Easily,” Lieutenant Voroshilov bragged. “We will dig a small trench under your vehicle, and then slide our sling underneath. Once the sling is secured, our helicopter will lift the vehicle into the air and transport it to General Malenkov.”

Hickok thoughtfully chewed on his lower lip. If the Reds could do what they claimed, it would be a piece of cake to lift the SEAL into the air, then lower it again on its wheels. Hmmmm.

Lieutenant Voroshilov stood. “I must rejoin our pilot. You will be removed at our first refueling stop and held there until our return trip. We will pick you up and carry you to Washington for your rendezvous with General Malenkov and the KGB.”

“Do you mind if I take off this uniform?” Hickok asked. “I’ve got my buckskins on under it, and I’m sweatin’ to beat the band.”

“As you wish,” Lieutenant Voroshilov graciously offered.

Hickok started to tug on the uniform shirt.

Lieutenant Voroshilov turned to the sergeant. “Did you find any weapons on him when you searched him?”

The sergeant blinked twice, then cleared his throat. “We did not search him,” he confessed. “He did not appear to be armed—”

With a sinking feeling in his gut, Lieutenant Voroshilov spun, hoping his premonition was inaccurate. Instead, he saw his worst fear realized.

Hickok had pulled the uniform shirt from his pants, exposing his buckskins. And also exposing the Colt Python revolvers tucked in his belt.

But even as the uniform shirt came clear, his hands streaked to the pearl-handled Magnums, his draw an invisible blur.

The sergeant awoke to the danger first, and aimed his AK-47 at the gunman’s head.

Hickok was already on the move, rising and stepping to the left, putting a few extra feet between Voroshilov and himself. His right Python boomed, and the sergeant’s face acquired a new hole directly between the eyes.

The sergeant was thrown backward into a pile of crates by the impact.

Lieutenant Voroshilov went for his pistol, his arms seemingly moving at a snail’s pace compared to the gunfighter’s.

Hickok crouched and whirled, the Colts held at waist level, his elbows against his waist, and they thundered simultaneously.

Two of the five soldiers on the opposite bench were slammed into the wall of the craft, their brains exploding from their heads in a spray of red and pink flesh.

The remaining three were bringing their AK-47’s to bear.

Hickok’s next three shots sounded as one, his aim unerring, going for the head as he invariably did.

One after the other, the three Red soldiers died, each shot in the forehead, each astonished by the speed of their adversary, each overcome by their own sluggishness.

Lieutenant Voroshilov, in the process of drawing his automatic, realized the futility of the attempt and darted forward instead, his arms outstretched.

Hickok pivoted to confront the lieutenant, and his fingers were beginning to squeeze the Python triggers when he thought better of the notion. He allowed himself to be tackled, carried to the hard floor of the cargo bay by Voroshilov’s rush, his arms pinned to his sides.

Lieutenant Voroshilov tried to knee the gunman in the groin, but missed.

Hickok grinned, then rammed his forehead into Voroshilov’s mouth.

Lieutenant Voroshilov was jolted by the savage blow; his head rocked back and his teeth jammed together. For the briefest instant, his vision swam, his senses staggered. When they cleared, he discovered the gunman standing over him, the barrels of the Pythons centimeters from his face.

“Piece of cake,” Hickok quipped. He cocked the Colts. “Don’t move! Don’t even blink!”

Lieutenant Voroshilov froze in place.

Hickok backed up a step and glanced toward the door. Had the pilot heard the gunfire? Maybe not. The twin rotors on the copter were making a heck of a lot of noise. On the other hand…

Hickok stared at Voroshilov. “On your feet! Real slow! Hands in the air!”

Lieutenant Voroshilov complied.

“We’re gonna walk up to the pilot,” Hickok directed him.

Voroshilov licked his dry lips. “He will see us coming and lock the cockpit.”

“You’d best hope he doesn’t,” Hickok warned, “or you’ll be gaining some weight right quick.” He paused. “How much do you figure a couple of slugs would weigh?”

Lieutenant Voroshilov swallowed. Hard. “What do you propose to do?”

“I don’t propose nothin’,” Hickok retorted. “I’m plain doin’ it! You’re gonna fly me to the SEAL.”

“You’re crazy! We’ll never make it. You will be caught,” Lieutenant Voroshilov said.

“No I won’t,” Hickok disagreed. “All I have to do is stay out of sight when you land to refuel. There’s no need for any of you to be getting off the helicopter. You’ll land, refuel, and take off again without letting anyone else on board.”

“Ground control will become suspicious,” Voroshilov stated. “There are papers to sign—”

“Tell ’em you’re in a big hurry,” Hickok instructed him. “Mention General Malenkov. That ought to make ’em listen.”

“It won’t work,” Lieutenant Voroshilov declared.

Hickok’s voice lowered to an angry growl. “You best pray it does work, or you’ll be the first to go.”

Lieutenant Voroshilov gazed at his fallen comrades. He thought of the disgrace he had suffered, the shame heaped on his name and career. If he lived, he would be demoted. Or worse, sentenced to hard labor in one of the concentration camps. Or even executed. The honorable course would be to compel the gunman to shoot him now, to end his life before his failure was discovered. If he died now, he would be hailed as a hero whose death was a tribute to the Party and the State. He looked at the gleaming barrels of the Pythons, and couldn’t bring himself to make the necessary move, to try and jump the gunman. He wasn’t a coward, but he didn’t want to die.

“What’s it gonna be?” Hickok demanded. “You either do as I say, or I’ll ventilate your eyeballs.”

Lieutenant Voroshilov took a deep breath. “I will do as you say.”

“No tricks,” Hickok warned.

“No tricks.”

“And do all your talkin’ in English,” Hickok ordered him. “Now that I know your men can speak both languages, there’s no risk involved and I’ll understand everything you say.”

Lieutenant Voroshilov frowned. Who would have believed it? Looking at the blond gunman’s inane, carefree grin and hearing his ridiculous Western slang, who would believe he was so competent a fighter?

“Let’s mosey on up to the cockpit,” Hickok said.

Voroshilov hesitated.

“Something wrong?” Hickok asked.

“Are there many like you?” Lieutenant Voroshilov asked. “Where you come from, I mean.”

“A whole passel of ’em,” Hickok said. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” Lieutenant Voroshilov said as he headed forward, carefully passing the gunman. “But if there had been more like you a century ago, America would still be free.”

Hickok laughed. “I ain’t nothin’ special.”

“That’s what you think,” Lieutenant Voroshilov said, complimenting his enemy.