Chicago Run

CHAPTER SIX

Yama moved to the mouth of the cave and watched the Technic soldier descend the slope and enter the forest below. He waited a few minutes, giving the trooper enough time to cover a couple of hundred yards, then hastened out, certain the trees obscured the cave and the slope from Carson’s sight. In lithe bounds he ran to the bottom of the hill and plunged into the dense undergrowth.

So far, so good, the Warrior noted, unslinging the Wilkinson as he glided silently in pursuit of his quarry. The second phase of his plan was about to begin.

Had it really been six weeks ago when he’d arrived at the area? The time had flown by, perhaps because he’d spent every waking moment hunting down Technics. His personal war against the technocrats entailed hitting them fast and hard again and again and again.

Of course, he hadn’t launched his attrition campaign right away. It had taken him a week or so to scout the territory and locate a suitable refuge.

He never would have found the cave if not for his urge to climb that hill so he could survey the countryside and memorize prominent landmarks. The bear den was invisible from the air, with a spring not a quarter of a mile off and ample game in the woods, and its chance discovery had proven immensely beneficial. It was mildly regrettable that the bear had objected to sharing the shelter, but those bear steaks had been delicious and nutritious.

Yama heard the cracking of twigs ahead and slowed. He soon spotted the soldier awkwardly plowing through dense brush in a general northeasterly direction. The fool was making enough noise to attract every beast and mutant within a mile. Yama hoped none would show up in search of their supper, or his entire scheme would be blown and he’d have to capture another trooper.

He trailed the bumbling corporal at a discreet distance, his extensive Warrior training and experience enabling him to move as silently as a panther. The man looked back repeatedly, fear on his features, but never realized he was being followed.

The sun arced slowly across the blue vault of sky toward the western horizon. A cool breeze from the northwest occasionally rustled the leaves.

Birds sang and flew about in the treetops.

Yama wished the soldier would go faster. The timing was critical. If the fool wasn’t out of the forest by nightfall, it could ruin everything. He detected motion to his left, and pivoted to see a buck bounding away.

Carson, naturally, hadn’t noticed.

The minutes became an hour. An hour and a half. Finally the corporal burst from the forest onto a road. He cried out in relief, sank to his knees, and kissed the asphalt.

The Warrior concealed himself behind a tree and watched the soldier rise and jog off. Keeping low, he paced the Technic, staying a dozen yards to the rear, using every available cover. Perhaps his ploy would succeed after all. The key lay in finding suitable clothing. Few men were his size.

But he would be unable to penetrate to the heart of Technic City without a disguise of some kind.

Corporal Carson had traveled almost a mile when four figures appeared ahead. He halted, apparently undecided whether he should hail them or bolt, until he recognized the uniforms worn by the quartet. Up went his arms and he screeched at the top of his lungs. “Here! Over here!”

The squad immediately raced toward him.

Yama drew up at the base of a thicket, lay flat, and listened.

“Help! Help me!” Carson shouted, breathing heavily, evidently on his last legs.

Advancing four abreast, the quartet closed in swiftly.

“Am I ever glad to see you!” Carson informed them when they were only ten yards away. He bent at the waist and put his hands on his knees, showing every sign of being ready to keel over from his ordeal.

“Are you Corporal Carson?” demanded a man sporting six stripes as the squad drew to a halt.

“Yes, sir,” Carson verified. “Serial number TA118757403.”

“I’m Sergeant Zeigler,” the noncom stated. “There are patrols out all over this quadrant searching for you. We were told the Shadow might have captured you.”

“He did,” Carson said. “The son of a bitch jumped the patrol I was with.

He snuck up on me from behind and knocked me out. When I came around all my buddies were dead. Then he tied my wrists and dragged me off to his cave.”

Yama had to admire the corporal’s vivid imagination, however much it clashed with reality.

“Where is the Shadow now?” Sergeant Zeigler asked.

“Probably still back at the cave,” Carson said. “He’d tied my ankles too when we got there, but later he made the mistake of going out for water. I was able to slip free of the ropes and haul ass. Since he had all the weapons there wasn’t much else I could do.”

“Why did he take you prisoner and not kill you like all the rest?” Zeigler inquired.

“How the hell should I know?” Carson stated. He straightened and added in a low voice, “I did learn critical information our superiors will be grateful to hear. How soon can you get me to the city?”

“We’ll leave immediately.”

“Good. But please go slow. I’ve been running for six or seven miles.”

The noncom studied the corporal. “I’m impressed. No one has gotten the better of the Shadow before. You must be a tough one. Have you ever given any thought to joining the Elite Squad?”

“Never figured I was good enough,” Carson said humbly.

“Think about it. I can put in a good word for you with my captain and he can get the ball rolling.” Zeigler indicated his companions. “We’re Elite Squad-A9 by the way.”

Yama stayed motionless as the five Technics headed out. Not until they were a few dozen yards off did he rise and prowl along in their wake. The sergeant and Carson were conversing, the rest listening intently, as they hurried toward the city. None paid much attention to the forest.

For all the Technics’ vaunted scientific achievements, their soldiers were less professional than others Yama had encountered. He chalked their deficiency up to an over-reliance on technology; they tended to depend on their hardware, and neglected to hone their personal combat skills as fully as wisdom would dictate.

The thought brought a grin to his lips.

Considering his own passion for utilizing a wide range of weapons, he was a fine one to criticize the Technics. In addition to a Wilkinson “Terry”

Carbine that had been converted to full automatic by the Family Gunsmiths and fitted with a special 50-shot magazine, he carried a Browning Hi-Power 9-millimeter automatic pistol in a shoulder holster under his right arm, and a Smith and Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum under his left. A 15-inch survival knife on his right hip had often come in handy, but his favorite edged weapon was the curved scimitar resting on his opposite side. His extra long pockets, both front and back, were crammed with spare clips and ammo.

Yama slowed when the Technics reached an intersection and took a left. Pausing until they were out of sight, he quickly crossed the road and resumed stalking them. Every now and then one would look back, but they obviously didn’t entertain the slightest suspicion they were being shadowed.

Twenty minutes later the unforeseen transpired. Sergeant Zeigler’s squad met another. An excited exchange took place, and the units combined forces to escort the corporal onward.

The Warrior had hoped the troopers would continue all the way to the high fence that completely encircled the metropolis, but a half mile from it they rounded a curve, and strung out before them were four green convoy trucks and five jeeps parked along the right side of the road, plus scores of soldiers involved in various activities.

Now Yama had to be extremely cautious. More troopers increased the likelihood that one might glance into the woods and accidentally spot him.

He bent at the waist and slowly neared the vehicles.

Carson’s arrival created quite a stir. Practically all the soldiers converged on him. He was clapped on the back and heartily congratulated.

A pair of officers took charge and ordered the troops back to work, then walked with the corporal to a jeep.

The Warrior’s calculated scheme hovered on the brink of disaster. He’d intended to use the distraction of Carson’s arrival at one of the perimeter gates as his ticket to gaining entry to Technic City, but he couldn’t very well keep pace with a jeep.

One of the officers looked at Sergeant Zeigler. “Grab a dozen men and accompany us.”

The noncom nodded and swiftly selected the 12, and they all promptly climbed into a convoy truck that was parked under the spreading limbs of a huge oak.

“Where the hell is the driver?” the officer demanded.

Yama saw his chance and automatically took it, creeping through the brush to the base of the tree. A peek around the trunk confirmed no one had noticed. Slinging the Wilkinson over his left shoulder, he leaped into the air and caught hold of a low, stout limb. In a twinkling he was in the tree, his body flush with the bole. Climbing even higher proved easy, and soon he was level with the top of the convoy truck.

“Where the hell is the driver?” the officer repeated testily.

Risking another peek, Yama saw no one gazing in his general direction.

The row of trucks effectively screened the oak from most of the Technics.

He slid around the trunk and perched on the thickest of the limbs extending out over the vehicle. Well aware a misstep would plummet him to the hard ground 24 feet below, he extended his arms for balance, and went along the limb until he stood a foot above the canvas canopy stretched over the bed.

“Here I am, sir,” a man shouted off to the left.

Yama eased down, grabbed the limb, wrapped his legs around it, and inched lower until he hung upside down with his back almost touching the canvas.

“About damn time, Private,” the officer barked. “Get in that cab and follow us.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yama tensed, heard a door open and slam shut. The engine coughed and roared to life and the manual transmission ground into first gear. Not yet, he told himself.

Like a rumbling prehistoric mammoth rousing itself from slumber, the huge truck began to go forward.

At that instant, when Yama hoped the soldiers in the bed would be gazing out the back at the comrades they were leaving or simply conversing or doing anything but looking overhead, he sank onto the canvas and lay perfectly still. The bed vibrated as the driver shifted again and the canvas swayed slightly. Could they see the outline of his body from below? Yama wondered. If so, a short burst from a Dakon II and he could forget about getting revenge for Alicia’s death.

A jeep also pulled out, the higher whine of its engine in distinct contrast to the growling of the truck, and took the lead.

Yama had to guess the sequence of events. The truck suddenly braked, and then the jeep was driving past them, heading in the opposite direction. It must have made a U-turn, he deduced, and received confirmation the next second when the troop transport did the same thing. Which made sense. The parked vehicles had been facing due west, and the city was due east.

His body bounced slightly whenever the truck hit a rut or a pothole, and there were quite a few of those. He twisted his head and saw the sun hovering at the rim of the horizon. It wouldn’t set for another half-hour to 45 minutes, depriving him of the darkness that would greatly facilitate his task. Where was an eclipse when a person needed one?

The ride took less than two minutes, and only because the vehicles traveled at the sedate speed of 25 or 30, perhaps to convserve fuel.

Yama stared eastward and saw the 15-foot-high mesh fench stretching north and south for as far as the eye could see. Four strands of razor-sharp barbed wire capped the barrier. When they were closer, and before the angle prevented him from seeing the fence at all, he distinguished the peculiar metal globes imbedded in the mesh at ten-yard intervals, and remembered Blade telling him those globes were precision voltage regulators used to control the one million volts of electricity pulsing through the fence. If a person were to merely tap his finger on the fine metal strands, he would be fried to a charred crisp in seconds.

The head Warrior had told Yama about another barrior just inside the fence. A green belt 250 yards wide contained lush grass and beautiful flowers, deceptively concealing the thousands of sensitive mines buried inches under the surface.

Those Technics never missed a trick.

Both vehicles drew closer to the gate, and Yama suddenly discovered a flaw in his improvised strategy. Blade had informed him there was a guard tower inside the fence on the left side of the road, but his friend had said nothing about the tower being 30 feet in height. Any of the four guards typically manning the tower would readily spot him. He frowned, studying the large, clear plastic windows rimming the top. Only one trooper was visible, working at computer terminal. If the man didn’t look up, Yama would be all right.

The truck slowed, evidently following the example of the jeep.

“Open the gate!” the officer yelled.

Yama heard voices, and then the truck lurched to a complete stop.

“Is that you, Major Crompton?” someone asked.

“Of course it’s me, Kurt, you idiot. Now open the damn gate.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hinges squeaked as the order was obeyed.

“We’re in a hurry so we’ll dispense with procedure,” Major Crompton declared.

Yama had his eyes glued to the tower. The soldier at the terminal was engrossed in his work. Good. Then he heard the gate guard speak again and his pulses quickened.

“Sorry, sir, but you know the rules. We have to check every vehicle that enters from top to bottom.”