Cincinnati Run

Chapter Nine

“Why the blazes do I have to do this?”

“You volunteered.”

“That’s funny. I don’t recollect volunteering.”

“I was going to have Geronimo do it, but he says you owe him one.”

“That mangy Injun,” Hickok muttered. He glared at Geronimo, who was standing 20 yards to the east.

Geronimo grinned and waved.

“There’s no way he’ll become a Tiller or a Hunter,” Hickok declared.

“Why not?” Blade asked.

“He’s too cussed ornery.”

Blade wagged the Commando barrel at the asphalt. “Well, get to it.”

Hickok’s AR-15 was slung over his left shoulder.

The gunman looked at the dusty roadway and frowned. “I’ll get my duds dirty.”

“Since when did you mind a little dirt?”

“It’s not me I’m thinking of. It’s my missus. Do you have any idea how hard it is to wash buckskins?”

“I’ll be sure and tell her how devoted you are after we return to the Home,” Blade said. “Now lay down.”

Hickok eased onto his knees. “Why can’t we just bushwhack the varmints?”

“We need their uniforms intact, not riddled with bullet holes,” Blade noted, gazing at the woods lining the road.

“I feel like a blamed sittin’ duck,” Hickok groused, and lowered himself onto his stomach.

“All you have to do is lie there and pretend you’re unconscious,” Blade said. “We’ll take care of the rest.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Look, we know the Russians patrol this stretch of road daily. This is the only road connecting Highway 127 to Dunlap, and this spot is ideal for our purposes. It’s secluded, so we won’t need to worry about witnesses.”

Hickok placed his elbows on the asphalt and rested his chin in his hands. “How do you know we can trust that Eberle lady?”

“I trust my instincts.”

“Oh, now I’m relieved.”

“Holly was grateful to us for taking care of Gus Seuell. She offered to help us in any way she could. Thanks to her we have a map of the city and we learned about this daily patrol.”

“I hope the map she drew for you isn’t a phony,” Hickok commented. “I wouldn’t want to think that Geronimo and I were wastin’ our time burying all those flea-ridden mutts while you were in her kitchen sippin’ hot coffee.”

“Her dogs weren’t flea-ridden.”

“How would you know?”

Blade sighed and took several strides toward Geronimo. “We’ll signal you when we see a vehicle.”

“Thanks heaps. My missus would really be ticked if you let someone put tread marks on my buckskins.”

“I hope they’re on time,” Blade stated.

“How’d Holly know about this patrol?”

“The underground movement her husband belonged to keeps tabs on the Soviets,” Blade said. “A farmer living a mile west of here is also part of the underground. He told Tim, and Tim told her before he was executed.”

“Can’t I hold onto my AR-15?”

“Nope. The patrol has to get right on top of you. You’ve got your Pythons. What more do you want?”

“I want to hold Sherry in my arms and hear her tell me how adorable I am. I want to take Ringo fishin’ and watch him get his line all tangled. I want to be at the Home, where I don’t have to watch my back every blasted minute of the day. I want—”

“Sorry I asked,” Blade said, cutting him off. He took a pace, then paused and looked at the gunman.

“What’s the matter?” Hickok inquired.

“Is it my imagination, or are you as homesick as I am?”

“I am gettin’ tired of all this gallivanting around the country,” Hickok replied. “And I’ve been feelin’ a bit grumpy.”

“First me, then Geronimo, and now you,” Blade said. “Maybe all we really need is an extended vacation.”

“Sounds great, pard. Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know. I’ll give it some thought.”

“Our wives will go for the notion. Sherry’s always gripin’ that we never have enough time to ourselves,” Hickok mentioned. “A holiday would do all of us a world of good. The wives can cook us some grub and set up a picnic somewhere and watch the young’uns while we kick back and shoot the breeze.”

Blade glanced at the gunfighter. “That’s your idea of a vacation?”

“Yep. What’s wrong with it?”

“Oh, nothing. But I want to be there when you tell Sherry.”

Geronimo suddenly whistled and waved his right arm.

“Here they come,” Blade said. “Now remember my instructions. I don’t want bullet holes in their uniforms.”

“Piece of cake.”

Blade hurried to Geronimo’s side. “What did you see?”

“There,” Geronimo said, pointing.

A green vehicle was cresting a low hill 300 yards to the east.

“Think it’s the Soviets?” Geronimo queried.

“We’ll soon know,” Blade said, and jogged back toward Hickok. Ten yards from the gunman, he veered to the left and took cover in the underbrush.

Geronimo stayed right beside him. “What’s Nathan doing?” he asked as he crouched down.

Blade gazed at the road.

Hickok was lying on his right side, his head propped on his right arm, twirling a Colt Python in his left hand and humming.

“Lie down!” Blade ordered.

The Family’s supreme gunman sighed and flattened. He drew his right Python, then tucked them both under his chest, screening the Magnums from view. He angled his body slightly so his back was to the east.

“This will never work,” Geronimo remarked.

Blade trained his eyes eastward. “Why not?”

“They won’t stop. The Russians will take one look at Hickok and run him over.”

“Wishful thinking.”

The sound of an engine reached their ears.

“Hey,” Geronimo declared, as if an idea had just occurred to him.

“What?”

“They really might not stop,” Geronimo stated, his tone reflecting his worry. “Or they might pump a few rounds into him instead of checking him out. What do we do then?”

“If they don’t slow down, or if one of them so much as lifts a weapon, we waste them.”

“Good,” Geronimo said, clearly relieved. “Not that I care, of course.”

“Of course.”

The growl of the motor grew louder, and a jeep filled with Soviet soldiers appeared 70 yards to the east.

Blade fingered the Commando’s trigger. The sight of the familiar brown uniforms reminded him of the run he’d taken to Philadelphia with Sundance and Bertha. They’d been lucky to escape with their lives. The Russians were a perennial threat to the Family and the Freedom Federation. Perhaps Holly Eberle had the right idea. Perhaps the Freedom Federation should give serious consideration to invading Soviet territory and driving the Communists into the Atlantic Ocean.

Geronimo pressed the SAR stock to his right shoulder and sighted on the vehicle.

The jeep was 40 yards from Hickok’s prone form when the driver braked. Seconds later the door on the passenger side opened and three Soviet soldiers climbed out, each one armed with an AK-47. They engaged in a brief discussion, with the tallest gesturing repeatedly at the figure blocking their path. Finally they advanced, spreading out, the tallest moving down the center of the road flanked by his companions. The jeep stayed where it was, the engine idling, the driver leaning forward to peer out the windshield.

Blade glanced at Geromino and nodded at the jeep.

Geronimo melted into the undergrowth.

The trio of troopers halted 15 yards from Hickok and the tallest shouted a few words in Russian, then switched to English. “You there! Stand up!”

Hickok did not budge.

“Did you hear me? Stand up!” the tallest soldier instructed warily.

Hickok remained motionless.

Cautiously, their AK-47s trained on the buckskin-clad form, the three troopers walked forward slowly. Two yards away they stopped again.

“If this is a trick, you will live to regret it!” the tallest soldier declared.

“Roll over so we can see your hands!”

Hickok was like a rock.

“You have been warned,” the tallest soldier said, and stepped up to the gunman and rammed the AK-47 barrel into Hickok’s back.

Still Hickok did not move.

The tallest trooper looked at his comrades, both of whom edged closer.

Blade watched as the tallest soldier reached for Hickok’s right shoulder.

He rose and started toward the road, intending to burst from cover and take the Soviets unawares. Capturing four prisoners increased the likelihood that one of the Russians would know something about the Soviet superweapon. He hoped to interrogate all four, but his hopes were dashed by, of all things, a tangled clump of weeds. As he darted into the open his right combat boot caught on the clump and he tripped, pitching onto his knees, using the Commando stock to catch himself,—but the damage was already done. The muted thud of his knees striking the earth alerted the four Russians.

The soldiers spun, swinging their AK-47s around.

Blade saw the barrels swiveling in his direction and tensed, expecting to feel searing agony as dozens of rounds perforated his torso. In the fleeting instant before the troopers went to squeeze the triggers on their AK-47, he thought of Jenny and Gabe.

His vision of his death, however, was premature.

Even as the soldiers were turning, the man who was recognized by the Family as the greatest gunfighter in the 105-year history of their survivalist group, the man who was renowned in the Freedom Federation for his lightning speed and unerring accuracy, was flipping onto his back, his arms sweeping up and out, the Colt Pythons gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Three shots boomed as one.

The soldiers never knew what hit them. One moment they were about to slay a giant in a black leather vest, and the next blackness engulfed them as a hollow-point slug passed completely through their head from back to front, exploding their foreheads outward in a spray of flesh, blood, and brains. All three sprawled to the asphalt, the AK-47s falling from their limp fingers.

Blade surged erect and looked at the jeep.

Geronimo had the driver’s door wide, and was covering the soldier behind the wheel with his SAR.

“Like I said, pard. A piece of cake.”

Blade turned.

Hickok was already erect, inspecting the troopers to insure they were lifeless.

“Thanks,” Blade stated. “Jenny was almost a widow.”

“I’d do the same for any other klutz.”

Blade unslung the AR-15. “Here. Haul the bodies into the brush while I talk to the driver.”

Hickok came over, holstered his left colt, and took the rifle. “Why am I doing all the heavy work on this run?”

“You can use the exercise.”

“How do you figure that?”

“You were the one who couldn’t outrun an overfed pack of farm dogs,” Blade remarked, and headed for the jeep.

“Somebody around here definitely needs a vacation,” Hickok muttered.

Blade ignored the gunman and hurried to the vehicle. “At least we got one,” he commented to Geronimo.

“What was that move you pulled?” Geronimo inquired. “Were you trying to make them laugh so hard they’d drop their weapons?”

“Go help Hickok,” Blade stated. “After the bodies are concealed, strip off the uniforms. I’ll keep an eye on our friend.” He pointed the Commando at the driver.

“I am not your friend, pig!” the soldier snapped. He was in his thirties, a husky trooper with sandy hair and blue eyes. His pudgy features were set defiantly, and his double chin quivered as he tried to suppress his rage at the deaths of his comrades.

“Oink,” Geronimo said, and jogged toward Hickok.

“Put the jeep in park and raise your hands,” Blade commanded.

The trooper glowered at the giant. “You will pay for what you have done, bastard!”

“Do it or die,” Blade stated grimly.

His lips curling in a scowl, the pudgy Russian stared at the Commando for a second, then complied.

“What’s your name?” Blade asked.

“Vsevolod Fedorov.”

“How about if I just call you Fred?”

“Screw you, shithead.”

Blade took a step nearer and smacked the Commando barrel against the trooper’s nose.

Fedorov screeched and cupped his hands over his nostrils. “Damn you! You broke it!” he cried.

“Not yet,” Blade responded, “but I will if you give me any more lip. Now raise those hands!”

Hesitantly, tears of frustration welling in his eyes, his nose throbbing in anguish, Fedorov slowly elevated his arms.

“That’s better. Are you based in Cincinnati?”

Fedorov gazed straight ahead, deliberately averting his eyes. His lips twitched, but he refused to answer.

Blade sighed and touched the barrel to the soldier’s left cheek. “I don’t have time to play games with you. If you won’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll kill you now and find another Russian trooper who will.”

Fedorov looked at the Warrior with hatred in his eyes. “Who are you kidding? You’ll kill me anyway, whether I talk or not. So shoot me and get it over with!”

“If you cooperate, I won’t kill you.”

“Ha! I don’t believe you.”

Blade shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ve given you my word, but if you want to die needlessly, that’s your business.”

“I’m not a traitor.”

“Of course you’re not. You’re a loyal Communist and you believe in every word of The Communist Manifesto.”

Fedorov’s forehead furrowed.

“You’re ready to die for Mother Russia, the country you were born and reared in,” Blade went on, knowing full well that his statements were inaccurate. During the course of the Family’s previous dealings with the Soviets, the Warriors had learned crucial details concerning the Russian invasion of America.

The Soviet Union had successfully occupied a section of the eastern United States during the war, but their drive in the west, a push through Alaska and western Canada spearheaded by armored divisions, was stopped cold in British Columbia by the harshest winter weather in centuries. The Russians consolidated their iron grip on the territory they controlled in the eastern U.S., but a severe shortage of armaments, ammunition, general supplies, and replacement personnel prevented them from penetrating past the Mississippi River or expanding into the deep South. For 70 years they maintained communications with the Motherland. The commanders of the Russian occupation forces pleaded for more troops, more tanks, and more supplies. Except for infrequent shipments, their pleas were largely ignored.

The Soviet Union was having problems of its own. Russia’s industrial capacity had been reduced to almost nil by the American nuclear strikes, and the U.S.S.R. rapidly depleted its natural resources. To compound the Communists’ problem, that which they feared most happened; the ethnic groups they had oppressed for scores of years finally saw their chance and rebelled. The Tartars and the Baits, the Mordivians and the Udmurts, and every other group the Communist Party had tyrannized rose up against their former masters.

To their dismay, the Russian forces in America became stranded, trapped in the very country they had sought to conquer. All broadcasts and cryptographic contact with the Soviet Union inexplicably ceased. A few ships and planes were sent to investigate and never returned. Thrown on their own resources, with their provisions low and their morale even lower, the Russian commanders established a dictatorial system as ruthless as Stalin’s. Slave-labor camps were set up, summary executions were conducted routinely, and an American branch of the KGB went into operation. All industries still operational were rechanneled for Soviet purposes. The section of America under Communist rule became a carbon copy of the Motherland.

The Russians were able to manufacture the ammunition they required for their AK-47s and other small arms. Their helicopter fleet was their primary military focus; every available plant capable of being modified to produce helicopter parts was put into service. Their efforts to keep their jets in the air, however, met with failure. They lacked the resources and facilities to construct the specialized jet parts, and eventually their Air Force consisted solely of helicopters.

Another major problem involved their shortage of replacement personnel. They realized attrition would gradually reduce their force to undesirable levels unless drastic measures were taken. So a system of modified racial breeding was instituted, in which selected American women were forcibly impregnated and compelled to give birth. The children were then turned over to the State and raised in Russian-regulated dormitories, where they were subjected to intensive indoctrination. Communism was extolled, Russian history and values were inculcated, and every aspect of the education and training the orphans received was designed to create soldiers and citizens as loyal as they would have been had they been reared in the U.S.S.R.

Blade knew all of this, and the look of confusion on Fedorov’s face almost made him laugh. “I admire a man willing to die for a cause he believes in. I’m sure your parents will be proud of you.”

“I don’t have any parents,” Fedorov said.

“No? Then I’d imagine your sergeant and your commanding officer will be equally pleased by your loyalty,” Blade said. “Of course, they’ll never know how brave you were.” He lowered his chin and sighted on the soldier’s left ear.

Vsevolod Fedorov was chewing on his lower lip. He glanced at the Commando barrel and gulped.

“So long,” Blade said, tightening his grip.

“Hold it!” Fedorov blurted. “Don’t shoot!”

Blade straightened. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Look, mister, I don’t want to die. I’ve never been to Russia. I was raised at a State School, and I was told my parents died shortly after I was born. My sergeant is a son of a bitch, and my commanding officer couldn’t care less about my welfare.”

“So you’ll cooperate in exchange for your life?”

Fedorov grinned weakly. “What do you want to know?”