Chapter Ten

“This wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Just drive.”

“All I agreed to do was answer your questions,” Fedorov complained.

“You never said anything about bringing you to Cincinnati.”

“Think of yourself as our chaperon,” Blade suggested.

“I’ll wind up in front of a firing squad for this,” Fedorov said.

“Only if we’re caught,” Blade noted. “You’d better hope we’re not.”

Federov turned the steering wheel to negotiate a curve. “I would have been better off if you shot me,” he mumbled.

“That can always be arranged, cow-chip,” Hickok mentioned from his seat behind the Russian. “I’m gettin’ tired of hearin’ you flap your gums.”

He looked down at himself. “And I feel downright naked without my buckskins.”

“You smell better in a Soviet uniform,” Geronimo remarked, sitting in the cramped back seat next to the gunman.

“What’s that crack supposed to mean?” Hickok asked.

“After a heavy rain you always smell like a doe in heat,” Geronimo mentioned casually.

“I do not.”

“Stand outside for a while the next time it rains, then go in your cabin and take a whiff. I’m surprised Sherry hasn’t told you about the odor.”

“You’re makin’ this up to get my goat,” Hickok declared.

“I didn’t know you owned one.”

Fedorov glanced at the giant beside him. “Are you guys escapees from a State Mental Health Ward?”

Blade gazed at the trooper. “No. Where would you ever get an idea like that?”

“Nowhere,” Fedorov said, and concentrated on his driving.

The head Warrior grinned as he stared through the windshield at the street ahead. They were winding through a residential neighborhood two miles northwest of downtown Cincinnati, and on both sides were modest frame or brick homes, most in dire need of a fresh coat of paint or repair.

Most driveways were empty, although a few antique automobiles were in evidence in the drives of the infrequently encountered residences which had been fully restored. Children played in yards or on the sidewalks, while the adults lounged on porches or congregated for conversations at the street corners. Most of the adults gave the jeep an openly hostile stare, but the youngsters, involved with their playing, scarcely noticed.

“This isn’t what I expected,” Blade commented.

“What did you expect?” Fedorov queried.

Blade shrugged. “Bars on every window. Armed soldiers patrolling every road. Checkpoints at every intersection.”

“There are checkpoints at the major entry points into the city,” Fedorov said. “But there aren’t enough soldiers to cover every secondary road and side street. If we’re lucky, we’ll reach our destination without being spotted by a patrol.”

“What’s with all these folks?” Hickok asked. “Why are they allowed to roam free?”

“They can’t go anywhere,” Fedorov responded. “Most of them don’t own cars, and they wouldn’t get very far outside the city on foot. Our helicopters would nail them if our road patrols didn’t.”

“We got through,” Hickok mentioned.

“You were lucky.”

“We call it skill,” Geronimo interjected.

“These people don’t have your luck or your skill,” Fedorov said. “They’re stuck here for the rest of their miserable lives.”

“Do they own these homes?” Blade questioned.

“Of course not. The State owns everything. As long as they behave, the State allows them to live in a designated house. A lot of them like to think the home they live in is theirs, but they’re just kidding themselves.”

Blade stared at the deceptively tranquil setting, pondering. Apparently the Russian subjugation of the urban centers was thorough and stifling, in contrast to the Soviets’ lax attitude toward the rural areas. The Russians tended to concentrate their activities in the cities, which explained their urban regimentation. And the strategy made sense. The cities were the hubs of commerce and culture; anyone who dominated the urban centers held the upper hand over the outlying areas. If nothing else, the Russians were systemical and logical in their methods.

Fedorov came to an intersection and took a right.

“How much farther?” Blade inquired.

“About a mile and a half,” Fedorov answered.

“Tell me again about the installation,” Blade directed.

“I’ve already gone over it twice,” Fedorov groused.

“Humor me.”

The soldier sighed, then tensed when a car approached from the opposite direction. He relaxed once he perceived the brown sedan was not a military vehicle. “All the information I’ve heard, you understand, is secondhand. Friends of mine who were assigned as perimeter guards told me about this place.”

“Construction began about a year ago?”

“Yeah. There used to be a school at the same site, some kind of religious school I believe. The name of the place was the College of Mount Something-or-Other, and it was abandoned during World War Three. Then about a year ago construction crews arrived there, and they started repairing the damaged buildings and erecting new ones. A huge wall was built, enclosing everything. Barbed wire was strung up on top of the walls. There must be hundreds of people working there, scientists and what not, but the projects they’re working on are hush-hush. The guards stay in a barracks near the front gate. No one can get on the premises without a special pass, and certain buildings are off limits except for those with a Top Secret clearance.”

“Sounds like what we’re looking for,” Geronimo said.

“I heard that the place is run by the Ministry of Defense,” Fedorov divulged. “But that wouldn’t explain all the scientists unless the Ministry of Science is working with the Ministry of Defense.”

“Does that ever happen?” Blade questioned.

“All the time. The military runs the show.”

They continued in silence for 15 minutes, with Fedorov taking the least-frequented streets and back roads, traversing several steep hills as they wound ever lower toward the Ohio River. The city of Cincinnati was arranged in a succession of gradual terraces. The residential neighborhoods were largely concentrated on the steep hills, some of which rose over 450 feet above the Ohio River. Comprising the second level was the former business district; where State-managed shops now offered limited selections for the “liberated working class,” as Fedorov described the shabbily dressed customers for the benefit of the Warriors. On the lowest level, approximately 60 feet above the low-water mark of the Ohio River, was the manufacturing section of the metropolis.

Blade gazed at the meandering, murky Ohio, and observed a half-dozen boats and one ship, a freighter, plying the waters of the river. According to the Atlas in the SEAL, Cincinnati had served as a transportation hub for the United States prior to the nuclear exchange, and the Soviets were likewise utilizing the city’s unique geographic characteristics wisely. While the Ohio River constituted a natural boundary to the south, two other rivers were also of importance, the Little Miami to the east and the Great Miami to the west. Perhaps, Blade speculated, the city’s prominence as a transportation center accounted for the fact the Russians had not nuked it.

“Are we getting close?” Blade queried impatiently.

“Close,” Fedorov assured him.

Blade twisted in his seat, feeling extremely uncomfortable in the tight-fitting Russian uniform taken from the tallest trooper. The clothes barely fit; the sleeves rode two inches above his wrists, the lower hem of the pants covered the top inch of his combat boots, and the pants threatened to split at the seam with every breath he took. His vest and fatigue pants were bundled under the seat. The Commando rested on his lap, while his Bowies were tucked underneath his shirt, supported by the narrow belt worn by all Soviet troopers. He stared to the west at the setting sun, pleased that twilight was rapidly descending.

“What do you want me to do when we get there?” Fedorov asked.

“Can we drive past the installation without attracting attention?”

“Sure. Delhi Road goes right past the front wall.”

“Then do it.”

Fedorov took a left, then a right, and ultimately turned onto Delhi Road. He flicked on the headlights.

More vehicles were in evidence, dozens of them traveling in both directions. Very few were civilian automobiles.

Hickok leaned forward and placed the AR-15 barrel behind Fedorov’s right ear. “One false move, you coyote, and I’ll ventilate your noggin.”

Fedorov licked his thick lips and wiped the palm of his left hand on his shirt. “What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

“The cream of the crop.”

Fedorov tried to swivel his head to look at the gunman, but the AR-15 barrel jammed into his ear. “I’ve helped you so far.”

“So far,” Hickok conceded.

“Then why not take that gun away from my ear?”

“Can’t. The front sight has grown real attached to your earlobe.”

“You’re weird. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Practically everyone,” Geronimo chimed in. “But it’s difficult to impress a point on someone who has the cranial capacity of marble.”

“You’re both weird,” Fedorov declared.

Hickok glanced at Geronimo. “Cranial capacity? Have you been readin’ Plato’s books again?”

“I don’t need to read Plato’s books. I can recognize a rock formation when I see one.”

Fedorov cleared his throat and looked at Blade. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“What?”

“Are these two guys always like this?”

Blade nodded.

“I don’t see how you put up with it,” Fedorov commented.

“I look at it as good practice.”

“Practice?”

“I have a three-year-old.”

Fedorov nodded. “I see.”

“I think we’ve just been insulted,” Hickok said.

“I know we’ve just been insulted,” Geronimo amended.

They continued to the west and came to an intersection, crossing Anderson Ferry Road and proceeding another quarter of a mile.

Hickok glanced out his window, his blue eyes widening slightly. “What the dickens is that!” he exclaimed.

“That’s the installation,” Fedorov said.

Blade bent down and stared to the left, marveling at the size of the facility, impressed by the magnitude of every structure. The outer stone walls were 40 feet high and crowned with another six feet of thorny barbed wire. Positioned on the rim of the wall at 20-foot intervals were huge spotlights, all of which were already on. Rearing above the wall on the far side were enormous buildings, architectural behemoths fabricated from stone and glass, startlingly futuristic and incongruous in the otherwise run down and neglected metropolis. The centerpiece of the mysterious installation was a tremendous silver spire capped by a crystal globe 30 feet in diameter. Blade estimated the spire towered 500 feet in the air.

“And you say you don’t know the name of this facility?” Geronimo asked the soldier skeptically.

“I don’t know if it has a name,” Fedorov answered. “Everyone calls it the L.R.F.”

“What does L.R.F. stand for?” Geronimo probed.

“Like I told your leader here, I don’t know.”

“How in the blazes are we going to get in there?” Hickok inquired.

“Sprout wings and fly over the wall?”

“I do know the name of the spire,” Fedorov mentioned.

“You do?” Blade responded. “What is it called?”

“Lenin’s Needle.”

Hickok snorted. “And you call us weird?”

“Hey, I didn’t name the spire. I only know that’s what it’s called,” Fedorov said. “It’s not healthy to go around asking a whole lot of questions about anything, let alone a restricted facility like L.R.F.”

“You must have heard rumors,” Blade commented.

“I heard the place is being used to shoot down planes,” Fedorov said.

“But that’s ridiculous. No one has seen an enemy plane over Cincinnati in ages.” He paused and looked at Lenin’s Needle. “Of course, that might explain the red light…” he began, then stopped as the giant abruptly gripped his right shoulder.

“A red light?” Blade said.

“You’re hurting me,” Fedorov declared, trying to slide his shoulder from under the giant’s brawny hand.

Blade increased the pressure. “What red light are you talking about?”

he queried intensely.

“Every now and then a bright red light shoots out of the spire,” Fedorov explained. “On a clear day or night the light can be seen for miles.”

Blade released his hold and studied Lenin’s Needle, perplexed. What type of weapon could be housed in such an edifice? What was the significance of the crystal globe? For the Soviets to invest such a staggering sum in so mammoth a facility indicated they were supremely confident in the ultimate success of the project—whatever it was.

The jeep was drawing abreast of the front entrance.

“Look at the size of the gate!” Hickok said.

The front entrance to the installation was as impressive as the rest of the engineering. A 30-foot-tall metal gate, latticed with horizontal and vertical bars six inches thick, was the sole means of entry. Two dozens soldiers stood at attention outside the open gate while a pair of officers examined the identification cards of everyone passing inside. A short, wide drive, 20 feet in length, connected Delhi Road to the L.R.F.

Fedorov gazed at the massive portal as he drove. “They keep the gate open during the day, but it’s locked up tight as a drum at night. The day shift is probably heading home, and they’ll be closing the gate soon.”

Blade craned his neck for a glimpse of the interior, but all he could distinguish were the outlines of several of the gigantic structures. The base of the spire, located in the middle of the sprawling compound, was not visible from the road. He pursed his lips, annoyed. Hickok was right. How were they going to get in there? The walls were too high to scale, and even if they could, there was no way they could evade all those spotlights and clamber over the bared wire undetected. Scaling the gate, with so many guards on the premises, was impractical. Clandestine infiltration was their best bet. But how?

They were less than two car lengths to the east of the entrance when an unexpected development provided an unwanted solution to their problem.

“Look out!” Geronimo suddenly cried, pointing straight ahead.

Fedorov, fascinated by the monstrous gate and walls, had neglected to keep his eyes on the road. He swung around to find a panel truck had braked not 15 feet away, and he slammed on the jeep’s brakes in a frantic bid to avoid a collision. The jeep slewed to the left, slowing rapidly, its tires squealing.

Blade clutched the dashboard. For a moment he thought they would miss the truck, but seconds later the front fender slammed into the rear of the bronze-colored panel truck. There was a loud crunch and a crash as the front headlight on the driver’s side was smashed by the impact, then the tinkling of broken glass falling to the asphalt.

“No!” Fedorov wailed. “No! No! No!”

All the vehicles behind the jeep had stopped, and those in the other lane were slowing so the occupants could gawk.

“We must get out of here!” Federov cried.

“Stay calm,” Blade stated. “Don’t lose your head.”

The driver of the panel truck hopped out and stalked toward their jeep, his fists clenched at his sides. A burly man, he wore a blue flannel shirt and brown pants.

“That guy looks like he sat on a broom handle,” Hickok quipped.

“What do I do?” Fedorov asked, panic-stricken.

“Calm down,” Blade reiterated in a quiet tone.

“You don’t understand…” Fedorov started to respond.

The driver of the panel truck reached the rear corner and glared at the dent in his vehicle. He shook his right fist at Fedorov. “Where did you learn to drive? New Jersey?”

“We’re dead,” Fedorov declared.

“What are you talking about?” Blade responded. “You’re a soldier. Get out and talk to him, but just remember we’ll have you covered. There’s no reason to get all bent out of shape.”

“I think there is, pard,” Hickok commented, and jerked his left thumb toward the gate.

Blade looked at the front entrance to the L.R.F. and felt the hair on the nape of his neck tingle.

An officer and six troopers were heading their way!

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