Cincinnati Run

Chapter Sixteen

General Ari Stoljarov threw back his head and laughed. “If you could see your faces!” he told the Warriors.

The ten soldiers comprising the Butcher’s personal guard joined in the mirth.

Blade looked at Geronimo, who frowned and shook his head.

“Do you truly believe I would have you executed by a firing squad?”

General Stoljarov asked.

“Who knows?” Blade rejoined.

“I guarantee you that I will devise an inventive demise for the both of you,” General Stoljarov said. “A firing squad would be too routine, too mundane.”

“Not to mention messy,” Geronimo observed.

General Stoljarov nodded at the row of trees. “My surprise is on the other side.”

They bore to the left, skirting the trees. The avenue broadened, becoming an extensive parking lot situated at the base of the colossal spire. Dozens of cars and trucks filled parking spaces near the spire, but the center of the expanse of asphalt was occupied by a vehicle not normally found in a parking lot: a jet aircraft.

“The Hurricane!” Blade exclaimed, taking several strides forward. The missing VTOL appeared to be intact. A dozen troopers surrounded the craft, their AK-47’s over their shoulders.

“Do you like the latest addition to the Soviet Air force?” General Stoljarov inquired.

Blade glanced at the officer. “The Soviet Air Force?”

“There is a saying common among American youth,” General Stoljarov stated, and grinned. “Finders keepers. We shot the Hurricane down. Whether you like the idea or not, the VTOL is now ours.”

Blade was relieved the Hurricane was in one piece. There were only two such aircraft at the Freedom Federation’s disposal, and both were essential to maintaining the shuttle service between Federation members.

The Free State of California had worked diligently to ensure the VTOLs were airworthy, and every Federation faction appreciated the critical importance of the pair of technological marvels.

The Hurricanes qualified as the last operational remnants of the prewar civilization’s scientific genius. Although the Soviets possessed a fleet of helicopters, and although California and a few diverse groups or city-states could field functional planes or other craft, there were only the two VTOL’s in existence. Twelve feet in height, 47 feet in length, with a wingspan of 32 feet, the Hurricanes could attain a speed of 600 miles an hour or hover stationary as if they were gigantic hummingbirds. Each VTOL packed a tremendous wallop, consisting of cannons, cluster bombs, rockets, and four Sidewinder missiles.

“Once our pilots have mastered this aircraft, it will become an invaluable weapon in our campaign to defeat the Freedom Federation,” General Stoljarov bragged.

“We’ll destroy it before we’ll allow you to use it against us,” Blade vowed.

“How? With the other Hurricane? Unfortunately, we will have long since vaporized your Hurricane by the time ours begins conducting sorties.”

Blade craned his neck and stared up at the spire. The structure gave the illusion of reaching the starry firmament, an effect heightened by the crystal globe at the peak which was radiating a pale white glow. “With that?”

“What else?” General Stoljarov retorted.

“We have nothing to worry about,” Geronimo said.

General Stoljarov swung toward him. “Why not?”

“Because if the pilots aren’t any more intelligent than you are, they’ll never figure out how to fly the Hurricane,” Geronimo stated, and smiled.

The Butcher’s expression hardened and he pointed at Lenin’s Needle.

“Proceed.”

Blade and Geronimo complied, walking toward a brown door at the bottom of the silver tower.

“For your information, our pilots will master the VTOL easily thanks to the excellent instruction they are receiving,” General Stoljarov said.

Blade gazed at the Hurricane. Their mission had acquired an extra dimension. Destroying the superweapon was just the first step; they must also retrieve the Hurricane or wreck it. Under no circumstances would he let the VTOL remain in Soviet hands. The combination of the superweapon and the Hurricane would render the Soviets unbeatable.

But first things first.

He scrutinized the door ahead, calculating. The entrance to Lenin’s Needle appeared wide enough to admit one person at a time, and promised to present a golden opportunity to make a bid for freedom. His gambit depended on the soldiers. Would one of the Russians enter first or would the troopers follow behind the Warriors? He looked at Geronimo and cleared his throat.

Geronimo glanced at his friend.

Blade winked, grinned, and gave a barely perceptible nod. He watched as Geronimo stared at the door, and Blade was pleased to note the comprehension flitting across his features.

“Frankly, I’m disappointed in the two of you,” General Stoljarov mentioned. “I expected more of a fight out of you. Your reputation is greatly exaggerated.”

“How did you earn your reputation as the Butcher?” Blade queried, hoping to distract the officer with conversation.

“Before I was assigned to head the Laser Research Facility, I was in charge of interrogations for this sector. When we needed answers, I obtained them. Regrettably, many of those who supplied the information we wanted did not survive the interrogation procedure.”

“In other words, you tortured them to death,” Blade said.

“Only the weaklings. Eventually, through word of mouth, the general populace came to regard me with disdain—”

“More like hatred,” Geronimo said, correcting him.

“In any event, their petty concerns are of no consequence to me. I have a job to do and I do it. Professionally. Competently,” General Stoljarov said.

“Don’t forget ruthlessly,” Geronimo added.

“I will relish interrogating you, Geronimo,” the Butcher declared, “as I have few others in recent memory. I intend to give you the deluxe treatment.”

Blade strolled calmly forward, passing row after row of parked vehicles.

He estimated that 50 feet separated him from the door. “I have a question,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Why wasn’t Lenin’s Needle constructed years ago? If this device is so powerful, why did you wait until now to build it?”

“For one reason, and one reason only. His name is Leonid Grineva.”

“Who’s he?”

“Our foremost scientist. He undoubtedly possesses the greatest mind since Albert Einstein. It was Leonid who achieved the breakthrough in cold-fusion-generated laser light. It was he who perfected the technique of controlled projection,” General Stoljarov disclosed. “He completed the designs eighteen months ago.”

“Your leaders must have a lot of confidence in this scientist,” Blade casually commented.

Forty feet to go.

“Their confidence has been justified by his accomplishments,” General Stoljarov said. “The Hurricane and the 757 are but the tip of the iceberg.

For his next demonstration, Leonid plans to obliterate a land target.”

Land target? Blade didn’t like the sound of that.

“And if the demonstration is successful, as we fully expect it to be, we can commence our campaign to eradicate any and all opposition to the expansion of Soviet domination. Within a year this country will be ours.

Within three years the planet,” General Stoljarov asserted.

“Don’t forger Mars and Venus,” Geronimo said.

“Mock me while you can, but mark my words. We will not be denied our rightful destiny. Communism will ultimately prevail.”

Thirty feet.

“Communism will never prevail,” Blade stated. “Dictatorial regimes are their own worst enemies. When you sow hatred, you reap hatred, and the backlash of resentment will wash over you like a tidal wave.”

“What nonsense. This world belongs to the strong, to those who reach out and take it. We are in power because we are the strongest, and we will remain in power because our strength will never fail.”

“Dream on,” said Blade.

“You won’t be around to witness the final outcome anyway, Warrior,” General Stoljarov commented.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Blade responded.

Twenty feet.

“One other thing I’m curious about,” Blade mentioned.

“What is the Hurricane doing here? I know the VTOL was in route from Denver to Miami when it was shot down, so there was no reason for it to be over Ohio airspace. Where was the Hurricane when you fired your new toy?”

“Near Louisville, Kentucky. The pilot was able to bring the Hurricane down in a field a mile from Louisville, and our people were on the scene within minutes. He was a fortunate man. We intended to vaporize the aircraft, but there were still a few kinks in the system then. The laser sheared off a portion of the tail and fuselage, yet the pilot landed safely.

The Hurricane was brought here because the L.R.F. is the most secure installation we have. No one gets in or out without the proper credentials.”

Blade looked back at the Hurricane. “Who repaired the damage to the VTOL?”

“We did, obviously. We wanted the craft airworthy, and we’re not lacking in technical skills. The tail and fuselage were repaired a month ago. We were able to salvage a few compatible parts from old MIGs, and the rest were especially manufactured.”

Ten feet.

“What, exactly, is a laser?” Blade inquired.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” General Stoljarov rejoined.

“Where is the pilot now?”

“None of your business.”

Blade was five feet from the door. If one of the troopers came around in front, his plan was doomed. He needed to be the first one to reach the door, so he increased his pace and gripped the doorknob with his right hand.

“Hold it,” General Stoljarov snapped.

Smiling innocently, Blade turned, opening the door as he did, allowing Geronimo to stride inside.

“Stop right there!” the Butcher barked, standing six feet off.

The nearest soldier started toward the giant, raising the barrel of his AK-47, “You heard the general!”

“So I did,” Blade said, holding his left hand palm out. “And I wouldn’t want to disobey the general, now would I?”

Geronimo had halted in the doorway.

“One of my men will take the lead,” General Stoljarov said. “Let him pass.”

Blade gave a little bow. “Be my guest.”

“Stand aside,” the trooper directed, coming forward, the AK-47 trained on Geronimo.

It was now or never. Blade surreptitiously scanned the soldiers, noting that only three had a clear field of fire. The rest were behind or to the side of the general, and they would not dare risk firing for fear of hitting the Butcher. His abdominal muscles tightened as he girded his body, and when the unsuspecting trooper took another pace, Blade brought his left hand down and in, snatching the AK-47 by the barrel and tugging on the gun even as he swept his right fist into the Russian’s stomach.

The soldier gurgled and bent in half.

Blade wrenched the AK-47 free, gripped the trooper by the shirt and tossed him into the general, then darted into the doorway as a short burst from another soldier smacked into the door. Geronimo was already racing down a well-lit corridor. Blade angled the AK-47 out the door and blasted a charging Russian, his round taking the man high in the chest and flipping the trooper to the ground.

General Stoljarov was on his back on the asphalt, struggling to extricate himself from under the guard Blade had slugged. “Get them!” he shouted. “I want them alive or your lives are forfeit!”

His men rushed the door.

Blade stood to the left of the door, his back to the wall, and grasped the AK-47 by the barrel. A Russian appeared in the doorway, and Blade swung the AK-47 with all of his prodigious might, the stock connecting with the trooper’s face with a pronounced thud. The soldier fell on the spot, his visage a bloody ruin.

That should hold them for a few seconds!

Blade spun and raced along the hallway, his boots thumping on clean, white tiles. The walls were a pale red. Overhead fluorescent lamps provided the bright illumination. He passed a series of brown doors without encountering anyone else and came to a fork. A hasty glance in both directions confirmed two empty corridors.

But no Geronimo.

Which way had Geronimo taken? Blade hesitated, nervously chewing on his lower lip. Had Geronimo ducked through one of the doors he’d passed? He hoped not. A structure as immense as the silver spire would contain dozens upon dozens of passages and rooms, and if they became separated now they might stay separated.

“There he is!” a soldier shouted to his rear.

Damn!

Blade took the right-hand corridor, hoping his choice was the correct one. The absence of Russian personnel bothered him. Why was this lowest level vacant? Had General Stoljarov purposely escorted them into Lenin’s Needle by way of a seldom-used entrance? The corridor curved to the right, and he sped around the corner with the AK-47 clutched in his left hand, looking to find Geronimo.

Instead, not 12 feet away, startled by his abrupt arrival, stood a six-man Russian squad.