Cincinnati Run

Chapter Nineteen

Blade never hesitated, never broke stride. He was on the six-man squad in three bounds, ramming the stock of the AK-47 into the mouth of the first soldier and dropping the next with a fierce swipe to the side of the man’s head. Whipping to the right, he smashed his right elbow against the nose of a third adversary, then planted his left combat boot in the groin of the fourth. Only then did he employ the AK-47, firing two shots, one apiece into each remaining Russian’s forehead. He scanned the writhing, groaning figures on the floor and took off.

Where could Geronimo be?

In 20 feet he came to a door with two words stenciled in black letters on the panel. The top word was STAIRWELL, and the one underneath was in another language with strange lettering, undoubtedly Russian. He tested the knob, elated to discover the door was unlocked, and left the corridor. As the door closed he heard a commotion to his rear; General Stoljarov’s men must have found the six-man squad.

Move! his mind shrieked.

Blade took the stairs three at a stride. He reached a landing and continued higher, deliberating his next move. Being separated from Hickok and Geronimo compounded his problem. It wasn’t enough that he had the superweapon and the Hurricane to worry about. Now he had to find his friends. This mission, like most of those in the past, had evolved into a fiasco. No matter how hard he tried, how much he planned, something always went wrong. Always.

Murphy strikes again.

He came to another landing and went higher, wanting to put as much distance as possible between Stoljarov’s men and himself. He expected an alarm to sound at any moment, and once it did everyone in Lenin’s Needle would be on the alert. With his ill-fitting uniform, he would undoubtedly stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. How many people, he wondered, occupied the building after the day shift went home? A skeleton crew?

A third landing appeared, and still he climbed.

What was his first priority? Locating his fellow Warriors was important, but putting the silver spire out of commission was imperative.

There must be a control room, and logic dictated it would be on an upper floor. Wrecking the control room, then, should be his primary goal.

Hickok and Geronimo would have to wait.

Blade was almost to the next landing when klaxons went off, reverberating in the stairwell, creating a raucous clamor. He went to the door and peeked out.

A pair of troopers were walking down a wide corridor, their backs to the stairwell. They halted at a closed door 40 feet away, and one of them cautiously thrust the door inward. Their AK-47’s in their hands, they darted from view.

Blade was out of the stairwell in a flash, running to a door on the left and boldly entering the room beyond to find four rows of long metal tables covered with beakers, flasks, and Bunsen burners. A chemical laboratory?

What use would the Soviets have for a chemical lab? He peered into the hall.

A trooper came into view at the far end, carrying objects and strolling in the direction of the chemical lab.

Blade’s gray eyes narrowed. There was something familiar about the items the man transported, and it took several seconds for the shape of two articles in the soldier’s right hand to register: the Bowies! And there was the Commando, slung over the Russian’s left shoulder. Geronimo’s SAR dangled from the trooper’s right shoulder, and in his right hand he bore the Arminius and the tomahawk.

What was the soldier doing with them?

Resolving to reclaim his weapons at any cost. Blade watched the trooper enter a room 60 feet distant. He was tempted to make a dash to the room, but the thought of the pair of Russians in the other chamber deterred him. He would need to get past them without being detected.

The solitary trooper reappeared and strolled away, exiting through a door on the right-hand side.

One problem disposed of.

Blade patiently bided his time, wishing the klaxons would cease caterwauling. A minute later the duo materialized. They closed the door behind them and walked farther away, to the adjacent room, involved in a conversation Blade couldn’t hear because of the din.

The klaxons.

If he couldn’t hear the troopers, they wouldn’t be able to hear him.

Blade stared at their backs, took a breath, and charged, his long legs flying, covering six feet at a spring, his finger on the AK-47 trigger just in case they turned.

Neither so much as suspected his presence. With a final leap Blade was behind them, clubbing one with the stock, the second with the barrel.

Both stumbled and fell to their knees, and he struck each man again, knocking them senseless. A glance in both directions insured there were no witnesses. Blade slung the AK-47 over his left arm, then crouched and draped an unconscious Russian over each broad shoulder. His massive leg muscles quivered as he rose and hurried toward the room where the weapons had been stashed.

If soldiers emerged from any of the rooms now, he’d be at their mercy.

Blade reached the door and attempted to turn the knob, frowning when he discovered it was locked. He stepped back, clasped the Russians firmly, and delivered a kick with his right boot, his steely sinews snapping the lock, splitting the jamb, and causing the door to fly inward. He entered, groped for a light switch, and flicked on the light, then lowered the soldiers to the floor. As he shut the door he surveyed the chamber, noting a row of metal lockers lined against the rear wall, a rack of AK-47’s on the left wall and, of all things, a blackboard on the right.

What was the reason for the blackboard?

In the center of the room stood two tables piled with weapons and gear, and there, on the top of the nearest heap, were the Bowies in their sheaths.

Blade let the AK-47 fall and crossed to the table. A garment in another pile caught his attention, and he suddenly realized all of their clothing, evidently taken from the jeep, lay in a jumbled bundle.

He looked down at himself, at the ludicrous uniform, and, in a fit of annoyance, took hold of the front of his shirt, his brawny hands bunching the fabric, and yanked his arms outward, popping every button. Working swiftly, he removed the Soviet uniform and donned his green fatigue pants, the leather vest, and his Bowies. Why bother wearing the Russian uniform anymore? he reasoned. Every soldier at the L.R.F. must be aware that the Warriors were on the premises, so the uniform had lost its value as a disguise. Besides, he was tired of feeling cramped and uncomfortable.

If he had to take on the Russian Army, then he would confront them in his own clothes. He patted his pants pockets, verifying the spare ammo was still there.

Almost ready.

Blade slung Geronimo’s SAR over his left shoulder, and tucked the tomahawk under his belt next to his left Bowie. He placed the Arminius in the small of his back, then paused.

What should he do about Hickok’s buckskins and gunbelt, Geronimo’s shoulder holster and clothes, and their moccasins?

He walked to the row of dull green metal lockers and opened one in the center.

Bingo.

The locker contained a brown backpack, a web belt with a survival knife attached, a Russian helmet, and a uniform shirt. He went from locker to locker, finding identical gear in every one. Were these storage lockers for some of the troops? He took a backpack from the last locker and returned to the table, taking but a few seconds to cram everything inside, then donned the pack. Satisfied, he stepped to the door, threw it wide, and stalked into the corridor.

And walked right into trouble.

A trio of soldiers stood 20 feet to the right, their AK-47’s at their sides, in the act of advancing down the hall, their expressions reflecting their bewilderment at his abrupt appearance.

Blade shot them. He whipped the Commando from right to left, the heavy slugs tearing into the troopers and slamming them to the floor with their chests perforated, their bodies racked by spasms. Since he knew additional Russians would be coming up the stairwell after him, he opted to wheel to the left and head for the end of the corridor. Only then did he realize the klaxons had stopped wailing.

Someone must have heard the Commando.

So what?

He hadn’t gone ten yards when he saw the elevator and halted in front of the door. The numbers overhead indicated the car was on its way down.

Good. He pushed the button and surveyed the corridor.

No reinforcements yet.

In 15 seconds the elevator arrived, the door sliding open to reveal two officers, each of whom wore a pistol in a belt holster.

“What the hell!” the older of the pair blurted.

Blade sent several rounds into the older officer’s face, the impact hurling the Russian against the rear of the car. He collapsed at the feet of the younger officer, who seemed to be in a state of shock.

“Do you know who I am?” Blade asked harshly, moving into the elevator and touching the tip of the Commando barrel to the officer’s forehead.

“Yes,” the man exclaimed, gulping.

“And you must know about the Hurricane out front.”

“Yes,” the officer said.

“And here’s the question that determines whether you live or die,” Blade informed him. “I know the pilot survived, and I suspect he’s being forced to teach your pilots about our VTOL. Where is he?”

The officer licked his lips. “The seventh floor,” he divulged quickly.

“He’s being held on the seventh floor.”

“Congratulations. You get to live.”

“Thanks,” the officer responded weakly.

Blade hit the button for the seventh floor, and then hit the young officer squarely on the jaw with his left fist, his shoulder and arm muscles rippling, crumpling the hapless Russian. “But I never said I’d leave you in one piece,” he commented, and unslung the SAR.

The elevator reached the seventh floor an instant later.

With the Commando in his right hand and the SAR in his left. Blade emerged into a hornet’s nest of Russian soldiers. He cut loose ambidextrously, firing in both directions, taking the Soviets completely unawares, the stocks of both weapons clamped under his armpits to absorb the recoil. There were too many troopers to bother counting them; he simply mowed them down in droves, their death wails and screams commingling in an eerie chorus. His withering hail of lead caught those foolish enough to rush from various rooms upon hearing the thundering of his weapons. Only when the SAR went empty did he cease firing.

Crimson-splattered figures littered the corridor, many moaning and contorting in anguish.

Blade tilted his head and shouted at the top of his lungs.

“Captain Stuart! Captain Lyle Stuart! Can you hear me? This is Blade!”

A muffled cry came from a door 20 feet to the right.

Alert for the merest hint of hostility, Blade threaded a path over and between the corpses and the wounded and halted next to the door.

“Captain Stuart?” He slung the SAR over his left shoulder.

“Blade? Is it really you? The door is locked.”

“Stand back,” Blade advised. He executed a snap kick to the wood near the knob, and there was a resounding crack and the door popped open.

A lean, handsome man attired in the blue uniform of a pilot in the Free State of California Air Force stepped into view, limping on his left leg. His features were haggard and pale, but his green eyes were lively and radiating happiness. “I never expected to see you again!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe you came for me!”

“Save the celebrating for later,” Blade said. “Can you walk?”

“The leg was fractured when these sons of bitches brought me down,” le disclosed. “It’s pretty much healed. I’ll keep up. Don’t worry.”

“Then grab an AK-47 and stick by my side,” Blade stated.

Lyle shuffled into the hall and took an assault rifle from a slain soldier.

“Are you here alone?”

“Hickok and Geronimo are with me, sort of,” Blade replied.

“Sort of?”

“We can’t stay on this floor,” Blade said, heading for the elevator. “The Russians will throw everyone they have at us now. Do you know where the control room is located?”

“On the twenty-fifth floor.”

“Then that’s where we’re going,” Blade declared. He stopped suddenly, staring at the oval metal object clutched in the hand of a dead Russian officer.

“What is it?” Lyle asked nervously, his view obstructed by the giant’s body.

“Hand grenade,” Blade answered, and leaned down, rummaging through the officer’s pockets. He found two more grenades, and stuffed all three into his own pants. “Let’s go.”

They hastened into the elevator and the Warrior pressed the button for the 25th floor.

Lyle leaned against the rear wall as the car rose, grinning and shaking his head. “I just can’t believe this is really happening.”

“Believe it.”

“You have no idea of the hell I’ve been through. The commander here, a bastard by the name of Stoljarov, used electroshock torture to persuade me to teach the Soviets about the Hurricane.”

“I gathered as much.”

“I’ve been holding back,” Lyle said. “They don’t know as much as they think they do.”

“Can you fly the Hurricane?” Blade queried.

“No problem.”

“You may get your chance,” Blade said.

Without warning the elevator jerked to a sharp stop, nearly causing both men to lose their balance, and the lights went out.

“What’s happening?” Lyle asked.

Blade looked at the control panel, which was also unlit, and scowled.

“We’re stuck on about the tenth floor.”

“Why?”

“Three guesses,” Blade replied.

A booming voice addressed them from the other side of the door.

“Attention, you in the elevator! We have cut your power and demand your immediate surrender!”

“What do we do?” the pilot whispered.

Blade slung the Commando over his right arm and fished the grenades from his pockets. “Take one,” he directed, handing it over. “Don’t pull the pin until I give the word.”

“Did you hear me?” the voice outside barked.

“I heard you,” Blade responded.

“Then you will lay any weapons on the floor and raise your arms over your head. We will open the door at the count of three. If you have not complied, you will be shot.”

Blade leaned toward the captain. “They’ll need to restore the power to the elevator to open the door. Get set.”

“One!” the Russian called out gruffly.

“They don’t know there are two of us in here,” Blade mentioned. “Are they in for a surprise. Stand to the left of the door.”

“Two!”

Blade stepped to the right, inserting a finger into the circular ring of each grenade.

“Three!” the voice shouted.

“Now!” Blade whispered, and jerked both pins out.

The lights came on abruptly, and a second later the door started to slide open.

Blade knew the timing was critical. At the instant there was just enough space for the grenade to fit through the opening, he nodded at Lyle. They tossed their grenades into the corridor in unison, and Blade immediately stabbed the button for the 25th floor.

“Grenades!” someone in the hall screeched. “Grenades!”

Blade flattened against the side of the elevator, his eyes riveted to the door. Would it open all the way or swing shut? Would one of the Russians fire into the elevator, or were the troopers all too busy scrambling for cover? Would the elevator withstand the explosion, or would they be crushed to death or plummet to the bottom of the shaft? All of these thoughts raced through his mind, and then the door was closing again and the elevator started upward. If the grenades were typical, there would be a ten-second delay between the pulling of the pins and the detonation. At least five seconds had already elapsed, and he mentally ticked off the remaining five as the elevator rose rapidly, passing the 11th floor and almost reaching the 12th.

The blast was tremendous.

The elevator bounced and swayed as if it were being shaken by an invisible giant. Blade and Lyle Stuart were buffeted from side to side, smacking into the walls repeatedly, jouncing every which way. The elevator heaved and tilted, falling and rising, before finally stabilizing, coming to rest in an upright position with the lights still on.

Lyle was on his back in the right-hand corner. He gazed in wonder at the door and the lights. “We’re alive!” he breathed. “We’ve alive!”

But they weren’t moving.

Blade wound up near the rear, his hands against the wall. He stepped to the panel and punched the button for the 25th floor several times. “Come on!” he prompted. “Don’t fail us now!”

With a grinding lurch, the elevator resumed its ascent.

“We did it!” Lyle said, rising to his feet unsteadily.

Blade unslung the Commando and faced the door. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”