Green Bay Run

Chapter Eighteen

“If you don’t lie down on the table now, I’ll have you shot,” Quinton Darmobray vowed.

Blade stared at the six Technic troopers, at the six Dakon II barrels pointed at his chest, then at the metal table in front of him. A thin sheet composed of a rubberlike substance covered the top. On the other side of the table, arranged in a neat row on a small stand, were surgical instruments.

“This is the last warning you’ll receive,” the Director said.

Reluctantly, fully aware the scientist meant every word, Blade complied and reclined on the table. His legs dangled over the bottom edge from his knees down.

Darmobray smiled and stepped alongside the small stand. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Get stuffed.”

“I would expect a more mature riposte from a man like you,” Darmobray stated. He reached under the edge of the rubber sheet, which hung several inches below the table’s rim, and pulled a leather restraint into view, drawing it higher. The other end was obviously attached to the metal table.

Blade blinked twice. “What’s that for?”

“Don’t be naive. What do you think it’s for? I told you a simple surgical procedure is used to insert the transistor, and I need you to lie perfectly still while I’m placing one in your brain stem.”

A flinty light seemed to animate Blade’s gray eyes as he coldly regarded the restraint. If he allowed his arms and legs to be fastened to the table, he’d be unable to prevent the Director from implanting the device that would transform him into an Automaton. But if he resisted, the six troopers would shoot him.

Or would they?

Blade looked at Darmobray, who stood on the right side of the table, then at the soldiers, who were all standing to the left and within two yards of his dangling legs. An idea occurred to him, a means of possibly thwarting the Director’s plans and regaining his freedom.

“Why do you think I went to so much trouble to explain my operation at you?” Darmobray was saying. “You’re an exceptional man, an adversary I can respect. I wanted you to fully appreciate the extent of my genius while you were still in possession of your faculties.” He paused, smiling expansively. “And imagine what a victory this will be for the Technic order when the mighty Blade is reduced to the status of a mindless slave!

The Minister will be delighted. I might even receive the Royal Order of Service, the highest award a Technic can receive, for this.”

Absently listening to the Director babble, the Warrior scanned the room, searching for possible weapons. The dimensions were 24 feet by 24 feet, with a ceiling ten feet high. Banks of computers and other electronic equipment lined three of the walls. The fourth, the west wall, contained the wide door. There were three other tables in the room, aligned to the right of the one on which he reclined. His was the nearest to the doorway.

The only window occupied the east wall.

“Besides, I want to test my device on someone of your stature,” Darmobray went on. “With your exceptional conditioning and steel willpower, you might even be able to resist for a few seconds once you awaken from the operation. I’m very curious to learn whether you will become an obedient Automaton or a renegade. Knowing you, I’d wager the renegade.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

The Director grinned maliciously. “Think nothing of it. Now, if you would be so kind as to give me your hand?”

Blade did, but not in the manner which Darmobray expected. Having decided upon a course of action, he galvanized into motion with lightning rapidity. His right hand shot toward the Director and seized the front of the scientist’s silvery uniform. In the blinking of an eye he hauled Darmobray onto the table even as he gouged his left hand into the man’s throat.

Predictably, the six Technic troopers tried to bring their Dakon II’s to bear, but before any of them could snap off a shot the Warrior had interposed a thrashing shield. None of them were about to fire when they might hit the Director.

Blade clamped his left hand on Darmobray’s neck and held the gurgling, wildly swinging Technic at arm’s length. “Drop your weapons!”

he commanded, barely feeling the weak punches landing on his head and shoulders. His blow had dazed the Director and made the scientist red in the face, and it would take Darmobray at least a minute to fully recover.

Which was all the time he needed.

The soldiers hesitated, perhaps out of fear of the consequences if they relinquished their Dakon II’s on their own initiative.

“Do it or I’ll snap this bastard’s neck!” Blade snapped, and shook the Director for emphasis. Darmobray sputtered and tried to speak, but the best he could do was squeak.

With a resigned detachment, five of the troopers lowered their assault rifles. The sixth, though, a crafty devil with a sneer on his countenance, opted for fame and a surefire promotion if he could save the Director. He suddenly lunged forward, trying to step past the end of the table for a clear shot at the giant. But in his haste he made a mistake.

Blade merely swept his legs up and out, his combat boots slamming the man in the mouth, and sent the Technic sprawling onto the floor. In the same motion he slid off the table on the right side, his muscles bulging and rippling as he raised Darmobray overhead, all 250 pounds of him. He glimpsed the Technic’s startled expressions, then hurled the scientist with all of his might. Without waiting to observe the result, he whirled and dashed to the door.

Behind him arose a tremendous crash and the mingling of curses and exclamations.

His right hand grabbed the knob and twisted, and as he tugged on the door a Dakon II chattered and rounds smacked into the jamb on his right.

Another second saw him in the corridor, the door shut tight. He estimated he had all of ten seconds before they were after him, ten seconds in which to elude them. Four strides brought him to a closed door on the left.

Aware that every moment could mean the different between life and death, he opened the door and slipped into the inky interior, and not until the door was shutting did he abruptly perceive that he had entered a utility closet. His fingers tightened on the doorknob and he was about to continue his flight when he heard upraised voices.

Darmobray and the troopers!

“—skin you alive if he gets away!” barked the Director.

“What else could we do, sir? He would’ve killed you.”

“I don’t want to hear your lame excuses. Fan out! Find him!”

“Where could he have gone?” asked a trooper.

“Am I a mind reader?” Darmobray responded, his voice rising shrilly. “Find him!”

Blade tensed as boots tramped in the corridor. He held fast to the doorknob, and it was well he did because someone took hold of the other side and attempted to wrench it open.

“Hey! This door is locked! Maybe he’s in here!” called out one of the soldiers.

“That’s a closet, you idiot!” the Director snapped. “A man like Blade is not about to allow himself to be trapped in a utility closet. Check all the rooms, all the windows!”

“Yes, sir,” the Technic responded.

The pressure on the doorknob eased and Blade relaxed, listening to the troopers pound off in the direction of the entrance. Temporarily, at least, he had a respite, and he used the reprieve to plot his next move. Acquiring weapons was paramount, and the weapons he wanted the most were his Bowies and the Commando. According to Darmobray, they were in Colonel Hufford’s office in the dorm the Technics had converted to a barracks. But which building would it be? There were so many on campus it would take him an hour to go to every one.

The corridor had gone quiet.

Blade eased the door out a crack and peeked to his left, toward the exit at the far end. None of the troopers or the Director was in sight. Muffled voices came from several of the rooms as they conducted a thorough search. If he attempted to sneak past them, they were bound to spot him.

And eventually, Darmobray notwithstanding, they would get around to checking the utility closet.

Where was the one place they would least likely expect him to be?

The operating room.

Blade scanned the corridor again, then slipped from the closet, closed the door, and raced to the operating room, trying to avoid slapping his combat boots on the tile. He intensely disliked turn-ing his back to his enemies, but it couldn’t be helped, and now he had done it twice in as many minutes. His shoulder blades tingling, he came to the operating room, ducked within, and shut the door.

Whew!

The Warrior hurried to the window and inspected the sill, finding a latch which he promptly released. He raised the window enough for him to pass through, then leaned out and surveyed the lawn and the nearest structures. The encroaching darkness shrouded the landscape in benighted shadows. There were no troopers in sight, so he slid over the sill and dropped to the ground.

Which way?

Staying in the gloom at the base of the wall, he bore to the right, constantly alert for Technics. When he reached the corner he paused, then cautiously inched his eyes to the edge.

Thirty feet away, their weapons slung over their shoulders, conversing idly, slowly approaching the rear of the building, were two soldiers.

Blade retreated several yards into the blackest shadow and crouched, his brawny hands flat on the ground. He was surprised that the Director hadn’t sounded an alarm, and he wondered if the Technics simply hadn’t bothered with a security system because of the logistics involved. The huge size of the campus and the number of buildings would have entailed expending a lot of time and resources, and perhaps they had figured the fence and their patrols were sufficient.

The pair of troopers stepped into view at the corner.

Just as a siren cut loose with an ear-splitting whine.

So much for his bright ideas! Blade thought, and sprang from concealment. The Technics had spun and were staring back the way they had come, sitting ducks. He leaped behind them, took hold of each man by the scruff of the neck, and pounded their heads together before either of them knew what was happening. Both sagged, but neither was unconscious, and they tried to reach over their shoulders to grasp his arms. With a powerful sweep of his titanic sinews, he bashed them together once more. The trooper in his left hand slumped, but the one in the right still struggled.

The siren continued to wail.

Impatient to be off, Blade rammed the Technic in his right hand against the buildings, then let them both drop. He appropriated their Dakon II’s and ran to the west.

Shouts arose in different directions.

Go! Blade’s mind shrieked.

Go!

Go!

Go!

He flew to the front of the building, and as he bounded into the open he glanced to his right and saw his sparring partners from the operating room. His abrupt advent took them un-awares, and five of the six merely gaped. The sixth, Old Crafty Face, exhibited astonishing reflexes, bringing his Dakon II up the instant he saw Blade.

But the Warrior was quicker.

Blade fired both Dakon II’s simultaneously, his initial rounds boring into crafty puss and flinging the trooper to the grass. He swept the assault rifles back and forth, mowing the five others down, their chests and heads exploding in miniature crimson geysers, and emptied the Dakon II’s into them. They died without screaming.

The Warrior dropped the assault rifles and headed to the southwest, in the direction of the gate through which he had entered the university. If he couldn’t locate the dorm soon, he intended to at least escape the Technic’s clutches.

“Over this way!” yelled a man off to the right.

“What’s going on?” demanded another.

Blade heard them clearly, and he suddenly realized the siren had ceased. Thankful for small blessings, he sprinted onward and spied a long two-story structure directly ahead. Through the double doors at the west end came four troopers, two in the act of donning their uniforms.

Was that the barracks?

The Warrior doubled over, minimizing his outline, and hoped they wouldn’t see him. They were glancing every which way, clearly perplexed, not knowing where the campus might be under attack. One of them said something and they all moved to the southwest.

How convenient.

Blade grinned and poured on the speed. When he was ten feet from the double doors another Technic emerged, this one buttoning his shirt.

The soldier heard the Warrior and looked up.

“Surprise!” Blade quipped, and delivered a devastating right to the man’s nose. The impact hurled the trooper into the doors, his nostrils crushed, his eyelids fluttering. A second right drove him to the ground.

A hasty scrutiny verified no other Technics were in the vicinity, so Blade went through the double doors into an office containing a desk and several chairs. Past the office, extending the length of the building, was a hall lined with a dozen doors on each side. He halted near the desk and looked at a closet in the left-hand corner, the only likely spot where his weapons might be stashed.

Blade darted to the closet and tried the knob, which turned readily, and a moment later he stared happily at the Commando, propped against the right side, and his Bowies and the Dan Wesson on the floor. He stooped to scoop up the knives, and as he did the double doors were flung outward and in came Colonel Hufford and Captain Perinn.