Boston Run

Chapter Nineteen

The guard was as easy as pie.

Blade came over the fence at the northwest corner of Gorbachev Air Force Base, scaling the eight-foot-high chain-link barrier effortlessly. The three strands of barbed wire at the top gave him momentary pause, but all he had to do was unsling one of the AK-47’s, the one over his left arm, and use the weapon to press down on the strands until they were nearly level with the chain-link portion, then ease his legs over, balancing on his steely arms. A short drop to the ground and he was inside the base, crouched in the inky shadows.

He breathed the cool night air and gazed upward at the stars, thinking of the cab driver he had left loosely bound in the front seat of the taxi, which was parked in a stand of trees situated less than 70 yards to the north of the military post. Harold would eventually free himself and radio for assistance, but the cab driver wouldn’t be able to drive off because Blade had flattened all four tires.

Heavy boot steps sounded off to the south.

Blade froze and slowly scanned his immediate vicinity. He appeared to be at the corner of a runway. Tarmacadam covered the ground. Lamposts were positioned along the fence every 40 feet or so, affording a dim illumination. But, as the Warrior had noted on his wary approach to the fence, the lamps failed to adequately penetrate to the very corner.

A Russian soldier, a perimeter guard, materialized under the nearest lampost to the south, strolling along the fence and humming contentedly.

Over his right shoulder hung an AK-47.

Blade lowered himself to the tarmacadam and waited. If he was lucky the guard wouldn’t look down. He’d hoped to reduce the probability of encountering sentries by entering the base after one A.M. So much for his bright idea.

The guard clasped his hands behind his back and stared off in the distance at the lights of a residential neighborhood.

The Warrior released the stock of the AK-47 and eased his right hand to the Bowie on his right hip. He had one important factor working in his favor. The Soviets had controlled Boston for over a century, and not once during that period did they have to contend with an organized rebellion.

They had eradicated the last of the lingering bands of freedom fighters in Massachusetts 94 years ago, according to the information Harold had imparted. And since no one had attacked a Russian facility in so long, the Soviet troops were bound to be complacent, bound to be less alert than they would be in a war zone. At least, that’s what Blade hoped.

Still humming, the sentry drew ever nearer to the corner. He came within six feet and stopped, turning to gaze over the post. Not far off, to the southwest, were two hangars and a barracks. The first inkling he had that something was wrong, dreadfully wrong, came when a razor point gouged him in the throat and an iron vise clamped on his mouth.

“One word, one twitch, and you’re dead.”

Petrified, the guard stood stock still, scarcely able to credit his senses.

“I’m going to let go of your mouth. If you try to shout, I’ll slit your throat.”

The soldier flinched as the knife or bayonet or whatever it was gouged even deeper into his neck. He exhaled when the hand moved from over his mouth.

“Do you see this?” the man standing directly behind the guard asked.

The sentry’s eyes widened in astonishment when the pressure on his throat was relieved and the biggest knife he’d ever seen, maybe the biggest knife in the entire world, was held right in front of his eyes. Even in the dark he could tell the blade must be 14 inches in length. He envisioned the knife sinking into his body and he gulped in fear.

“Do you know what I’ll do with this if you don’t cooperate?”

“Yes,” the guard whispered.

“Where is the HGP Unit?”

The soldier licked his lips and nodded to the southwest. “They’re housed in the barracks building next to those two hangers.”

“What’s in the hangars?”

“The helicopters they use. Eight of them, I think.”

“The long-range jobs?”

“There are only two of the modified kind. The others are basic choppers.”

“What about the rest of the base personnel and aircraft?”

“All farther south. The HGP Unit has that area all to itself, but most of the base facilities, the barracks where the Air Force personnel are housed, the homes for the married ones and their dependents, the majority of the hangars, and all the rest are located near Airport Road and Hartwell Road, at the south end of the base.”

“You’ve been a great help.”

The sentry tensed in anticipation of the knife tearing into him. “Are you going to kill me?” he asked anxiously.

“I want you to relay a message for me,” said the man to his rear.

“A message?”

“Yeah. Tell General Malenkov that Blade sends his regards.”

“General Malenkov? The General Malenkov?”

“You’ve got it.”

Stunned, the guard opened his mouth to voice another question, but a tremendous blow to the back of his head drove him to his knees. The fence and the stars, the whole universe, spun before his eyes. A second blow, delivered on the exact same spot as the first, caused the universe and his consciousness to be devoured by a black hole.

“Thanks for everything,” Blade said softly to the figure at his feet. He sheathed the right Bowie and stared at the two hangars and the barracks several hundred yards away, their outlines silhouetted by periodic floodlights. The intelligence the sentry had imparted dovetailed with the layout of the base. Most of the base facilities were indeed situated on the south side, as Blade had observed for himself earlier as Harold drove him around the boundary on the roads that came closest to the fence. And it fit that the HGP Unit would be housed in their own barracks, nearer the northern end of the post, away from the regular Air Force troops.

Blade bent down and removed the AK-47 the guard had carried, then picked up the one he’d left on the ground. Now he had three. He slung the assault rifle he’d used to press down the barbed wire, the same one he’d used during the fight at Khrushchev Memorial, the one containing the fewest rounds in its magazine, over his left shoulder.

He was all set.

Blade hunched over and ran toward the buildings, plotting his strategy.

Surely at one in the morning most, if not all, of the HGP supersoldiers would be asleep. Doctor Milton had claimed there were 18 of the genetically perfected commandos, and Blade intended to insure they were all dead before he departed Boston. He slowed when he was 50 feet from the three structures, moving silently now, laying his combat boots down softly, studying the setup.

The barracks building was positioned within 20 feet of the west fence and was smaller than the pair of hangars located to its left, both of which were two stories in height and a hundred feet in width. The rear of all three structures faced to the north.

There was no sign of any activity.

Blade padded to within 30 feet of the barracks, his finger on the trigger, the AK-47’s on his back sliding slightly with every stride. An important consideration occurred to him. Would the supersoldiers fly their own aircraft or would an Air Force pilot handle the chore? The answer was critical. Elite units normally included whatever specialists were required within their own ranks. The Warriors, as an example he readily thought of, didn’t use Tillers to drive the SEAL for them. If the supersoldiers flew their own helicopters, if a few of them had been trained as pilots, then he had his ticket back to the Home.

Muffled conversation abruptly arose from the northwest corner of the barracks.

The Warrior dropped to the tarmacadam and the AK-47 over his right shoulder clattered against the ground.

A pair of soldiers appeared at the corner, a man and a woman, both attired in combat fatigues, both wearing auto pistols in leather holsters strapped to their hips. The woman spoke to the man in Russian and they both took several paces and scanned the runway.

Hidden in the shadows, Blade held his breath. If they spotted him, he’d have to open fire and the shots would alert the supersoldiers inside the barracks. His eyes narrowed. Were those two part of the HGP Unit? Both were well over six feet tall and endowed with strapping physiques. Both had attractive features revealed in the light from a lampost next to the fence. Was he gazing at biologically perfect specimens?

The man addressed the woman, who shrugged. They continued to walk around the rear of the barracks, past a closed door and a blackened window, and passed out of sight when they sauntered between the barracks and the first hangar.

Instantly Blade stood and raced to the northwest corner, his eyes on the window. The lights in the barracks were all out, and for all he knew there could be someone standing in there, watching him. He reached the building without incident and leaned against the wall, pondering. Perhaps the supersoldiers didn’t trust the ordinary base guards to protect them properly, or maybe the supersoldiers were required to perform such mundane chores as part of their typical duties. In any event, he had to take them out quickly. He searched the ground and found gravel underfoot. Just what he needed. He grabbed a handful and moved to the northeast corner, doubling over when he went by the window, staying below the sill. At the corner he straightened and peeked past the edge.

The pair were just going around the southeast corner.

Blade slid to the east side of the building, then swiftly laid the three AK-47’s alongside the foundation. He inched his right eye to the corner and held his right arm poised to throw the gravel. If the man and woman were making a circuit of the barracks, they’d soon appear at the northwest corner again.

The seconds dragged by, became a minute.

And then they were there, coming slowly around the building, engaged in a quiet discussion.

Blade stepped back, then cast the gravel overhand with all of his strength out over the runway. He drew the Bowies and pressed closer to the building.

The gravel spattered onto the tarmacadam.

An exclamation in Russian came from the male supersoldier. The Warrior heard them talking in hushed tones, and he eased his right eye to the edge once more and peered at the rear of the barracks.

Their hands on their pistols, the pair were advancing across the runway, proceeding carefully, searching for the source of the noise, their backs to the building.

Blade crept after them, doubled in half, the Bowies at his waist, treading lightly. They were engrossed in scrutinizing the runway, exchanging whispered remarks, obviously perplexed but not unduly concerned.

Their mistake.

The woman intuitively sensed Blade’s presence when he was a stride off, and she spun and started to draw her pistol. He was on her in a flash, his right hand sweeping up and in, the Bowie tearing into her abdomen and carving a grisly path up to her sternum. She grunted and sagged, and Blade had to release the right Bowie in order to confront the man, who had whirled and was just clearing his holster. Knowing he couldn’t afford a gunshot, Blade speared the left Bowie into the supersoldier’s right wrist and the pistol fell to the ground. Before he could follow through with a body slash, the Russian retreated a pace, then executed a superb spin kick.

Lightning fast, the supersoldier’s boot smashed into the left Bowie and knocked the knife from the Warrior’s hand.

Surprised by the power in that kick, Blade adopted the horse stance and formed his hands into tiger claws, intending to use a Hung Gar offense to swiftly break through the Russian’s guard and dispatch his adversary. But any hopes he entertained of disposing of the supersoldier easily were dashed in the opening moments of their hand-to-hand combat.

Although his right wrist was injured and dripping blood, the HGP commando assumed the Neko-ashi-tachi, the cat stance, and met the Warrior head-on.

Blade let fly with a series of hand and foot strikes, and every one was countered or blocked. He went for the throat repeatedly, and repeatedly his blows were deflected. He tried again and again to shatter a kneecap, and again and again he was thwarted. To his amazement the commando took the initiative, launching a flurry of superlative karate kicks. Blade blocked a Hidar-mawashi-geri, a left roundhouse kick, then an upper side kick, on the defense now and giving ground to evade the supersoldier’s whirling feet.

The commando was a master. He refused to be daunted by the giant’s superior size. Any one of his blows would have shattered a brick, and had he been able to land a crippling strike to a nerve center, to a pressure point, to any vulnerable part of the giant’s anatomy, the battle would have been promptly ended. But he couldn’t and frustration made him uncharacteristically careless. He tried a low kick, aiming at the giant’s right shin, and for once his kick landed. The giant started to buckle, his left hand grabbing for his injured leg, exposing the left side to an attack.

Which was exactly what the commando wanted. He stepped in close and whipped a Nukite, a piercing hand strike, at the giant’s throat.

As Blade hoped he would. The Warrior had deliberately absorbed the punishing kick to his shin to trick the supersoldier into making a fatal mistake. Now he simply snapped his left hand up, batting the Nukite aside, and uncoiled, ramming a palm heel thrust into the commando’s jaw.

There was a loud snap and the soldier went rigid as a pole, then collapsed without a sound.

Blade straightened and breathed in deeply. If all the genetically bred commandos were as stalwart and formidable, it was no wonder the Soviets wanted to create as many as they could. A battalion of such supermen and superwomen would be virtually invincible. But all the Soviets had were 16 others, and if Blade had his way they wouldn’t have any. He retrieved his left Bowie, walked to the woman and wrenched out his right Bowie, then hurried to the barracks.

The lights were still out inside.

Blade wiped the knives clean on his pants and slid them into their sheaths. A moment later he had two AK-47’s slung over his arm and the third gripped in his hands. A cool breeze caressed his skin as he moved to the southeast corner of the barracks and surveyed the structures.

The white front door of the barracks was closed. To his left, parked in front of the nearest hangar, sat a huge tandem helicopter. He remembered Milton saying that the HGP Unit was on alert status 24 hours a day, which meant the Unit had to have a copter ready to go at any hour of the day.

Therefore, Blade deduced, the tandem job must be on line and fueled for immediate lift-off.

How convenient.

Blade stalked to the front door and paused. Should he bust it in or try a sneak attack? If he kicked in the door, he’d awaken every commando inside and give them precious seconds to react. The element of surprise was essential to his success.

Oh, well.

Blade tried the knob and found it unlocked. He opened the door slowly to the accompaniment of loud snoring. Since, if an alert sounded, they had to be out the door in minutes, all of the commandos must be asleep within a short distance of the doorway. He slipped into the barracks and eased the door shut, vowing that none of the HGP Unit would get past him alive.

Somewhere someone farted.

The Warrior groped the wall to his right for a light switch. In seconds his probing fingers found it. He stood stock still, girding himself, asserting control over his emotions and his body, willing himself to relax, counting in his mind.

One.

Sixteen to one weren’t such bad odds. He’d have the jump on them. The crucial edge.

Two.

If he did die, it wouldn’t be without a fight the Russians would long remember. Either way they would require years to rebuild their HGP Unit.

Three.

Blade flicked the switch and overhead lights came on all along the length of the barracks, revealing a desk and several chairs to his left and to his right a room containing sinks, toilets, and showers. Ten feet from the entrance was another door, ajar about eighteen inches, and from behind it came the snoring.

Damn!

The Warrior dashed to the second door, but as he grabbed the knob he heard a gruff voice on the other side.

“Who the hell turned on the lights?”

Blade jerked the door wide and stepped into the sleeping quarters.

There were ten bunk beds, five on each side of the room. Only two beds were empty, the two apparently belonging to the pair he’d slain, leaving 18 occupied bunks where there should be only 16 and no time to contemplate the reason for the discrepancy because the commandos were coming alive.

“It’s Blade!” the man in the bottom bunk to the Warrior’s left shouted, scrambling from under the covers.

“Get him!” chimed in another.

The Warrior sent a half-dozen rounds into the bigmouth to his left and saw the man pitch to the floor, and then he brought the barrel higher to catch the commando in the top bunk, the heavy slugs flinging the supersoldier from his roost, screeching in anguish. Blade took two strides into the room, trying to watch all of the commandos at once, and as he moved he noticed the black footlockers at the foot of each bunk. Set out neatly on top of each locker were two camouflage uniforms, except for the footlocker near the empty bunk and the footlocker next to the first bed on his right. On that one were brown uniforms. At that moment he also made a chilling observation. Leaning against the post at the foot of each bunk, with the exception of the first bunk to his right, were assault rifles, and hanging from the upright posts were holsters.

All this Blade perceived in the span of three seconds while the men and women in the bunks struggled to shake the sleep from their eyes. And then, in a terrible moment of savage action, the battle was joined.

A woman three bunks down on the left clawed at her AK-47.

Blade shot her in the head, the rounds spraying her brains and pretty red hair all over the footlocker and the floor. He strode farther into the room, squeezing the trigger, Firing a steady burst, killing the commando in the bunk above her, then reversing direction to blast the two men in the second bunk on the left. Oaths and shouts and screams filled the air. The super-soldiers were all going for their weapons.

A woman in the fourth bunk on the right got hold of her pistol.

His lips a thin, grim line. Blade let her have several rounds in the chest.

He spun to the right and shot the two men in the second bunk on his right. They thrashed as they were hit, crimson geysers spurting from their ruined torsos. He swung around, aiming at the commandos at the back of the barracks, when the unexpected occurred.

The AK-47 went empty.

In a twinkling he realized there should have been more rounds in the magazine, and he realized he’d inadvertently used the same weapon he had employed at the hospital. He tossed the assault rifle to the right and unslung the AK-47 over his right shoulder, but even as he did other guns boomed and chattered and he leaped behind the flimsy cover of the bunk bed to his left. He’d lost the advantage, and as soon as he showed himself he was dead. The concerted enemy fire would be overwhelming.

Unless.

Unless he met their superior firepower with concentrated firepower of his own.

Bullets were thudding into the bunk above him.

Blade twisted onto his stomach and crawled frantically to the head of the bunks, then turned to the left and squeezed between the next bunk and the wall. The commandos were pouring their shots into the bunk he’d left, unaware of his move, giving him the gift of a moment’s breathing space.

He quickly unslung the third AK-47, took hold of one in each brawny hand, then rose, firing as he straightened, shooting underneath the top bunk, downing several supersoldiers who were caught by surprise. But he couldn’t stand still, not even for an instant, so he darted to the center of the room again, firing as he ran, and he continued to fire once he was in the aisle, sending a burst into a nearby woman, then taking the forehead off a stocky man who lunged at him from the right, and still he fired, swinging the barrels from side to side and up and down, always firing, firing,firing, always in motion, spinning and ducking and weaving. He fired as some of the commandos rushed him. He fired as they sniped at him from behind the bunks. And he fired at the few who attempted to flee out of the rear door. Only the fact that both magazines went empty almost simultaneously stopped him from firing.

An awful silence enveloped the barracks.

Blade threw the assault rifles to the floor and grabbed yet another leaning against a bed to his right. Acrid smoke hung heavy in the room.

Bodies were sprawled in the aisle, on the bunks, and near the back door.

Blood flowed copiously. Someone groaned.

No one else moved.

But there were two men still alive.

Blade swung toward the first bunk bed on the east side of the room and covered the men who were lying in a state of transfixed terror, the same men who owned the brown uniforms.

Scowling, he stepped over to the bunks. “You don’t belong to the HGP

Unit. Who are you?”

The dark-haired man in the bottom bunk winced at the raspy, threatening tone in the Warrior’s voice, while the man in the top bunk regained his composure, glared defiantly, and crossed his arms.

“I’ll never tell you a damn thing!” the defiant one declared.

“Then who needs you?” Blade responded, and shot him.

Startled by the sudden demise of his companion, the dark-haired man held out his arms, as if to ward off a hail of lead, and cried out, “Don’t kill me! I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Do you know who I am?” Blade asked.

“Yeah. The Warrior we picked up in Minnesota.”

“Who are you?”

“Captain Jim Nezgorski, Soviet Air Force.”

“What are your duties?”

“I’m a pilot. I fly the unit wherever it has to go.”

Blade nodded at the corpse in the top bunk. “Was he a pilot too?”

“Yeah.”

So elite units usually included specialists within their own ranks? Blade reminded himself of his earlier observation, and shook his head, bemused by his inaccurate insight.

The pilot misconstrued the motion. “I’m not lying. Frank was a pilot.

We shared the flight duties.”

Blade leaned forward. “I believe you. Now get out of bed.”

Jim Nezgorski blinked a few times. “What? Why?”

“That helicopter I saw outside is fueled and ready to take off, isn’t it?”

The man hesitated, as if he was about to lie, but he decided, after a glance at the carnage the giant had caused, to tell the truth. “Yeah.”

“Then grab your uniform and let’s go. Someone was bound to have heard all the noise. Reinforcements will be arriving in less than five minutes. I want us in the air in two.”

“Two?” Nezgorski said, and scrambled from bed. He wore a pair of white boxer shorts. Nervously moving to the front of the bunks, he snatched a brown uniform from off the footlocker and went to put it on.

“You can do that after we’re airborne,” Blade told him, and wagged the AK-47 at the front door. “Move it.”

“My shoes,” the pilot declared. He knelt to pull a pair of brown shoes from under the bed.

Blade covered him, then gestured impatiently when Nezgorski straightened. “Now get your butt in gear. If we’re caught, I promise you that you’ll die before I do. You have one minute and fifty seconds to lift off.”

The pilot hurried toward the entrance. “What then? Where am I taking you?”

“After we’re up, you’ll destroy the hangars—”

“I’ll what?” Nezgorski blurted out, and stopped.

Blade prodded him with the barrel and the man hustled to the door.

“You’ll destroy the hangars and all the aircraft in them so your Air Force pals won’t be able to use the other choppers to come after us. Is that helicopter outside one of the modified jobs?”

Nezgorski looked at the Warrior. “How did you know about them?” he asked, then quickly added, “Yeah. It’s one of those with extended-flight capability.”

“So if we blow up the other one, they’ll never catch us,” Blade predicted.

“And after I destroy the hangars?”

“Home, James. Home.”

He found the gunman at the small cemetery plot located in the northeast corner of the Home, near the gently flowing inner moat. Birds chirped in the surrounding trees, and a warm breeze blew in from the west.

Hickok stood next to a recently constructed marker, staring at a mound of dirt, his hands clasped at his waist, his features downcast. New patches covered holes in his buckskins, one on his left leg and the other on his left shoulder.

“Nathan?”

The gunfighter turned and smiled wanly. “How’s it going, pard?”

“I’ve never been happier,” Blade answered, joining his friend beside the grave. “Jenny has been spoiling me rotten every day, waiting on me hand and foot. Gabe has been a perfect angel. Maybe I should be captured more often.”

Hickok grinned. “Have you recovered from that little stroll of yours?”

“Walking from Detroit Lakes to here wasn’t so hard,” Blade said. “I was fortunate the helicopter got me as far as Illinois, and that jeep got me from Illinois to Detroit Lake before it broke down.”

“Did those scavengers give you any grief when you swiped their jeep?”

“They objected, but I disposed of their objections,” Blade said. “Too bad the jeep gave out when it did. I would have reached the Home that much sooner.”

“The important thing is you showed up before Geronimo, Ares, and I took off to find you,” Hickok noted.

Blade motioned at the grave. “Geronimo tells me you’ve been coming here every day.”

“That mangy Injun is a blabbermouth.”

“Care to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Do you blame yourself for Marcus’s death?” Blade inquired.

The corners of Hickok’s eyes crinkled and his mouth curled downward.

“I picked him to go. I knew he was a greenhorn.”

“You had the right idea. His death proves it.”

Hickok looked up. “How do you figure?”

“At least half of the Warriors require more experience, and taking them on runs into the Outlands and elsewhere is the best way for them to acquire the combat seasoning they need. If Marcus had had more experience, he might have given the signal sooner and would still be with us,” Blade said. “His death wasn’t your fault.”

“If you say so,” Hickok responded skeptically.

“In fact,” Blade went on, “I intend to implement your policy and start taking the less-experienced Warriors with us from time to time.”

“I’m glad you like the idea, but I can’t take the credit. Lynx gave me the brainstorm.”

“Lynx? He never makes a suggestion unless he has an ulterior motive.”

“I reckon he wanted me to take him along,” Hickok guessed.

“So, Lynx wants to go on a mission, huh?” Blade said, then chuckled.

“Okay. We’ll take him.”

“We will?”

“Sure. Last.”

For the first time in three weeks, Hickok threw back his head and enjoyed a hearty laugh.