Citadel Run

Chapter Thirteen

The convoy of troop transports and munitions trucks was five miles out of the Citadel when one of the vehicles unexpectedly gained additional weight.

Yama.

After leaving the Mason ranch, he had headed due south until he had reached Interstate Highway 80. The traffic on 80 had been sparse; apparently few of the Civilized Zone inhabitants had wanted to travel any farther west than Cheyenne. He had kept going, bearing to the southeast, intending to enter the Citadel from the south, hoping the ploy would thwart any attempts to determine his origination point if he were apprehended. The sun was well below the western horizon by the time he had reached Interstate Highway 25.

The volume of vehicles had been incredible.

The vast majority of the nearly ceaseless caravan had been military vehicles of one kind or another: jeeps, troop carriers loaded with armed soldiers, supply trucks, a few noisy half-tracks, and two tanks. Once, a dozen flatbeds had driven past Yama’s place of concealment behind a tree near the Interstate, huge artillery pieces mounted on the back.

He had wondered how he could successfully join the procession without being detected. The traffic had been moving at forty miles an hour, making a running leap into the rear of one of the trucks an extremely hazardous and unappealing strategy.

Yama had waited for over an hour at the side of the highway, and just when he had been convinced there was no other recourse but to attempt the running leap, the Spirit had smiled upon him.

The second of the two tanks had been passing his position, its motor clanking and wheezing as if from old age, when it had coughed and sputtered and the night had been rent by a loud clanging sound. The tank had shuddered, spouting smoke from underneath, and had ground to a stop, completely blocking the traffic behind it. The troop transports ahead of the tank had continued on their way, oblivious to its plight. Behind the tank had been six more flatbeds with missile launchers on the beds. The flatbeds had slowed and pulled up behind the disabled tank.

Yama had suddenly found himself abreast of one of the flatbeds. Except for the driver and a fellow rider in the cab, the flatbeds had been deserted.

The base of each missile launcher had been covered with a heavy tarp as protection from the elements.

“What the hell is the holdup?” the driver of the first flatbed had bellowed.

A soldier had emerged from the stricken tank to examine the underside. “It looks like we blew our motor!” he had called to the flatbed driver. “Damn piece of junk!” He had kicked the treads in frustration. “If they don’t complete that new factory soon, this whole Army will be as useless as a tin can with both ends missing!”

“Is there any way you can get your tank to the side?” the flatbed driver had asked. “We can try and go around you.”

“No problem!” the tank trooper had yelled. “Give me a minute and I’ll throw it into Neutral. When I shout out the hatch, give me a push!”

“Got ya!” the driver of the flatbed had responded.

Yama had scanned the highway behind the final flatbed, encouraged to find the road free of traffic. But he had known the situation wouldn’t last long, that soon headlights would appear from the south and ruin his golden opportunity.

There had been a call from inside the tank, and the first flatbed had inched forward until its front bumper nudged the tank. Slowly, its engine whining, the truck had been able to move the tank to one side, to the right, clearing a path for the other vehicles to proceed.

A head had popped out of the top tank hatch. “Thanks! When you get to the Citadel, would you let the Motor Pool guys know what happened and tell them to get their lazy asses out here on the double? The brass want this baby operational for the attack.”

“I’ll let the Motor Pool know first thing,” the flatbed driver had promised.

The procession of flatbeds had begun to move out.

Yama had waited.

The first flatbed had driven past the tank, its gears grinding as it gained speed.

Not yet.

The second truck had curved by the tank and followed the first.

Not yet.

The next three flatbeds had done likewise.

Now!

Yama had darted from behind the tree as the last of the flatbeds had started to roll. He had glanced over his shoulder, staring southward.

He had seen the feeble gleam of approaching headlights in the distance.

Yama had run, covering the ground in a surge of speed, hoping the troopers in the cab were concentrating on the tank and not looking in their rearview mirrors. The flatbed had been doing about ten miles an hour when he had leaped, landing on the tarp spread over the base of the missile launcher.

His fingers probed around the edges and found a loose flap. In another moment, he was under the tarp and crawling toward the front of the truck. He was four feet from the cab when the tarp ended. Cautiously, he raised the edge of the tarp and glanced up.

There was a small window in the rear of the cab, open to allow for some ventilation.

“…feel sorry for that tank crew. As busy as the Motor Pool will be tonight, that tank will be stuck there until morning,” one of the men in the cab was saying.

“I can’t believe all the hardware they’re using on this operation,” commented the second man. From the direction of the voice, Yama deduced this one was the rider.

“All of this just to wipe out a lousy bunch of jerks on a few horses,” groused the driver. “Doesn’t make sense to me.”

“The Cavalry has more than just a few horses,” corrected the rider. “I hear tell they have seven hundred horsemen.”

“Big deal!” scoffed the driver. “What good are seven hundred horses and guys with rifles and handguns going to do against all of our equipment, even if our stuff is on its last legs?”

“You know Samuel,” said the rider. “He always has to play it safe. This time, though, I think he’s planning to beat the Cavalry in one fell swoop. I don’t think he wants a repeat of what happened in Montana with those damn Indians!”

“Yeah!” The driver laughed. “They would of beat us if it hadn’t of been for the Doktor and his gas.”

“I don’t know if they would have beat us,” disagreed the rider, “but they could have holed up in Kalispell a lot longer than they did.”

“I wonder if Samuel sent the Doktor a thank-you note,” joked the driver.

“Don’t do that!” snapped the rider.

“What’s eating you?”

“Don’t make fun of the Doktor or Samuel. You know they have ears everywhere. They could even have this cab bugged!” stated the rider, sounding scared.

“Don’t be such a crybaby!” laughed the driver. “I went over this cab with a fine-tooth comb before we left Denver. It’s clean as a whistle.”

“You hope.”

“I know.”

“Listen,” said the rider, “can’t we talk about something else? I get nervous discussing the Doktor or Samuel.”

“Sure we can,” concurred the driver. “I expect we’ll have the rest of the night free, since they’re not planning to move us out until tomorrow morning…”

“Where’d you hear that?” queried the rider.

“I have my sources,” the driver divulged. “Anyway, since we’ll have the night off, why don’t we visit this little lady I know? She’ll give both of us a tumble at a discount.”

“I don’t know…”

“What’s the matter with you? Got the jitters over a broad too? Don’t worry. She gets herself inspected at the clinic once a month, just like the Government says she should. I’m tellin’ you, we can have a blast! She has the biggest…”

Yama flattened, ruminating on the significance of the information he’d learned. As part of his campaign to reconquer the territory formerly held by the United States of America, Samuel was gearing up for a major thrust against the Cavalry in South Dakota, against the only ally the Family currently had in their struggle to resist Samuel and the Doktor.

The Cavalry must be warned! But how?

The flatbed was gaining considerable speed.

From the comments made by the blabbermouths, Yama gathered the Army was utilizing outdated equipment, possibly even from before the Third World War. Why would the Government be using such antiquated hardware? Didn’t the Civilized Zone have the factories necessary to produce new military equipment? Was their problem a lack of manufacturing capability, or did it go deeper than that?

Could it be a lack of natural resources?

Yama mentally reviewed the area encompassing the Civilized Zone. He knew it embraced the former states of Kansas, Nebraska, probably most or all of Wyoming, Colorado, eastern Arizona, New Mexico, Oklahoma, the northern half of a state once called Texas, and, now that the Flathead Indians were eradicated, most of the state of Montana as well.

Quite a large tract.

But what sort of natural resources was available? The Government would need certain types of metals to build tanks and cannons and such, right? Were those metals available in the Civilized Zone?

Yama grinned.

Possibly, just possibly, he’d stumbled over information crucial to the Family’s future.

Possibly, just possibly, Samuel and the Doktor weren’t as militarily strong as everyone thought they were.

And hopefully he’d discovered the chink in the Civilized Zone’s armor.

Yama raised the tarp and peered out.

The convoy was only a mile from the Citadel, according to a sign at the side of the highway.

Would every vehicle be checked as it entered the Citadel?

Before departing the Home for his spying mission to the Citadel, Yama had visited the enormous Family Library and researched every book he could find on the region, and specifically on Cheyenne. Unfortunately, Cheyenne, Wyoming, after World War III, was a vastly-altered city from the one existing prior to the Big Blast. The tremendous influx of refugees and evacuees, combined with the necessity for improved security and fortification, had drastically transformed Cheyenne into a veritable fortress.

The Citadel.

Within minutes, the first line of defense was in sight, and Yama was awed by the structure.

The Army Corps of Engineers had erected a massive stone and mortar wall completely enclosing the city. The wall stood forty feet high and was three feet thick. Perched atop this wall were numerous gun emplacements and observation towers, enabling the soldiers to see for miles in every direction on a clear day. Four iron gates were established as the only entry and exit points, one such gate being positioned in the middle of each wall.

The Army had hoped their huge wall would withstand a sustained mass assault, an assault which never came.

Cheyenne had been spared a direct strike from a nuclear weapon, and the anticipated Soviet land attack had failed to materialize. In fact, surprisingly, the entire Civilized Zone had been spared from a Red invasion. No one knew why. There were unsubstantiated rumors the Russian Army had indeed invaded and occupied much of the eastern half of the country, its advance inexplicably halted at the Mississippi River.

But these reports were unconfirmed, because the patrols sent east to verify them never returned.

The convoy turned right onto another road. The sign at the junction revealed they were now traveling on College Drive.

Yama craned his neck and peered up at the huge wall looming above them. College Drive was immediately outside the wall. According to the intelligence he’d received, Yama knew the wall extended to the west several miles, completely enclosing the Francis E. Warren Air Force Base and the United States Experimental Station within its confines. The northern boundary of the wall was once known as Four Mile Road, and the eastern perimeter was only two miles beyond North College Drive.

The first of the flatbeds reached the iron gate in the center of the southern wall. All of the flatbeds slowed and braked while the driver of the first truck conversed with one of the guards stationed at the gate.

Yama glanced over his left shoulder, gratified to discover the nearest traffic behind them was at least a half-mile to their rear.

“…love coming up here,” the driver was saying. “Denver makes me feel so cramped, so crowded all the time. At least here you have some elbow room.”

What was he talking about? Yama wondered.

“Yeah,” concurred the passenger, “I hear tell they only have one hundred thousand or so on the graveyard shift. Imagine that! I’d like to move here, some day, if the Housing Authority will allow it. The wide open spaces appeal to me.”

“Me too,” echoed the driver.

Yama crawled forward and risked a peek around the corner of the cab.

The first flatbed was still stopped at the gate, the driver joking and laughing with the guard.

How much longer would they dally at the gate? Time was a crucial factor; he had to be out of the Citadel by daylight. He might be able to roam the city undetected at night, but Yama doubted he’d pass a close scrutiny in the light of day.

The first flatbed gunned its motor and drove into the Citadel.

Yama smiled. The Spirit was smiling on his enterprise. The guards were not bothering to check the flat-beds, and why should they? The Citadel had never been attacked nor the Civilized Zone invaded for over a century. Why should they expect any trouble now?

The second flatbed was passing through the massive gate.

Yama ducked and scurried under the tarp, pulling it over his head and holding the Wilkinson close to his chest. A moment later, the last of the flatbeds moved slowly forward.

Yama could feel the truck sway slightly as the driver turned left to enter the Citadel.

“Hey! How ya doin’, Buck?” asked the driver.

“Fine. You got time for a brew or two?”

“Sorry. Not tonight.”

“Catch me next time, then.”

Evidently the driver knew one of the guards.

Yama counted to twenty and elevated the edge of the tarp.

They were inside the Citadel!

The flatbeds were driving north on a wide avenue, a thoroughfare packed with vehicles, again the majority of them military. Running along both sides of the avenue were sidewalks crammed with people. Yama realized the population density in the Citadel must be staggering. As a Warrior, when at the Home, he was obligated to work day shifts, evening shifts, and graveyard shifts on a rotating basis, and he deduced the same practice prevailed here. This made his task easier. In a crowd like this, he should be able to travel unchallenged.

The convoy kept bearing north for some time, its progress impeded by the crush of traffic. Finally, the flatbeds turned right on Pershing Boulevard.

Yama tensed.

They were almost there.

The Biological Center. The domain of the malevolent Doktor.

One of the Doktor’s creations, a genetically spawned creature named Gremlin, had defected to the Family and provided extensive details on the interior of the Citadel. Gremlin had argued with Plato concerning the wisdom of sending a Warrior on a spying mission to the Citadel, contending the Warrior would never make it out of Cheyenne alive. Once convinced that Plato could not be dissuaded, Gremlin had then warned Plato that the Warrior should avoid the Biological Center. “At all costs, yes?” Plato had passed on the admonition to Yama after the Warriors had drawn lots to determine which one of them would perform the spying mission; Yama had drawn the short straw.

And there it was! Rising seven stories high, situated to the west of the V.A. Hospital, constructed of a black synthetic substance, rose the Biological Center. As with the rest of the Citadel at night, it was plainly illuminated by the dozens and dozens of street lights and spotlights positioned at periodic intervals. On the north, west, and south sides of the Biological Center were enormous parking lots, and the Army was assembling its forces on these lots in preparation for the assault against the Cavalry in South Dakota. Row after row of vehicles lined the parking areas; all of the jeeps, troop carriers, supply trucks, and others were gathered for the invasion.

The flatbeds pulled into a lot on the west side of the Biological Center and parked in a row near the south side of the lot.

Yama eased under the tarp and waited. He heard the driver and his companion exit the flatbed, slamming their doors and engaging in idle discussion as they walked off. In the near distance rose the sound of the vehicle traffic on the streets and avenues of Cheyenne. He also could hear someone shouting, although the words were indistinguishable.

As silently as possible, the Warrior slid out from under the tarp and crawled to the edge of the flatbed. The parking area was well lit, but he was concealed in the shadow of the missile launcher. He gazed around.

The parking lots were apparently deserted, except for the vast array of military equipment.

Yama dropped to the tarmac and walked around the cab of the flatbed.

Where was everyone? Indulging in a last fling before the war against the Cavalry?

Yama was amazed at how lightly the Army seemed to take its opposition. How could they afford to be so confident?

Whoever was doing all the shouting was still at it.

Yama casually strolled in the general direction of the Biological Center.

He recalled Gremlin’s warning and promptly disregarded it. The Biological Center was the Doktor’s base of operations. In it, the Doktor produced his genetic deviates, his league of killers and monstrosities. From it, the Doktor exerted a profound, terrifying influence over the entire Civilized Zone. The Doktor, so the story went, was almost as powerful as Samuel the Second. Some claimed he was the real power in the Civilized Zone, that Samuel ruled as the Doktor’s puppet.

Whatever the case, Yama thought with a grin, it was imperative to include the Biological Center in his scenic tour of the Citadel.

The Warrior had already passed several rows of trucks and was stepping into an open space between the rows when the voice assailed him.

“Hey! Hold it!”

Yama stopped, the Wilkinson at his right side.

“Hey! I’m talkin’to you!”

Yama turned, fingering the trigger on the Wilkinson.

Five soldiers were standing fifteen yards away, behind a supply truck with its tailgate down. One of them held an M-16.

“You hard of hearin’, fellow?” demanded the trooper with the M-16.

“My ears function perfectly,” Yama replied, stalling, his eyes darting right and left as he scanned for other soldiers in the vicinity.

“What are you? A smart-ass?” The trooper advanced on Yama.