Dallas Run

Chapter Three

She stood outside the cabin doorway, her green eyes on the Hurricane circling above the Home, absently brushing at her blonde bangs with her right hand, worry etched in her features. In her left hand she clutched the white towel she had been using to wipe the dishes. A yellow blouse and blue pants hugged her shapely form.

“Mommy! A Hurricane!” came a yell from her right.

Struggling to compose herself, she turned, facing her husband and son, forcing a smile. “It certainly is,” she said enthusiastically.

“Can we go up for a ride?”

“Not today, Gabe,” she told him.

“Awwww, Mom. Why not?” Gabe asked, hurrying the last ten yards to the cabin.

“Someone must be here on official business,” she explained. “They probably won’t have the time to take us up.”

“We could ask,” Gabe suggested.

“You heard your mother,” Blade said, halting three feet away and gazing at the craft.

“But Dad—” Gabe began.

“Don’t argue,” Blade said. He stared into his wife’s eyes, reading the anguish they conveyed, and glanced over his right shoulder. Hickok, Ringo, Geronimo, and Cochise were angling to the south, heading for their respective cabins.

“Hey, Jenny!” Geronimo called, and waved.

“Hi,” Jenny said, acknowledging the greeting, her eyes locked on her husband.

“Go inside and wash your hands for lunch,” Blade instructed his son.

“I want to go see the jet land,” Gabe said.

“You can see the jet after you eat,” Blade said.

“It might fly off by then,” Gabe said.

“The Hurricane will still be here. Go wash your hands,” Blade ordered.

“Gee, I never get to have any fun,” Gabe mumbled. He dutifully turned and entered the cabin.

“Any idea why the Hurricane is paying us a visit?” Jenny inquired the moment the boy was inside.

“None,” Blade answered.

“No clue at all? It certainly isn’t the usual courier flight.”

Blade discerned the skepticism in her tone, and knew she suspected him of withholding information. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

“It’s not here to pick you up?” Jenny asked.

“I don’t know why the jet is here,” Blade insisted. “Id better go find out.” He took a step.

Jenny moved in front of him, preventing him from advancing. “What if they want you to accept another assignment?”

“We don’t know if they do.”

“Why else would a Hurricane arrive at the Home unexpectedly? A crisis must be brewing somewhere and they need you to ride to the rescue like you always do,” Jenny said bitterly.

Blade placed his hands on her shoulders and spoke tenderly. “What if they do need me? Would you have me refuse?”

“You could.”

He frowned and stared at the ground. “You know I can’t.”

“Why not?” Jenny demanded. “Why must you always be the one? Why can’t one of the other Warriors go instead? You don’t need to lead every mission.”

Blade looked at her, his brow knitting. “I can’t run from my responsibilities. I’m the head Warrior and I’m the head of the Force.

When they need me, I must go.”

Frustration formed in the lines of her lovely face and she clenched her fists. “It’s not fair, Blade! It’s just not fair! We’re finally back to normal as a family again. Gabe will be brokenhearted if you leave.”

“We don’t know if I have to,” he reiterated, and took her into his arms.

For several seconds she angrily resisted his embrace, and he could feel the tenseness in her shoulders and arms. Gradually Jenny relaxed, her left cheek pressing against his chest, her right arm draped around his broad back.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized huskily.

“I understand.”

“It isn’t fair for me to take out my resentment on you,” Jenny said.

“Believe me, I understand,” Blade reiterated, as always sensitive to her innermost thoughts and emotions. They had been sweethearts since childhood, and over the years an intuitive bond had developed between them, an almost clairvoyant perception of each other’s sentiments and desires. His sensitivity made him all the more distressed whenever his duties required him to leave the Home on extended runs. To him, being separated from Jenny and Gabe qualified as the ultimate torture. “Say—”

he began, and coughed.

“Yes?”

“How would you react if I quit the Warriors?”

Jenny pushed back and glanced up. “What?”

“It’s been six months since I flew off in one of the Hurricanes on a mission, and you’re as upset now as you were back then. If my leaving is that much of an ordeal, if my position as the top Warrior and the head of the Force is having such a terrible effect on Gabe and you, then maybe I should seriously consider retiring from both,” Blade proposed, and kissed her on the forehead. “Your happiness is more important to me than anything else in the world. I won’t allow anything or anyone to ruin our marriage, to put a rift between us. I’d rather sacrifice my job than lose you.”

Tears suddenly welled in her eyes, and she threw her arms about him and squeezed him tightly. “Oh, dearest!” she said. “I never meant for you to give up being a Warrior!”

Blade stroked her hair, waiting.

“Plato and the Elders believe you’re the best Warrior the Family has ever seen, and I know in my heart they’re right,” Jenny went on. “Being a Warrior fits you to a T. You’re perfect for the job, and you could no more stop serving the Family as a Warrior than you could stop breathing.” She paused and took a breath. “The problem isn’t your being the top Warrior.

The problem is the Freedom Force post.”

“I know,” Blade said softly.

“Then just disband the Freedom Force permanently.”

“The decision isn’t mine to make,” Blade replied, gazing at the Hurricane. “The leaders of the Federation formed the Force, and any final decision rests with them. I doubt they’d agree to disband the Force on a permanent basis. We have too many enemies who would gleefully grind the Federation into the dust. There’s the Russians, the Technics, the Superiors, the Lords of Kismet, and others. We can’t afford to be caught off guard. Freedom, as Plato would say, is only preserved through diligence.”

“Then ask the Federation leaders to pick someone else to head the Force,” Jenny suggested. “Hickok, Geronimo, Rikki, Spartacus, or Yama could handle the job, no problem.”

“Any one of them could,” Blade agreed.

“Will you ask?”

“In due time. I have six months in which to make up my mind about whether I’ll stay on the Force or not. Until then, if an emergency should arise, I’ll have to go.”

“Why do I have the feeling that you’re stalling?” Jenny asked.

“I might be,” Blade conceded. “Sometimes the best way to solve a problem is to let it resolve itself.”

“And sometimes the problem just becomes worse,” Jenny noted.

“True,” Blade said, and stared at the jet again. The aircraft was descending slowly. As a VTOL, a jet with vertical-takeoff-and-landing capability, the Hurricane did not need a lengthy runway to land or take off. Much like a helicopter, the VTOL could drop to the ground or rise straight up. Once airborne, the unique aircraft could attain supersonic speeds on sustained flights. The Free State of California possessed a pair of Hurricanes, perhaps the only such aircraft in existence.

“You’d better go,” Jenny said, moving aside, nervously wringing the towel.

“Be seeing you,” Blade said, and kissed her lightly on the lips. He hastened westward, hoping that there was a logical, mundane reason for the presence of the VTOL. The two aircraft were frequently utilized to shuttle the Federation leaders to periodic conclaves, but the next conclave wasn’t scheduled to be held for another two months. The jets were also used to run a monthly courier service between the Federation factions, and the last regular courier flight had been ten days ago. So the purpose behind the VTOL’s visit must be something out of the ordinary.

“Hey, pard! Wait for us!”

Blade halted and turned to find Hickok and Geronimo jogging toward him.

“We dropped off the young’uns at my cabin,” the gunfighter stated as they came within a few feet and stopped. “My missus will feed their faces, then get Jenny and Geronimo’s squeeze and they’ll all come find us.”

“My squeeze!” Geronimo said. “She has a name, you know. And I’d wish you’d make up your mind.”

“About what?” Hickok asked.

“About your vocabulary. One minute you’re using that ridiculous, phony Wild West talk you like so much, and the next you’re using everyday slang.”

“What’s wrong with that?” the gunfighter asked.

“It bugs me. You sound even more idiotic than usual.”

Hickok made a snorting noise. “Excuse me for living. It’s not my fault you can’t recognize eloquence when you hear it.”

“Eloquence? Shakespeare was eloquent. Lord Byron was eloquent.

Joseph Conrad was eloquent. Compared to them. you’re mentally defective,” Geronimo said, and paused. “Actually, compared to a toad you’re mentally defective.”

“I can palaver as good as the next bozo,” Hickok said.

Geronimo looked at Blade. “I rest my case.”

“Let’s go,” Blade directed, and headed for the west wall, knowing the VTOL would land in the cleared field outside the drawbridge. While the Founder had wisely foreseen many of the Family’s needs and constructed and stocked the compound accordingly, Carpenter had not anticipated they would require a landing area for visiting aircraft. The eastern portion of the Home was preserved in its natural state or devoted to agriculture.

In the middle of the 30-acre plot, in a line from north to south, were the cabins for the married couples and their children. The western section contained the enormous, reinforced concrete blocks devoted to specific functions. Arranged in a triangular fashion and designated according to letters, with A Block at the southern tip of the triangle, the blocks were positioned precisely 100 yards apart.

A Block housed the Family armory, with one of the greatest collections of weapons ever assembled. The sleeping quarters for the single Family members were in B block. C Block was the infirmary, where the Healers ministered to anyone who was sick or injured. A workshop area for the making of everything from furniture to shoes filled D Block. E Block contained a library that would have rivaled any in existence before the war, and F Block was devoted to gardening and farming and managed by the Tillers.

Access to the compound was over a drawbridge situated in the center of the west wall. The original drawbridge had been destroyed during a siege by an enemy army, and the replacement opened outward instead of inward. A massive wooden bridge between the base of the drawbridge and the compound proper enabled those entering or leaving to cross the moat.

Thanks to an ingenious design, the Family would never experience a water shortage. A rechanneled stream flowed into the Home in the northwest corner, via an aqueduct, and was diverted into two streams along the base of the brick walls, converging again at the southeast corner, where the water passed through another aqueduct and meandered to the south.

“I wonder why that flyin’ contraption came here,” Hickok said.

“We’ll soon know,” Blade said.

The gunfighter rubbed his palms together and grinned. “Maybe we’ll finally see some action.”

“You hope there’s trouble?” Blade responded curtly.

“We haven’t seen any action in months. I’m gettin’ rusty doing nothing but walkin’ the ramparts and baby-sittin’ the tykes,” Hickok said.

Geronimo snickered. “If I recall correctly, you were the one who claimed he was tired of all the killing. On our last run, to Cincinnati, you told us you were all set to hang up your guns and take up knitting as a hobby.”

“I never said any such thing,” Hickok countered. “You were the hombre all prepared to stop being a Warrior, and I figured I’d go along with you to cheer you up.”

“White Man speak with forked tongue,” Geronimo said.

“Blade, you were there,” Hickok mentioned. “Tell this snake in the grass how it really was.”

“Don’t involve me in your petty squabbles.”

Hickok and Geronimo looked at one another.

“Did he say squabbles?” the gunman asked.

“Did he say petty?” Geronimo responded.

“What’s eatin’ you, pard?” Hickok asked the giant.

“Nothing,” Blade said testily.

“Then why are you suddenly so cranky?” Hickok asked.

“Who’s cranky?” Blade retorted.

“Is your missus on your case again?” the gunfighter asked, pressing the issue.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Blade said. He surveyed the landscape ahead. Dozens of Family members were moving across the large area between the concrete blocks, hustling toward the open drawbridge.

“We’re your pards, remember? If you’re upset, we want to lend a hand,” Hickok offered.

“You can help me by dropping the subject.”

“Consider it dropped,” Hickok said.

They walked in silence for all of five seconds.

“But if you’d like me to talk to Jenny, I will,” Hickok volunteered.

Blade glanced at the Family’s preeminent pistoleer. “You do and I’ll break every bone in your body.”

“Does that mean no?”

Blade increased his pace.

“I think you should talk to her,” Geronimo whispered to the gunman.

“You do?”

“Sure.”

“But you heard the Big Guy.”

“Yep. That’s why I think you should talk to her. You’ll be giving Blade a chance to practice his self-control,” Geronimo remarked.

“And what happens if he blows his lid?” Hickok asked.

Geronimo shrugged. “You’ll be wearing a body cast for a year or so. No big deal.”

The gunman’s eyes narrowed. “Oh. I get it. You want him to beat me to a pulp.”

“Heaven forbid,” Geronimo said with an air of supreme innocence.

“Besides, he couldn’t beat your whole body to a pulp.”

“Because I’m lean and mean?”

“No, because if he hit your thick skull he’d break his hand,” Geronimo answered, and chuckled at his own joke.

“You’re a funny man,” Hickok said. “You’d be funnier if you had a sense of humor, but you’re still a load of laughs.”

“I have to be, working with you every day,” Geronimo countered.

“Otherwise I’d lose my mind.”

“What mind?”

They hurried to the bridge over the moat, mingling with other Family members, and moments later were standing outside the compound at the edge of the crowd gathered to gawk at the aircraft and welcome the occupants of the Hurricane. The brush and trees had been cleared for 150 yards in every direction from the brick walls, enabling the Warriors on guard duty on the ramparts to spot any raiders or mutations that might be tempted to attack the Home. Invariably when a Hurricane arrived at the retreat, the pilot would set the craft down in the field to the west of the drawbridge. Although the VTOL could come down in the tract between the concrete blocks, the pilot ran the risk of a stray child blundering too near the aircraft and being injured.

Four men were conversing next to the Hurricane.

An elderly man in a brown shirt and pants was addressing the others.

Gray hair and a long gray beard framed facial features reflecting an innate dignity and wisdom. His wiry hands were clasped behind his stooped back.

To the right of the aged speaker stood two men in uniform. The taller of the pair wore the blue uniform of a captain in the Free State of California Air Force, and in his left hand he gripped a flight helmet. The second man wore the typical green uniform of an officer in the Civilized Zone Army.

Gold insignia adorned his shoulders. His rugged visage showed him a man accustomed to being obeyed.

In front of the elderly man, his sturdy form clad in a blue suit, his black hair clipped short, was a figure who’d unconsciously adopted an attitude of self-importance. His suit was immaculate, his black shoes polished.

“Excuse me,” Blade said, and politely proceeded through the crowd toward the VTOL. When still 15 yards from the quartet, he saw the blue eyes of the man in blue swing in his direction and a smile lit the other’s face.

“Blade! Am I glad to see you! We’ve got trouble!”