Dallas Run

Chapter Six

“So that’s Dallas, huh? How many folks lived there before the war, pard?”

“About two million,” Blade replied.

“I wonder how many are there now,” Geronimo commented.

The three Warriors stood on Highway 289, next to the open gate at Sentry Post 17. Behind them, parked in a row from south to north on the right side of the road, were the 14 vehicles comprising the military convoy that had brought them from Sherman to Post 17. Four jeeps and ten trucks were aligned bumper to bumper.

Blade turned and observed the swirl of activity taking place in the vicinity of the sentry hut. Post 17 was being converted into a makeshift Command Center for the duration of the mission. General Reese stood near the hut, barking orders to the soldiers. A half-dozen troopers were installing a large console inside the hut, while five more worked at setting up a portable generator near the north wall. Machine-gun emplacements were being established 20 yards to the east and the west of Highway 289.

Mortars were being placed along the west edge of the road. A lookout tower was being constructed on the east side of the sentry hut. All told, there were 84 men engaged in various tasks.

A youthful officer in camouflage fatigues, carrying an M-16 slung over his right shoulder, walked up to the giant and saluted. “My men and I are ready to leave whenever you are, sir.”

“Call me Blade,” the Warrior said. “And there’s no need to salute me, Lieutenant Garber.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re my superior officer for the duration of the mission. General Reese told me to take my orders from you until further notice,” Lieutenant Garber noted.

“Fine. Then my first order is for you to call me Blade.”

“Yes, sir. Blade,” Garber said, and smiled.

“When do we get this show on the road?” Hickok inquired.

“It’s nine A.M. now. We’ll leave in an hour,” Blade informed them.

General Reese came over, rubbing his hands together excitedly, a gleam in his brown eyes. “This is the life!” he exclaimed.

“It is?” Blade responded.

“Damn straight! I love to get out in the field, to be on the front lines,” General Reese declared. “Except for when I’m out inspecting our installations, I spend my time pushing papers at my desk in Denver.”

The mention of the Civilized Zone capital prompted Blade to recall the brief layover there en route to Texas. The Hurricane had landed at Stapleton Airport, and President Toland had insisted on treating the Warriors to a snack while the VTOL was refueled. Later, Toland had stood on the runway and waved as the jet climbed into the blue sky.

“I despise pushing papers,” Reese stressed.

Blade nodded absently. “I can understand why.” He stared at the laboring soldiers, thinking of the six hours they had spent in Sherman while the general organized the convoy to convey them to Sentry Post 17.

“I just wish it was me going into Dallas,” General Reese said. “I haven’t been involved in any combat for five or six years.”

“You can join us,” Hickok offered. “Bring your whole Army along. The more, the merrier.”

“The fewer we send in, the less risk we run of spreading the disease if indeed there is a plague,” General Reese pointed out. “You’ll be on your own.”

“Figures,” Hickok muttered.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Blade mentioned.

“What?” the general responded.

“You told us that Sentry Post 17 and Post 19 were both struck. What happened to Post 18?”

“Good question,” General Reese said. “We wondered about the same thing ourselves. Sentry Post 18 is located on a secondary road between Highway 289 and Interstate 35. Either the attackers weren’t aware of its existence, or they deliberately only attacked 17 and 19.”

“How many sentry posts do you have near Dallas?”

“There are five,” General Reese answered, gazing at the metropolis.

“There’s one on Highway 75 and another on Highway 78. Both of them are east of here.”

“And they weren’t hit?”

“Nope.”

Blade reflected for a moment, then glanced at the sentry hut. “How soon before the Command Center will be operational?”

“Forty-five minutes at the max,” General Reese said.

“What happened to that machine gun you promised me?”

“Thanks for reminding me,” General Reese replied. “I’ll be right back.”

He hurried toward the parked trucks, directing a nearby noncom to accompany him.

“Why didn’t you bring along one of the firearms from our Family armory?” Geronimo asked.

“Because the Family doesn’t own a machine gun like the one I want to use,” Blade said.

“Since when have you been finicky about your guns?” Hickok asked.

“Your specialty is knives. And the way you shoot, you’re lucky if you can hit the broad side of a barn with a bazooka at point-blank range.”

“Aren’t you exaggerating just a bit?” Blade responded with a smile.

“Just a mite,” the gunman acknowledged. In addition to his Colt Python revolvers, Hickok had a Navy Arms Henry Carbine slung over his left shoulder. The 44-40, a reproduction of a rifle used in the days of the Wild West, was a favorite of his. For this mission the gunman had included a derringer in his personal arsenal—a four-shot C.O.P. .357 Magnum, five and a half inches in length, double-action, constructed of stainless steel with four barrels. The derringer was concealed in a small holster attached to his left wrist two inches from the edge of his buckskin shirtsleeve.

Geronimo was also armed to the teeth. The Arminius rode in its holster under his right arm, and the tomahawk was under his belt in his right hip.

In a shoulder holster under his left arm was a Taurus Model 65, and in his right hand he held a Browning B-80 automatic shotgun. A bandolier filled with spare shells slanted across his stocky chest. “What’s so special about this machine gun?” he asked Blade. “You’ve used machine guns before. I thought you were partial to the Commando Arms Carbine.”

“I was,” Blade admitted, “until I started using the M60 on my assignments for the Freedom Force. The M60 has more stopping power than the Commando. Comparing them is like comparing a slingshot to a cannon.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Hickok said.

“Excuse me, sir,” Lieutenant Garber interjected. “I’ve used the M60 on a bipod on several occasions, and I think the gun is an excellent weapon.”

“Brown-noser,” Hickok mumbled.

“My only complaint is that the M60 is slightly difficult to control in the rapid-fire mode,” Lieutenant Garber commented. “Don’t you find it difficult to keep the bipod steady?”

“I don’t use the bipod,” Blade divulged.

“Do you use a tripod, sir?”

“No.”

“Then how do you control the weapon?” Lieutenant Garber asked, puzzled by the idea of anyone firing the M60 without a support. “Do you brace the stock against your hip in the conventional shooting posture?”

“I hold it in my hands.”

“But that’s impossible, sir,” Lieutenant Garber said without thinking.

“Are you callin’ my pard a liar?” Hickok demanded.

“Of course not,” Lieutenant Garber replied.

“Good. We wouldn’t want to lose a man before we start the mission,” Hickok stated, and grinned impishly.

“All I meant was that it would be inconceivable for someone to fire the M60 like you would an ordinary machine gun,” Lieutenant Garber elaborated. “You’d have to be as strong as an ox.”

Before the others quite realized what he was doing, and before a stunned Lieutenant Garber could collect his wits, Blade stepped in close, gripped the front of the officer’s shirt in his right hand, seized Garber’s right thigh in his left hand, and hoisted the young lieutenant into the air.

“Sir!” Garber blurted.

Hickok cackled.

Geronimo stared quizzically at his giant companion.

“Is this strong enough for you?” Blade asked, smiling.

“Yes, sir!” Lieutenant Gaber cried.

Blade slowly lowered the officer to the road, his arm and shoulder muscles rippling. “I trust you won’t see fit to doubt my word again?”

Lieutenant Garber licked his thin lips. “No, sir! I’ll never doubt you again.”

“Fine. This assignment will undoubtedly be extremely dangerous. I’ll need your complete trust at all times.”

“You have it, sir,” Lieutenant Garber assured the Warrior.

“Okay. Go get your squad. I want to meet them,” Blade directed.

“On my way,” Garber said. He spun and hastened away.

“It’s not like you to show off,” Geronimo observed.

“I was making a point,” Blade said.

“Sure,” Geronimo said.

“Give Blade a break! He didn’t hurt the greenhorn,” Hickok said.

General Reese and the noncom were coming toward the Warriors.

“What the hell was that all about?” the officer asked.

“I was getting my morning exercise,” Blade quipped.

“Well, I’ve got your machine gun,” General Reese said, and nodded at the noncom.

Hickok took one look and his eyes widened. “Wow! Now that’s what I call a piece of hardware.”

The M60E3 general-purpose machine gun had served as a versatile support weapon for the U.S. military for decades prior to the war. The Air Force had used the M60 for forward airfield defense and base security, while the Navy had used the M60 on their patrol craft and for their elite SEAL teams. Both the Army and the Marines utilized the M60 even more extensively. Modified versions had been employed on helicopter gunships and as helicopter door guns. The Marines had issued six M60’s to each rifle company commander.

Each M60 was 42 inches in length and weighed almost 19 pounds. It used standard 7.62mm ammunition, and the gunner could select a mix of tracer, ball, and armor-piercing rounds. With a rate of 100 rounds per minute in the sustained mode, 200 in the rapid fire, and up to 650 cyclic, the M60 provided blistering firepower. Its effective range was well over a thousand yards.

The noncom held the big machine gun in both hands, and draped over his shoulders were two ammo belts. “Here you are, sir,” he said.

Blade took the M60 and hefted the weapon, his lips curling upward. He leaned the machine gun against his legs and took the ammo belts, sliding each arm through one of the belts and angling the belts across his chest.

“Thanks.”

“Anything you want, you get,” General Reese responded.

“I want to travel light. We’ll need six strips of jerky per man, canteens we can loop on the back of our belts, and a portable radio.”

“That’s right. You prefer jerky over field rations. I’ll dig some up. Give me ten minutes,” Reese said, and walked toward the hut.

Blade lifted the M60 and saw Lieutenant Garber and four troopers approaching.

“Here’s my squad, sir,” Garber announced, saluting.

The quartet snapped to attention.

“Introduce me,” Blade instructed.

Garber indicated each soldier with a wave of his left hand. All four were armed with M16’s and a semiautomatic pistol. “This is Private Griffonetti, Private Humes, Private McGonical, and Private Liter.”

“I’m Blade,” the Warrior said, nodding at each man, appraising them.

Griffonetti was swarthy and dark haired, Humes was a string bean, McGonical stocky and square jawed, and Liter possessed a sinewy build.

“I’ll expect all of you to follow my orders to the letter. Is that understood?”

A chorus of, “Yes, sir!” punctuated his question.

“We’ll be leaving shortly,” Blade told them. “If you—” He stopped when he realized the four privates and Lieutenant Garber were all gazing past him, to the south, with amazement on their faces. He turned.

“Am I seein’ what I think I’m seein’?” Hickok asked.

Blade wondered the same thing.

Approximately 100 yards from Sentry Post 17, in the middle of the road, were two women on horseback.

“They came out of the brush on the right,” Geronimo said.

Both women had long hair. One rode a white horse, the other a black steed.

“Do I need my peepers examined, or are they buck naked?” Hickok queried in disbelief.

“They’re nude,” Geronimo verified.

“Maybe there’s a shortage of clothes hereabouts,” Hickok cracked.

Blade’s eyes narrowed as he tried to distinguish details. The women were simply sitting there, watching the soldiers. Some of the troopers had noticed the two riders and ceased working to gawk in astonishment.

“Do you want me to go after them in a jeep?” Lieutenant Garber inquired eagerly.

“No,” Blade said. “They’d just take to the brush and you wouldn’t be able to catch them. For all we know, there might be more hiding in the fields or in those buildings, waiting to jump whoever goes after the women.”

Hickok unslung his Henry. “Do you want me to wing one of them, pard? It’d be a piece of cake.”

“Too risky,” Blade said. “We need a prisoner intact.”

General Reese rushed up. “It’s them! It’s them!”

“Who?” Hickok responded.

“The women I told you about,” General Reese said, gesturing at the riders.

“What women? You must be sufferin’ from heatstroke. All I see are two figments of your imagination.”

“Figments of—!” General Reese blustered, and glanced at Blade. “Is he always this way?”

“Always,” Blade said.

“How do you put up with it?”

Geronimo chuckled. “Don’t let him get to you. All you have to do is remember you’re dealing with a congenital idiot.”

General Reese gazed at the women. “What do you suppose they’re doing there?”

“Counting your men,” Blade replied.

“What?” Reese exclaimed.

“What else would they be doing? They’re memorizing the disposition of your forces.”

“Damn!” General Reese fumed.

“I’ve got to hand it to him or her,” Blade commented.

“Who?” General Reese asked.

“The brains behind their operation. The person in charge doesn’t miss a trick. They must be monitoring your sentry posts constantly.”

The two women abruptly rode into the undergrowth on the right side of Highway 289 and disappeared from view.

“Let them look all they want,” General Reese stated. “They’ll know we’re ready for anything they throw at us.”

“And that’s not all,” Blade remarked.

“What?”

Blade gazed at his fellow Warriors. “If they keep the sentry posts under constant surveillance, they’ll know we’re coming.”