Nevada Run

CHAPTER THREE

The SEAL had been the Founder’s pride and joy. Kurt Carpenter had wisely anticipated the deterioration of civilization after World War Three.

He knew society would fall apart at the seams; the government would collapse, social institutions would cease to exist, and the transportation system would crumble. Accordingly, Carpenter spent millions on a special vehicle, a prototype intended to serve his descendants in a world gone haywire. The Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle—or SEAL for short—was designed to navigate any terrain. Vanlike in build, the entire body was composed of a shatterproof and heat-resistant tinted green plastic. The floor was an impervious metal alloy. Four huge puncture-proof tires, each four feet high and two feet wide, supported the transport.

Carpenter had also incorporated armaments into the vehicle.

Mercenaries had been hired at great expense. The weapons systems they had installed were activated by four toggle switches on the dash. A pair of 50-caliber machine guns were mounted in recessed compartments under each front headlight, and a miniaturized surface-to-air missile was tilted on the roof over the driver’s seat. A rocket-launcher was hidden in the middle of the front grill, while a flamethrower was situated in the center of the front fender surrounded by layers of insulation.

As its name implied, the SEAL was solar powered. The light was collected by two solar panels affixed to the roof, the energy was converted and stored in revolutionary batteries located in a lead-lined case under the vehicle. The scientists had proudly boasted the SEAL would continue to function for a thousand years provided the solar panels or the battery casings were not damaged.

All of these thoughts filtered through Blade’s mind as he steered the SEAL southward along Highway 93 in northern Nevada. The highway was pitted with wide cracks and potholes, and many sections were buckled.

But few were the obstacles the SEAL couldn’t circumvent, and the past seven days of travel had been relatively uneventful.

A whole week on the road!

Blade was intensely disappointed they had been unable to overtake Mindy’s abductors. He mentally reviewed the events of the week, speculating on what he could have done differently to achieve Mindy’s rescue. Zahner had rushed him back to the Home, and he had informed the assembled Family about the tragedy. After a hasty meeting with Plato and the Elders, it had been unanimously agreed Alpha Triad should proceed after the culprits with all dispatch. The SEAL was always fully stocked and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Alpha Triad, with one addition, had departed the Home within an hour of his return.

But they’d never been able to catch up to the jeeps.

Where had he gone wrong?

Blade had deduced the abductors would not dare to travel in a direct course from the Home to Las Vegas. Doing so would entail driving through the Dakota Territory, home of the Cavalry, and the Civilized Zone—both allies of the Family. The abductors would want to avoid all contact with Federation factions. Which meant the kidnappers either went due south from the Home, hoping to bypass the Civilized Zone, and then swung to the west around Oklahoma or Texas, or else they traveled westward from Minnesota, skirting the Dakota Territory to the north, and then angled to the southwest through the northwest corner of Wyoming, avoiding the Mormons currently in control of Utah, and entering Nevada from the northeast. Blade had opted for the second route.

Acting on the theory the kidnappers would shun all large cities and towns, Blade had stuck to the secondary roads. At settlements along the way he had stopped and asked about the two jeeps. No one had seen them.

Many of the inhabitants of the small towns and communities had fled at the sight of the SEAL or greeted the Warriors with unconcealed suspicion.

But none of them, much to Blade’s relief, had attacked his party. Twice the Warriors had seen bands of scavengers near the road, and three times they had passed mutants, but neither the scavengers or their bestial counterparts had shown any inclination to tackle the SEAL.

A voice intruded on the giant’s reverie.

“How much longer before we reach Las Vegas, pard?” Hickok asked.

Blade glanced to his right. The transport was spaciously designed with two comfortable bucket seats in the front separated by a brown console.

Behind the bucket seats was a single seat the width of the vehicle. The rear of the SEAL was a storage area piled high with provisions, their jerky and water and spare ammunition. In a compartment under the rear section were two spare tires and a toolbox. “I don’t know how much longer,” he replied. “Geronimo has the map. Ask him.”

Hickok twisted in his seat and gazed at the man sitting behind him, one of the two best friends he had. “Hey, you mangy Injun! Wake up!”

Geronimo had been napping with his head resting against the window.

He came instantly awake, his alert brown eyes surveying the highway ahead for any sign of trouble. Powerfully built, he was stocky with black hair and rugged features. He wore a green shirt, green pants, and moccasins. An Arminius .357 Magnum was in a shoulder holster under his right arm and a tomahawk was lucked under his deer hide belt. “What is it, O Great White Idiot?”

Blade, listening to their banter, smiled. Geronimo was rightfully proud of his Blackfoot heritage, and the Indian and the gunman constantly teased one another over their respective racial differences.

“Boy! You sure get nasty when someone interrupts your beauty sleep!” Hickok cracked.

“I’d rather wake up with my wife at my side instead of seeing your ugly puss,” Geronimo observed.

“There’s nothin’ wrong with my face,” Hickok retorted indignantly.

“Nothing a good head transplant wouldn’t cure,” Gieronimo commented.

“Two points for Geronimo,” Blade interjected, laughing, glad their light-hearted joking was alleviating the tension of the mission.

But not everyone riding in the SEAL agreed.

A harsh feminine voice intruded on their conversation. “If you morons are through clowning around, why don’t we get down to business? How long before we reach Las Vegas?”

Blade looked into the rear view mirror at the speaker. She sat directly behind him, her luxurious amber hair cascading past her shoulders. Her eyes were a vivid green, her features exceptionally lovely. She wore a black leather vest similar to his, but hers was cut low in the front, displaying her ample cleavage. Tight black leather pants and boots covered her shapely legs. Around her slim waist were strapped a pair of Caspian 45-caliber automatics. And projecting above her left shoulder was the hilt of the 24-inch machete she invariably carried in a custom-designed sheath on her back, slanted between her shoulder blades. The sheath was held fast by a wide black strip of leather looped across her chest.

“Who are you callin’ morons, lady?” Hickok demanded.

“If the shoe fits,” Helen responded. “And don’t call me lady. The name is Helen, and don’t you forget it!”

“I know what your name is,” Hickok snapped. “And I can understand your being upset about Mindy. But that doesn’t give you call to go around insultin’ people.”

Helen bristled. “I’ll insult you or any other man any time I damn well feel like it!”

“You keep it up and you’ll be pickin’ your teeth up from the floor,” Hickok warned her. “The only ones who get to insult me on a regular basis are my missus and this crazy Injun. You’ve been belly-achin’ ever since we left the Home. You never have a nice word for anyone. All you do is gripe.

Did you treat your ex-husband like this?”

Helen’s face became livid with fury. Her hands moved to her Caspians.

“Why, you…”

“That’s enough!” Blade barked, slamming on the brakes and bringing the SEAL to a grinding halt. He swiveled in his seat, glaring at Helen. “I don’t ever want to see you threatening to pull your guns on a fellow Warrior again! You got that?”

“But—” Helen began.

“No buts about it!” Blade declared in annoyance. “Hickok’s right! You’ve been a monumental pain in the butt this whole trip. I’ve tried to make allowances for your behavior. You’ve complained because you didn’t think we were going fast enough, and you’ve complained because you didn’t agree with the route I’m taking, and you’ve groused every time we made a rest stop. You rarely talk unless you’re spoken to, and even then it’s some smart-mouth reply.” He paused. “I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt because of the turmoil you must be feeling over Mindy. But no more! I let you talk me into taking you along against my better judgment.

Sure, Mindy’s your daughter and you have a right to help rescue her. But you also have a wicked temper and a short fuse, not exactly ideal traits for a Warrior.”

Helen seemed stung by the rebuke. “If you felt that way about me, why’d you ever accept me as a Warrior?”

“The decision wasn’t up to me,” Blade said. “You know the procedure for selecting a new Warrior. The candidate must be sponsored before the Elders by a Warrior of standing. Spartacus sponsored you. The Elders voted on whether to accept your candidacy or not, and they decided to appoint you as a Warrior.”

“But you could have protested their decision,” Helen noted. “They would have listened to you.”

“I didn’t think it was necessary,” Blade informed her. “Your good qualities outweigh your bad. There isn’t one Warrior who is perfect in every respect.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hickok quipped.

“To hear you talk, I didn’t think I had any good qualities,” Helen mentioned.

“You do,” Blade assured her. “I’ve been following your progress ever since you were assigned to Omega Triad. You take orders well and you always do your best at whatever job you’re given. You relate well with the other Warriors in your Triad. You’re one of the best shots in the Family.

And you believe in the ideals the Founder proclaimed. You have a lot of good qualities.”

Helen visibly relaxed, her lips curling downward in self-reproach. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’ve been acting like a bitch. You were right. All I can think about is Mindy. She’s all I have left in this world. If anything happens to her…” she said, and let the sentence trail off.

“We’ll get Mindy back,” Hickok told her. “Don’t fret none.”

“For those who might be interested,” Geronimo spoke up, “I’ve calculated the distance to Las Vegas.”

“Impossible,” Hickok said. “You couldn’t have.”

“Why not?” Geronimo asked, puzzled.

“Because I didn’t see you take off your moccasins,” Hickok commented with a mischievous grin. “And I know we’re more than ten miles away.”

“Two points for Hickok,” Blade said, accelerating.

For the first time since her daughter was kidnapped, Helen mustered a smile.

Geronimo elected to ignore the barb. “We crossed what was once the state line not too long ago. We should be coming up soon on a small town called Contact. The map doesn’t say how many people lived there before the war. It could be deserted like so many others we’ve seen.”

“How far is it from Contact to Las Vegas?” Blade inquired.

“I estimate about four hundred and forty-six miles,” Geronimo divulged. “Because of the terrible shape the highway is in, we’ve only been able to average forty miles an hour. At our present rate, it will take us eleven hours to reach Vegas.” He consulted a watch on his left wrist. “It’s ten in the morning now. So we could reach Vegas tonight if we drive straight through. It would mean driving after sunset, though.”

Blade reflected for a minute. As a rule, he did not drive after dark.

Spotting an ambush or other threat was next to impossible once the sun went down. He preferred to do most of his driving during the daylight hours.

“I vote we drive straight through,” Hickok suggested. “The sooner we reach Las Vegas, the better. Besides, we haven’t run into any trouble yet.

Maybe our luck will hold until we reach Vegas.”

“One thing I learned a long time ago,” Blade mentioned, “is never to push your luck.” He stared into the rear view mirror. “Helen, I know you probably won’t agree with my decision, but I’m not going to push the SEAL to reach Vegas tonight. We don’t want to waltz into a trap. They must be expecting us. So we’ll take it nice and slow. Is that okay by you?”

“Whatever you say,” Helen stated. “You’re in charge.”

“Hey! Look!” Geronimo exclaimed, leaning forward and pointing.

Blade’s eyes narrowed as he saw the cluster of buildings approximately a quarter of a mile ahead.

A freshly painted billboard abruptly appeared on the right:

“What the blazes!” Hickok declared.

“Who would open a diner in the middle of nowhere?” Geronimo asked.

“We haven’t seen any other traffic since we left Wyoming,” Helen remarked. “And that was a military patrol from the Civilized Zone.”

“Maybe they get traffic here from time to time,” Blade conjectured.

“Why don’t we stop?” Hickok recommended. “I could use some home-cooked grub. Venison jerky gets a mite bland after a spell.”

“I don’t know…” Blade said doubtfully.

“Please, Blade,” Helen urged. “If the kidnappers came this way, the people here might have seen them. They might know if Mindy is still alive.” She paused. “Please.”

Against his better judgment, Blade agreed. “Okay. We’ll stop and eat our midday meal early, but I want everyone to stay on their toes.”

“You’re a worrywart, you know that?” Hickok declared. “This place is called Ma’s Diner. What harm can a little old lady do to four Warriors, for cryin’ out loud?” He snickered at the notion.

“For once I agree with Hickok,” Geronimo said. “They wouldn’t bother to advertise if they weren’t serious about attracting customers.”

“I hope you’re right,” Blade stated.

“Quit your worryin’, pard,” Hickok advised. “What could go wrong?”