David Robbins - Green Bay Run

Plastering a friendly smile on his face, Blade glanced down as the jeep coasted to a stop alongside the transport.

A tall man sporting silver insignia on his lapels stared suspiciously at the Warrior. Lying in his lap was one of the distinctive assault rifles specifically manufactured by the Technics for their troops, a Dakon II. The entire weapon, including the folding stock and the 20-inch barrel, was black to reduce reflection. A short silencer suppressed each shot, and a 30-shot magazine provided ample rounds. Mounted above the ejection chamber was an elaborate scope, and atop the scope at the front end projected a four-inch tube capable of generating a red beam of light, a targeting laser used to pinpoint foes with astounding accuracy. A button on top of the scope activated the Laser Sighting Mode. There were four other buttons, located on the stock on the right side, and a small digital display above them. The digital readout kept track of the number of rounds expended and would light up when the first button was pressed.

The second button put the Dakon in full automatic, the third semiautomatic, and the fourth ejected spent magazines.

Blade knew the weapon well. He had used one extensively during his last run-in with the Technics. “Hi there,” he greeted the officer. “Can I help you?”

“Hello,” the Technic said, his brown eyes roving over the SEAL. “I’m Lieutenant Mitchell, First Corps, Technic Army. Who might you be?”

Neither he nor his fellow Technics wore helmets.

“Bomba,” Blade fibbed, thinking of a series of books he’s enjoyed in his younger years.

“Strange name,” Lieutenant Mitchell commented, still studying the transport. “Where are you from? I have the weirdest feeling that I should know you, and there’s something vaguely familiar about your van.”

“I’m from Shangri-la.”

“Never heard of it.”

“But I’ve heard of the Technics,” Blade said. “I didn’t know I’d strayed into your territory. I thought the Technics are based down dear Chicago.”

“We are. But we call Chicago Technic City.”

“I think I like the old name better.”

“Did I ask you, mister?” Mitchell responded, his brow knit in contemplation.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you,” Blade stated, continuing to beam good-naturedly.

“What are you doing here?” Lieutenant Mitchell inquired arrogantly.

“Excuse me, but I don’t see why I should answer your questions when I’m not even in your territory.”

“You’ll answer them or else,” the officer informed the giant. “You’re in the vicinity of a top-secret Technic installation, and I’m required to verify the intentions of everyone in this sector.”

Blade glanced at the two Technics seated in the rear of the jeep. Both held Dakon II’s. “Really? There’s a Technic instal-lation hereabouts?

Where is it? What kind of installation is it?”

“Our facility is located in Green Bay, and you would be smart to avoid the city at all costs,” Lieutenant Mitchell said.

“What are you doing there?” Blade probed.

“Do you really expect me to reveal classified information?”

“No, I guess not,” Blade responded. “But maybe you can tell me one thing.”

“Which is?”

“I came across several bodies near a wagon earlier. The people had been torn apart. Do you happen to know what killed them?”

“We saw them too,” Mitchell mentioned. “And no, I don’t know how they died.”

“A horrible way to go.”

“I agree,” Mitchell stated, sounding sincere. He straight-ened and tried to peer past the Warrior. “Are you all alone?”

“Yep.”

“It’s dangerous to travel in the Outlands alone.”

“I know.”

“Have you seen anyone else in this area?”

“No,” Blade said. “I’d stopped to eat some jerky when I saw you driving down the road. Why?”

“You haven’t seen anyone at all?” Mitchell inquired.

“Not a soul.”

Lieutenant Mitchell exchanged glances with the driver, then smiled at the giant. “Would you mind if we searched your vehicle?”

Blade pretended to be shocked by the request. “What?”

“I can’t permit you to proceed until I’ve checked your vehicle. We’re looking for a fugitive.”

“And you believe this fugitive might be in my van?”

“There’s always the possibility.”

“I’m the only one in here.”

“I need to be certain,” Mitchell said.

“Are you calling me a liar?” Blade asked.

“Of course not. It’s just my job.”

“Because I am,” Blade stated.

“What?”

Blade leaned toward them and lowered his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “I am, you see.”

Lieutenant Mitchell missed the connection. “You’re what?” he snapped.

“A liar.”

The officer rested his left hand on his Dakon II. “Oh? What did you lie about?”

“Everything.”

“Do tell.”

“Even my name. It isn’t Bomba.”

Mitchell shifted, studying the giant’s features, mystified by the admission and uncertain of where the conversation might be leading.

“What is your real name?”

Blade grinned. “I’ll give you a clue.”

“I don’t want a damn clue. I want your name.”

“Where were you three years ago?”

“Three years ago? What difference does it make?”

“Humor me,” Blade said. “Think back. What were you doing three years ago this month?”

“I was an instructor at our Training Academy, teaching—” Mitchell began, and amazement set in. He scrutinized the transport, stunned, as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes. “You!”

“Me,” Blade said, and shot him. The .44 Magnum thundered, the bullet boring into Lieutenant Mitchell’s forehead and slamming him against the driver. Blade dropped onto his right side, knowing Sampson would cut loose, and the burping of the Bushmaster proved him to be right. He waited for the firing to stop, all of five seconds, and popped back up.

The Technics had been unable to squeeze off a single round. Samson had crept to the back of the jeep while the officer conversed with Blade, then risen when the Magnum boomed and poured half of his magazine into their backs. They were sprawled in grotesque positions, their uniforms dotted with red holes.

“Nice job,” Blade remarked.

“I dislike shooting anyone in the back, but I couldn’t ask them to turn around, could I?” Samson replied.

“You did just fine,” Blade assured him.

The jeep abruptly moved slowly forward as the driver’s limp foot slipped from the brake pedal.

“What do I do?” Samson asked. “I’ve never driven a vehicle before.”

Blade grabbed the door handle, about to vault out and stop the creeping jeep, when he happened to glance in the side mirror and discovered three more Technic vehicles racing toward the SEAL. They were less than 90 yards away. “Get in! Quick!” he commanded.

Samson looked over his left shoulder, then dashed around the front of the van to the passenger side. “Do we stand and fight?” he asked as he climbed inside.

“No,” Blade replied. “They might have grenades. We’ll make them come after us, then give them a little surprise.” He gunned the engine and took off, accelerating rapidly, his eyes on the mirror.

“What about Yama?”

“He’ll wait for us if he returns while we’re gone. He knows we wouldn’t leave without a good reason.”

“I’m surprised he isn’t back already.”

“So am I,” Blade admitted. The speedometer indicated 40 miles an hour and climbing.

“They’re gaining on us,” Samson commented.

“Perfect,” Blade said, and smiled grimly. He saw one of the Technics in the lead jeep talking into a radio. The sight angered him. Now the Technics in Green Bay would know the SEAL was in the area. Now the Mad Scientist, or whoever the blazes he was, would be expecting them.