David Robbins - Boston Run

“If time is of the essence, why didn’t we wait for the next shuttle flight and take a VTOL to Boston?” Marcus questioned.

Geronimo stared at the younger Warrior, thinking of the weekly shuttle service initiated by the Free State of California. The only Federation faction possessing functional jet aircraft, California had been the site of a summit meeting of Federation leaders at which they’d decided to use the jets to carry correspondence and passengers on a regular basis. “The next shuttle flight wasn’t due for six days,” he answered. “And we wouldn’t have been able to commandeer the jet without the approval of the Federal Council. By the time a meeting of all the leaders could be held, another week would have elapsed.”

“There was another reason I didn’t want to wait for the jet,” Hickok added. “To reach Boston, the VTOL would have to fly over Russian territory. The last time one did, the Commies shot it down. Takin’ the SEAL is a mite slower, but it’s also a tad safer.” He straightened, his right hand dropping to the Henry resting on the console. “Now what’s this action?”

The three vehicles were slowly closing on the transport. From the passenger side of the foremost vehicle, a gray car, fluttered a white flag.

“They want to talk,” Geronimo said.

“I don’t trust ’em,” Hickok stated.

“We should give them the benefit of the doubt,” Geronimo suggested.

“Okay,” Hickok responded reluctantly. “But don’t doze off on me.” He headed toward the vehicles, keeping the speedometer at ten miles an hour.

“They’re armor-plated,” Geronimo observed.

Marcus looked closer. Sure enough, each vehicle was covered with makeshift armor plating. Mesh wire had been fastened to the windshields.

Two of the three were cars, the third a pickup. Riding in the bed of the pickup were three men in seedy clothes, and each man held a machine gun.

“Maybe they’ll let us pass,” Geronimo said, but his tone lacked conviction.

“If they don’t, we’ll have a fight on our hands,” Hickok noted. “I don’t like the notion of wastin’ more ammo.”

“We can always ram them,” Marcus recommended.

The gunfighter glanced over his right shoulder. “Have you ever wanted to learn to drive the SEAL?”

Marcus grinned. “You bet I have.”

“Forget it.”

The distance between the transport and the three armored vehicles slowly narrowed. When only 20 yards separated them, they halted.

Hickok put the SEAL in Park. He saw a man climbing out the passenger side window of the lead vehicle, a scrawny figure carrying a Winchester. Tied to the end of the barrel was the white flag, a ragged towel. “Looks like they want to palaver.”

“To what?” Marcus asked.

“Palaver is Martian for shoot the breeze,” Geronimo translated.

“Oh.”

“You two stay put,” Hickok directed. He scooped up the Henry and opened his door.

“I should go, not you,” Geronimo said.

Hickok shook his head. “I need to stretch my legs. Keep your peepers peeled. If they try any funny stuff, back my play.” He eased to the asphalt.

“I’ll go with you,” Marcus offered.

“I told you to stay put,” Hickok said. He slammed the door, hefted the Henry, and strolled toward the man bearing the white flag.

The three men in the bed of the pickup, which was parked a few yards behind and to the left of the lead car, all trained their machine guns on the Warrior.

Berwin wanted answers.

He’d spent the better part of the past two hours contemplating the course of action he should pursue, and he’d reached the conclusion that the only way he could discover the reason for his presence in a Russian-controlled hospital in Boston would be to find an office or a file room. Any written records pertaining to his case were bound to shed light on the mystery. His parents and sister were due to arrive in several hours.

Doctor Milton had departed for lunch, and Nurse Krittenbauer had told him she’d be downstairs for an hour.

He had all the time he needed.

Berwin stepped to the door, insured the corridor was empty, and bore to the right, heading for the junction. He tiptoed to the corner and listened. Someone coughed lightly and another person began humming.

He eased his left eye to the edge and ventured a peek.

Twelve feet from the junction stood an obviously bored guard, a man in a blue uniform with the words ACME SECURITY printed on the cap he wore. In a black leather holster on his left hip rode a pistol sporting black grips. His brown hair had been clipped short, and his brown eyes regarded his surroundings with ill-concealed disdain. He yawned and stretched.

Not more than a yard behind the guard was an elevator shaft, the door closed and the needle on the floor indicator overhead pointing at the third floor.

Between the junction and the elevator, on the right side of the hall, positioned close to the wall, was an L-shaped counter eight feet in length and half as wide. Stationed at the counter, attired in a smart white uniform, humming to herself as she sorted through a stack of index cards, was a nurse with black hair. Positioned at the opposite end of the counter, at the open end near the elevator, was a shut door on which the word OFFICE had been imprinted in large block letters.

Berwin stared at that door, wishing he could get inside.

“I need to take a leak,” the guard unexpectedly announced.

“Go ahead. I’ll cover for you,” the nurse said.

“Give a yell if the patients try to rebel,” the guard joked, walking over to the counter.

“You’d better go to the bathroom and get back to your post,” the nurse advised him. “If Milton or Krittenbauer see you talking to me, we’re in hot water.”

“Okay,” the guard said. “We don’t want to wind up like Crane and Schmidt.”

“What happened to them? Why were they relieved of duty? Why were we called up here on such short notice?”

“I don’t know all the facts. Apparently they slacked off and let an unauthorized person on the floor. Milton and Krittenbauer hit the roof. I was told that Krittenbauer had them relieved on the spot and ordered replacements on the double,” the guard related.

The nurse lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Just between you and me, Colonel Krittenbauer scares me to death.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean. The KGB has the same effect on me,” the guard stated. He moved away from the counter, toward the junction.

“Shout your lungs out if the elevator starts up. That’s a private baby reserved for those using this floor, so it might be Krittenbauer or Milton coming back.”

“You’ve got it,” the nurse promised.

Berwin whirled and raced swiftly and silently to his room. He ducked inside and flattened against the door, breathing heavily, his adrenaline pumping. Crouching, he peered out and saw the guard walk past the junction and disappear, evidently en route to the bathroom. Berwin straightened and returned to the junction. He glanced to the left, elated to find the guard nowhere in sight, then looked at the nurse’s station.

Still humming, still sorting the index cards, the nurse had her full attention focused on her task.

There would never be a more opportune moment.

Berwin sank to his hands and knees, then crawled to the counter. He moved slowly along the base, holding his breath, expecting to hear the nurse cry out in alarm, but he crept past her without incident, the five-foot-high counter screening him from her view. He came to the open end and paused, gazing at the office, wondering how he could sneak in there unnoticed.

With a loud whirring noise the elevator began to operate.