David Robbins - Boston Run

“What are they doing?” Geronimo queried.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Hickok responded. “They have us hemmed in on all four sides.”

“I vote we make a break for it,” Marcus proposed.

“And if they won’t move out of our way, we can ram them,” Hickok said facetiously.

“Now you’re talking,” Marcus replied eagerly.

“We have company,” Geronimo observed.

The gunfighter glanced at the helicopter to the west. A tall, lean man in the uniform of an officer, his chest decorated with ribbons, was stepping from the cabin, his shoulders hunched against the wind from the rotors, his hands holding his cap in place on his head. He advanced for 20 yards, then halted with his hands on his hips. “Warriors!” he bellowed. “We must talk.”

“I’ll go,” Hickok said. “The two of you can cover my back.”

“You shouldn’t be the one to go,” Geronimo remarked.

“Why not? I won’t let the mangy polecat get the jump on me,” Hickok promised.

“I doubt he speaks Martian.”

The gunman glared at Geronimo, then slung the Henry over his left shoulder and ambled toward the Russian. He could see other soldiers in the helicopter, but they made no move to leave the craft.

The officer came forward to meet the Warrior halfway, his steps clipped and precise. His uniform was immaculate, his boots polished to a sheen. A square jaw contributed to the impression he conveyed of no-nonsense authority, a soldier of distinction and a man who wielded power dispassionately. “I am Major General Ligachev,” he announced when he halted two yards from Hickok.

“Howdy. I’m the Lone Ranger.”

Ligachev smirked and shook his head. “You are the Warrior called Hickok, are you not?”

The gunman’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you know my name?”

“You were captured once and taken to Washington, D.C., where you were interrogated by Comrade General Malenkov,” Ligachev went on, ignoring the question. “Unfortunately, you escaped.”

“I’m partial to my freedom,” Hickok said. “Besides, some of the folks there were a mite inhospitable.”

“You are a close friend to the top Warrior, Blade. You were with him in Cincinnati when he destroyed our greatest scientific achievement, Lenin’s Needle,” Ligachev stated.

“That doohickey was an eyesore.”

“You are en route now to Boston, where you hope to rescue Blade. How many are with you?”

Hickok didn’t like the smug tone the officer was using. “You seem to know an awful lot about me,” he commented.

“How many of your fellow Warriors are with you?” Major General Ligachev repeated.

“I’ve plumb forgotten. Ten or twenty, I reckon.”

The officer gazed toward the alley, then at Hickok. “The number doesn’t matter. All of you will surrender immediately. You will lay down your arms and step to the middle of the street with your hands overhead.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

Ligachev gestured at the helicopter to his rear. “I have four such aircraft at my disposal. Each one is armed with machine guns, rockets, and nose cannons. Your vaunted SEAL is formidable and durable, but your van can’t withstand my little fleet.”

Hickok glanced at the chopper. “I reckon we can give you a run for your money.”

“Be sensible,” Ligachev said. “There is no way you will escape. Our trap has been too carefully planned. We have expended considerable time, energy, and expense to spring our surprise, and we have foreseen every contingency.”

The Warrior studied the officer’s cold green eyes and haughty countenance. “This was planned?”

“Of course, you moron,” Major General Ligachev stated. “Allow me to elaborate so you will fully appreciate the extent of our genius and the folly of resisting us. As I noted, you are en route to Boston to try and save Blade, who was abducted slightly over a week ago while on his way back to the Home from Halma. Am I correct so far?”

Hickok merely nodded.

“Your accursed Family had no idea where the giant could be, although you did find signs of a struggle, until one of you discovered a matchbook,” Ligachev related arrogantly. “Am I still correct?”

“You’re a regular mind reader.”

“I get better. Part of the matchbook cover was missing, but the matches clearly came from Sam’s Bar in Boston, Massachusetts. Your Elders decided to send a rescue mission, which explains your presence in this quaint town,” Ligachev said.

Hickok wanted to bash his head against the nearest building. He felt like such a chump. “The matches were a plant.”

Major General Ligachev chuckled. “The matches were a plant. Did you really believe one of our elite commando teams, the HGP Unit, no less, would be stupid enough to leave such incriminating evidence behind? We wanted you to find the matches. General Malenkov knew your Family would send Warriors to Blade’s rescue. He predicted the SEAL would be used, and he arranged for our welcoming committee.”

“But we’re not even in Russian territory,” Hickok said lamely.

“You will be by midnight,” Ligachev stated. “We intended to spring our trap where you would least expect it, and you undoubtedly did not suspect we were in this area. Did you?”

“No,” Hickok admitted.

“Actually, the SEAL has been under surveillance since one of my flight spotted a spiral of smoke earlier. You see, although we couldn’t be certain of the exact route you would take, logic dictated you would travel in a relatively direct line because of the time factor, which in your estimation would be critical. It was no wondrous feat to calculate that you would cut across the northeast corner of Iowa. Since we already knew of your predilection for traveling on secondary roads as opposed to the major highways, all we had to do was fly a grid pattern over the northeast corner, concentrating on the secondary roads, until one of us spotted the SEAL.

Then we simply reformed and sprang our trap,” Ligachev related.

“But you couldn’t have known what day we’d be comin’ through,” Hickok noted. He took a quirky delight in being able to criticize their meticulous plot.

“Which is why we have worked in six-hour shifts on a rotational basis.

My flight is not the only one. There are three other flights of four copters apiece, and each of our flights pulls a six-hour shift daily. If we pulled a longer shift, we would expend our fuel and be unable to reach our base,” Ligachev said. “We’ve been waiting for the SEAL for a week. Frankly, we expected you long before this.”

“Glad we disappointed you.”

“Now don’t be petty,” the officer stated testily. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Our superior intellect was bound to prevail.”

“Gee, I wish I was wearin’ boots,” Hickok quipped.

Major General Ligachev frowned. “Enough of this idle chatter. I have graciously explained more than was necessary.”

“Why didn’t you bozos just blow the SEAL to bits? Why go to all this trouble?” Hickok asked.

“Because General Malenkov gave specific orders to avoid damaging the SEAL, if possible. Your vehicle is quite unique, and our scientists and engineers could learn a lot by examining it. Be smart and lay down your weapons. Now.”

“And if we don’t oblige?”

“Then we will reduce the SEAL to so much scrap. General Malenkov prefers the van in one piece, but he commanded us to obliterate it if you won’t surrender,” Ligachev stated, and looked meaningfully at the gunman. “So don’t be a fool. I want your answer, and I want it now. Will you hand over your weapons and the SEAL?”

Hickok glanced back at the alley, then at the chopper. He grinned and leaned forward slightly. “I know all Russian soldiers are supposed to be able to speak Russian and English, right?”