David Robbins - Boston Run

He breathed the cool night air and gazed upward at the stars, thinking of the cab driver he had left loosely bound in the front seat of the taxi, which was parked in a stand of trees situated less than 70 yards to the north of the military post. Harold would eventually free himself and radio for assistance, but the cab driver wouldn’t be able to drive off because Blade had flattened all four tires.

Heavy boot steps sounded off to the south.

Blade froze and slowly scanned his immediate vicinity. He appeared to be at the corner of a runway. Tarmacadam covered the ground. Lamposts were positioned along the fence every 40 feet or so, affording a dim illumination. But, as the Warrior had noted on his wary approach to the fence, the lamps failed to adequately penetrate to the very corner.

A Russian soldier, a perimeter guard, materialized under the nearest lampost to the south, strolling along the fence and humming contentedly.

Over his right shoulder hung an AK-47.

Blade lowered himself to the tarmacadam and waited. If he was lucky the guard wouldn’t look down. He’d hoped to reduce the probability of encountering sentries by entering the base after one A.M. So much for his bright idea.

The guard clasped his hands behind his back and stared off in the distance at the lights of a residential neighborhood.

The Warrior released the stock of the AK-47 and eased his right hand to the Bowie on his right hip. He had one important factor working in his favor. The Soviets had controlled Boston for over a century, and not once during that period did they have to contend with an organized rebellion.

They had eradicated the last of the lingering bands of freedom fighters in Massachusetts 94 years ago, according to the information Harold had imparted. And since no one had attacked a Russian facility in so long, the Soviet troops were bound to be complacent, bound to be less alert than they would be in a war zone. At least, that’s what Blade hoped.

Still humming, the sentry drew ever nearer to the corner. He came within six feet and stopped, turning to gaze over the post. Not far off, to the southwest, were two hangars and a barracks. The first inkling he had that something was wrong, dreadfully wrong, came when a razor point gouged him in the throat and an iron vise clamped on his mouth.

“One word, one twitch, and you’re dead.”

Petrified, the guard stood stock still, scarcely able to credit his senses.

“I’m going to let go of your mouth. If you try to shout, I’ll slit your throat.”

The soldier flinched as the knife or bayonet or whatever it was gouged even deeper into his neck. He exhaled when the hand moved from over his mouth.

“Do you see this?” the man standing directly behind the guard asked.

The sentry’s eyes widened in astonishment when the pressure on his throat was relieved and the biggest knife he’d ever seen, maybe the biggest knife in the entire world, was held right in front of his eyes. Even in the dark he could tell the blade must be 14 inches in length. He envisioned the knife sinking into his body and he gulped in fear.

“Do you know what I’ll do with this if you don’t cooperate?”

“Yes,” the guard whispered.

“Where is the HGP Unit?”

The soldier licked his lips and nodded to the southwest. “They’re housed in the barracks building next to those two hangers.”

“What’s in the hangars?”

“The helicopters they use. Eight of them, I think.”

“The long-range jobs?”

“There are only two of the modified kind. The others are basic choppers.”

“What about the rest of the base personnel and aircraft?”

“All farther south. The HGP Unit has that area all to itself, but most of the base facilities, the barracks where the Air Force personnel are housed, the homes for the married ones and their dependents, the majority of the hangars, and all the rest are located near Airport Road and Hartwell Road, at the south end of the base.”

“You’ve been a great help.”

The sentry tensed in anticipation of the knife tearing into him. “Are you going to kill me?” he asked anxiously.

“I want you to relay a message for me,” said the man to his rear.

“A message?”

“Yeah. Tell General Malenkov that Blade sends his regards.”

“General Malenkov? The General Malenkov?”

“You’ve got it.”

Stunned, the guard opened his mouth to voice another question, but a tremendous blow to the back of his head drove him to his knees. The fence and the stars, the whole universe, spun before his eyes. A second blow, delivered on the exact same spot as the first, caused the universe and his consciousness to be devoured by a black hole.

“Thanks for everything,” Blade said softly to the figure at his feet. He sheathed the right Bowie and stared at the two hangars and the barracks several hundred yards away, their outlines silhouetted by periodic floodlights. The intelligence the sentry had imparted dovetailed with the layout of the base. Most of the base facilities were indeed situated on the south side, as Blade had observed for himself earlier as Harold drove him around the boundary on the roads that came closest to the fence. And it fit that the HGP Unit would be housed in their own barracks, nearer the northern end of the post, away from the regular Air Force troops.

Blade bent down and removed the AK-47 the guard had carried, then picked up the one he’d left on the ground. Now he had three. He slung the assault rifle he’d used to press down the barbed wire, the same one he’d used during the fight at Khrushchev Memorial, the one containing the fewest rounds in its magazine, over his left shoulder.

He was all set.

Blade hunched over and ran toward the buildings, plotting his strategy.

Surely at one in the morning most, if not all, of the HGP supersoldiers would be asleep. Doctor Milton had claimed there were 18 of the genetically perfected commandos, and Blade intended to insure they were all dead before he departed Boston. He slowed when he was 50 feet from the three structures, moving silently now, laying his combat boots down softly, studying the setup.

The barracks building was positioned within 20 feet of the west fence and was smaller than the pair of hangars located to its left, both of which were two stories in height and a hundred feet in width. The rear of all three structures faced to the north.

There was no sign of any activity.

Blade padded to within 30 feet of the barracks, his finger on the trigger, the AK-47’s on his back sliding slightly with every stride. An important consideration occurred to him. Would the supersoldiers fly their own aircraft or would an Air Force pilot handle the chore? The answer was critical. Elite units normally included whatever specialists were required within their own ranks. The Warriors, as an example he readily thought of, didn’t use Tillers to drive the SEAL for them. If the supersoldiers flew their own helicopters, if a few of them had been trained as pilots, then he had his ticket back to the Home.

Muffled conversation abruptly arose from the northwest corner of the barracks.

The Warrior dropped to the tarmacadam and the AK-47 over his right shoulder clattered against the ground.

A pair of soldiers appeared at the corner, a man and a woman, both attired in combat fatigues, both wearing auto pistols in leather holsters strapped to their hips. The woman spoke to the man in Russian and they both took several paces and scanned the runway.

Hidden in the shadows, Blade held his breath. If they spotted him, he’d have to open fire and the shots would alert the supersoldiers inside the barracks. His eyes narrowed. Were those two part of the HGP Unit? Both were well over six feet tall and endowed with strapping physiques. Both had attractive features revealed in the light from a lampost next to the fence. Was he gazing at biologically perfect specimens?