David Robbins - Dallas Run

Worry gnawed at his mind.

The Warriors were trained to be decisive, to make snap judgments in the heat of combat, to remain calm and collected even when their lives were on the line. A moment’s indecision could prove fatal. And in Blade’s current condition, the Warrior was vulnerable.

If anything happened to—

“Hey, old-timer!”

Startled, Plato looked up, surprised to discover his cabin less than 40 feet away. Hickok and Geronimo were walking toward him.

“Where’s Blade?” the gunfighter asked.

“He went to talk to Jenny,” Plato answered.

“Darn. We wanted to bend the big galoot’s ear,” Hickok said, halting.

“He’s takin’ us to Dallas whether he likes the notion or not.”

Plato looked over the gunman’s left shoulder at the cabin. “Where are our guests?”

“With your missus,” Hickok replied. “She’s feedin’ them venison sandwiches and cookies. They’ll gain ten pounds before she’s done.”

“Did Blade change his mind about going to Texas?” Geronimo inquired.

“No,” Plato responded.

“Then let’s go find the dummy and persuade him to take us,” Hickok said to Geronimo.

“Nathan—” Plato began.

Hickok held up his right hand. “Oh, no you don’t!”

“What?”

“You’re not gettin’ away with it this time,” the gunfighter declared.

“What do you mean?” Plato asked, perplexed.

Hickok snorted. “Don’t play innocent with me, old-timer. You’re not talkin’ me out of it.”

“But—”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Hickok said, cutting Plato off. “You’ve pulled this stunt too many times in the past and I’m drawin’ the line right here and now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I suppose you don’t recollect the time Geronimo was missin’ and I wanted to go after him? I suppose you don’t recall talkin’ me out of going?”

“Yes, I remember that,” Plato said. “We had no idea where he was, and I requested that you wait a week in the hope he would return. Which he did.”

“That’s not my point. Who was it who tried to talk me out of going after Shane when he went off to fight the Trolls?”

“I did,” Plato admitted. “But you went anyway.”

“Don’t nitpick,” Hickok said.

“But I—”

“I’m not finished yet,” the gunman said. “Who was it who stopped me from stompin’ that Troll we captured into the dirt? You. I could go on and on, but you get my drift. You’re always talkin’ me out of this or that, but not now.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Plato said, and smiled.

“You can talk until you’re blue in the face,” Hickok said, “and it won’t do you a bit of good. Blade, Geronimo, and I are a unit. We’re Alpha Triad, and you know danged well we’ve worked together for years. Where Blade goes, we go.”

“As well you should.”

“So go ahead and waste your breath,” Hickok said. “See if it…” He abruptly stopped, his forehead creasing. “What did you say?”

“I agree with you wholeheartedly,” Plato informed him. “If the two of you want to go on the run with Blade, then by all means you should.”

“Is this a trick?”

Plato chuckled. “No. I believe the two of you should go with Blade. In fact, I will insist upon it.”

Hickok glanced at Geronimo. “Did I miss something here, pard?”

“The only thing you’re missing is a brain,” Geronimo replied, then looked at the Family Leader. “Why will you insist?”

“I have a favor to ask of you,” Plato said.

“You name it, you’ve got it,” Hickok declared.

“If I can convince Blade to take you, I want the two of you to stay close to him on this run. Watch over him. Cover his back.”

“We always cover his back,” Hickok remarked. “We wouldn’t let anything happen to him. His missus would kill us.”

Plato placed his right hand on the gunfighter’s left shoulder. “Nathan, I’m serious. Please watch Blade closely.”

Surprised by the Leader’s sincerity, Hickok blinked a few times, then smiled. “Sure, old-timer. We’ll baby-sit the big lug for you. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

“Thank you,” Plato said, and headed for his cabin. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must tend to our visitors.”

Hickok scratched his head and watched Plato walk off. “Now what the blazes was that all about?”

“I don’t know,” Geronimo responded, gazing thoughtfully at the Family Leader’s back.

“I swear that man is becoming goofier the older he gets.”

Geronimo glanced at his friend and grinned. “So what’s your excuse?”

“So that’s Dallas, huh? How many folks lived there before the war, pard?”

“About two million,” Blade replied.

“I wonder how many are there now,” Geronimo commented.

The three Warriors stood on Highway 289, next to the open gate at Sentry Post 17. Behind them, parked in a row from south to north on the right side of the road, were the 14 vehicles comprising the military convoy that had brought them from Sherman to Post 17. Four jeeps and ten trucks were aligned bumper to bumper.

Blade turned and observed the swirl of activity taking place in the vicinity of the sentry hut. Post 17 was being converted into a makeshift Command Center for the duration of the mission. General Reese stood near the hut, barking orders to the soldiers. A half-dozen troopers were installing a large console inside the hut, while five more worked at setting up a portable generator near the north wall. Machine-gun emplacements were being established 20 yards to the east and the west of Highway 289.

Mortars were being placed along the west edge of the road. A lookout tower was being constructed on the east side of the sentry hut. All told, there were 84 men engaged in various tasks.

A youthful officer in camouflage fatigues, carrying an M-16 slung over his right shoulder, walked up to the giant and saluted. “My men and I are ready to leave whenever you are, sir.”

“Call me Blade,” the Warrior said. “And there’s no need to salute me, Lieutenant Garber.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re my superior officer for the duration of the mission. General Reese told me to take my orders from you until further notice,” Lieutenant Garber noted.

“Fine. Then my first order is for you to call me Blade.”

“Yes, sir. Blade,” Garber said, and smiled.

“When do we get this show on the road?” Hickok inquired.

“It’s nine A.M. now. We’ll leave in an hour,” Blade informed them.

General Reese came over, rubbing his hands together excitedly, a gleam in his brown eyes. “This is the life!” he exclaimed.

“It is?” Blade responded.

“Damn straight! I love to get out in the field, to be on the front lines,” General Reese declared. “Except for when I’m out inspecting our installations, I spend my time pushing papers at my desk in Denver.”

The mention of the Civilized Zone capital prompted Blade to recall the brief layover there en route to Texas. The Hurricane had landed at Stapleton Airport, and President Toland had insisted on treating the Warriors to a snack while the VTOL was refueled. Later, Toland had stood on the runway and waved as the jet climbed into the blue sky.

“I despise pushing papers,” Reese stressed.

Blade nodded absently. “I can understand why.” He stared at the laboring soldiers, thinking of the six hours they had spent in Sherman while the general organized the convoy to convey them to Sentry Post 17.

“I just wish it was me going into Dallas,” General Reese said. “I haven’t been involved in any combat for five or six years.”