David Robbins - Cincinnati Run

If he had to take on the Russian Army, then he would confront them in his own clothes. He patted his pants pockets, verifying the spare ammo was still there.

Almost ready.

Blade slung Geronimo’s SAR over his left shoulder, and tucked the tomahawk under his belt next to his left Bowie. He placed the Arminius in the small of his back, then paused.

What should he do about Hickok’s buckskins and gunbelt, Geronimo’s shoulder holster and clothes, and their moccasins?

He walked to the row of dull green metal lockers and opened one in the center.

Bingo.

The locker contained a brown backpack, a web belt with a survival knife attached, a Russian helmet, and a uniform shirt. He went from locker to locker, finding identical gear in every one. Were these storage lockers for some of the troops? He took a backpack from the last locker and returned to the table, taking but a few seconds to cram everything inside, then donned the pack. Satisfied, he stepped to the door, threw it wide, and stalked into the corridor.

And walked right into trouble.

A trio of soldiers stood 20 feet to the right, their AK-47’s at their sides, in the act of advancing down the hall, their expressions reflecting their bewilderment at his abrupt appearance.

Blade shot them. He whipped the Commando from right to left, the heavy slugs tearing into the troopers and slamming them to the floor with their chests perforated, their bodies racked by spasms. Since he knew additional Russians would be coming up the stairwell after him, he opted to wheel to the left and head for the end of the corridor. Only then did he realize the klaxons had stopped wailing.

Someone must have heard the Commando.

So what?

He hadn’t gone ten yards when he saw the elevator and halted in front of the door. The numbers overhead indicated the car was on its way down.

Good. He pushed the button and surveyed the corridor.

No reinforcements yet.

In 15 seconds the elevator arrived, the door sliding open to reveal two officers, each of whom wore a pistol in a belt holster.

“What the hell!” the older of the pair blurted.

Blade sent several rounds into the older officer’s face, the impact hurling the Russian against the rear of the car. He collapsed at the feet of the younger officer, who seemed to be in a state of shock.

“Do you know who I am?” Blade asked harshly, moving into the elevator and touching the tip of the Commando barrel to the officer’s forehead.

“Yes,” the man exclaimed, gulping.

“And you must know about the Hurricane out front.”

“Yes,” the officer said.

“And here’s the question that determines whether you live or die,” Blade informed him. “I know the pilot survived, and I suspect he’s being forced to teach your pilots about our VTOL. Where is he?”

The officer licked his lips. “The seventh floor,” he divulged quickly.

“He’s being held on the seventh floor.”

“Congratulations. You get to live.”

“Thanks,” the officer responded weakly.

Blade hit the button for the seventh floor, and then hit the young officer squarely on the jaw with his left fist, his shoulder and arm muscles rippling, crumpling the hapless Russian. “But I never said I’d leave you in one piece,” he commented, and unslung the SAR.

The elevator reached the seventh floor an instant later.

With the Commando in his right hand and the SAR in his left. Blade emerged into a hornet’s nest of Russian soldiers. He cut loose ambidextrously, firing in both directions, taking the Soviets completely unawares, the stocks of both weapons clamped under his armpits to absorb the recoil. There were too many troopers to bother counting them; he simply mowed them down in droves, their death wails and screams commingling in an eerie chorus. His withering hail of lead caught those foolish enough to rush from various rooms upon hearing the thundering of his weapons. Only when the SAR went empty did he cease firing.

Crimson-splattered figures littered the corridor, many moaning and contorting in anguish.

Blade tilted his head and shouted at the top of his lungs.

“Captain Stuart! Captain Lyle Stuart! Can you hear me? This is Blade!”

A muffled cry came from a door 20 feet to the right.

Alert for the merest hint of hostility, Blade threaded a path over and between the corpses and the wounded and halted next to the door.

“Captain Stuart?” He slung the SAR over his left shoulder.

“Blade? Is it really you? The door is locked.”

“Stand back,” Blade advised. He executed a snap kick to the wood near the knob, and there was a resounding crack and the door popped open.

A lean, handsome man attired in the blue uniform of a pilot in the Free State of California Air Force stepped into view, limping on his left leg. His features were haggard and pale, but his green eyes were lively and radiating happiness. “I never expected to see you again!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe you came for me!”

“Save the celebrating for later,” Blade said. “Can you walk?”

“The leg was fractured when these sons of bitches brought me down,” le disclosed. “It’s pretty much healed. I’ll keep up. Don’t worry.”

“Then grab an AK-47 and stick by my side,” Blade stated.

Lyle shuffled into the hall and took an assault rifle from a slain soldier.

“Are you here alone?”

“Hickok and Geronimo are with me, sort of,” Blade replied.

“Sort of?”

“We can’t stay on this floor,” Blade said, heading for the elevator. “The Russians will throw everyone they have at us now. Do you know where the control room is located?”

“On the twenty-fifth floor.”

“Then that’s where we’re going,” Blade declared. He stopped suddenly, staring at the oval metal object clutched in the hand of a dead Russian officer.

“What is it?” Lyle asked nervously, his view obstructed by the giant’s body.

“Hand grenade,” Blade answered, and leaned down, rummaging through the officer’s pockets. He found two more grenades, and stuffed all three into his own pants. “Let’s go.”

They hastened into the elevator and the Warrior pressed the button for the 25th floor.

Lyle leaned against the rear wall as the car rose, grinning and shaking his head. “I just can’t believe this is really happening.”

“Believe it.”

“You have no idea of the hell I’ve been through. The commander here, a bastard by the name of Stoljarov, used electroshock torture to persuade me to teach the Soviets about the Hurricane.”

“I gathered as much.”

“I’ve been holding back,” Lyle said. “They don’t know as much as they think they do.”

“Can you fly the Hurricane?” Blade queried.

“No problem.”

“You may get your chance,” Blade said.

Without warning the elevator jerked to a sharp stop, nearly causing both men to lose their balance, and the lights went out.

“What’s happening?” Lyle asked.

Blade looked at the control panel, which was also unlit, and scowled.

“We’re stuck on about the tenth floor.”

“Why?”

“Three guesses,” Blade replied.

A booming voice addressed them from the other side of the door.

“Attention, you in the elevator! We have cut your power and demand your immediate surrender!”

“What do we do?” the pilot whispered.

Blade slung the Commando over his right arm and fished the grenades from his pockets. “Take one,” he directed, handing it over. “Don’t pull the pin until I give the word.”

“Did you hear me?” the voice outside barked.

“I heard you,” Blade responded.

“Then you will lay any weapons on the floor and raise your arms over your head. We will open the door at the count of three. If you have not complied, you will be shot.”