David Robbins: Cincinnati Run

“Into the VTOL,” Blade shouted, dashing to the ladder and climbing into the cockpit. He took a seat behind Captain Stuart, who was wearing a flight helmet and inspecting the instrument panel. “Are we all set?”

Captain Stuart gave the thumb’s-up sign with his right hand.

Geronimo and Hickok ascended the rope ladder, pulled it in after them, and closed the door. They took seats behind Blade, side by side. The cockpit was arranged with two rows of two seats apiece situated to the rear of the pilot, with a final solitary seat at the very back.

“Take it up,” Blade ordered. “Do you have enough fuel to reach Denver?”

“There’s fuel to spare.”

“Good. Then you can drop us off near the SEAL and fly to Stapleton.

President Toland and Governor Melnick will be glad to see you.”

The VTOL began to rise slowly from the ground, using its vertical-takeoff capability to lift straight up.

Blade stared at the parking lot below, then at the spire.

“I should have known you’d change your blasted mind,” Hickok declared.

“What’s that crack supposed to mean?” Geronimo replied.

“You always were wishy-washy.”

Captain Stuart banked the Hurricane and applied more thrust to the engine. The jet arced into the night sky, soaring high above Lenin’s Needle.

“You know what to do,” Blade stated.

Stuart nodded, winging the aircraft in a circle, and executed a tight dive, the nose angled at the silver spire. “Away she goes!” he cried, and a missile swooped toward its designated target. He pulled back on the stick and the Hurricane responded superbly, heading for the stars.

Blade shifted and gazed at the silver spire. The missile struck the edifice at about the 15th floor, and the resultant explosion blew out three whole stories as a billowing fireball enveloped the spire’s midsection.

Gravity took over, and the structure buckled and tilted, crumpling upon itself, and plunged toward the ground. Lenin’s Needle, a monumental testimony to humanity’s arrogance and passion for violence, crashed to the earth of its own pretentious weight.

“All right!” Captain Stuart declared happily.

Smiling, Blade settled back in his seat and relaxed, savoring the prospect of a peaceful flight to the SEAL and the return to the Home. But he should have known better.

“Hey, Lyle!” Hickok called out.

“What is it?”

“Does Geronimo’s seat have an eject button?”